Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.
De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 12
November 1882: Dormitories of the Opera House (or The Loss of a Friend)
A sickness swept through Paris that autumn. Raoul had taken Christine away as she had told him he would, or so everyone assumed. Granted, Erik had made no attempt to contact her since their last meeting. He didn't know that Christine had tried to leave a letter for him. Having found the passageway closed, she had given up and left the letter there. It had fluttered down the alley never to be opened.
Because of the sickness – a terrible fever that seemed to spread on the wind itself - threatening the city, the Opera had chosen to close its doors to prevent the spread of further contamination. Firmin lamented the loss of income and had retreated to the countryside to lick his wounds. Except the sickness had spread to the theater and infected its members.
As he checked his hidden passageways and trap doors, he found Little Giry returning to the dormitories with a basket. She looked paler than usual with the skin drawn over her high cheekbones. Since no one had threatened his home, he assumed she had kept her end of their strange bargain. Curiosity pricked him and a small pinch of guilt at their last meeting compelled him to follow the young woman. She entered their room but failed to shut the door properly. It stood slightly ajar letting faint light out into the hallway. Because of the hour and the dismissal of the corps de ballet from the building, Erik knew Meg and her mother were the only ones in that part of the opera house. They had nowhere else to go. He leaned against the wall and peered through the slit in the doorway. He had come to terms with Little Giry keeping his secret and had concluded that learning more about her would benefit him. A soft glow from candle light flickered on the wall. Occasionally a murky shadow flitted across the crumbling plaster.
"Mother? Are you awake?" A pause. "I have brought you soup."
"Meg... You should go."
"No, mother. I said I would take care of you. Now, can you hold this? Good. Shall I tell you of the latest news?"
"No, I do not wish to hear of more death and sadness... Read to me, please, mon petite."
A shuffle, a scrape, and the flutter of pages being turned – the sounds carried faintly in the silence. He listened as Meg began to read. At first, Erik did not recognize the text. It sounded... well, unbecoming of a young lady and definitely not something someone would or should read to the ill.
"Meg, while Zola's Nana may be interesting to you," Madame Giry interrupted. Her feeble voice became firm. "I prefer something less of our times. Such drivel to believe a strumpet can sing and dance so well without any aid." The stubborn haughtiness that was Madame Giry tinged her last sentence. Erik half-smiled at the old woman's panache.
"Sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to upset you. Everyone was talking of it, and I thought." A short pause as if Meg had shrugged her shoulders. "What would you prefer I read?"
There was a long pause. "Maguerite... Did I tell you how we found him?"
"No, mother. You haven't." Erik held his breath. Antoinette had meant him and their first encounter. "But you should rest. I don't need to know."
"You do," the older woman responded steadfastly and fell into a coughing fit. There was a pause and a shifting of something. "Merci, mon petite. The Lord has blessed me with such a caring daughter." There was silence once more before Madame Giry spoke again. "He had fallen in with gypsies outside of Paris. They had locked him in a cage. Your father had taken me there to scare me, I think. We were young, having both met near the opera house."
"Him a worker who helped build Garnier's majestic house dedicated to music and you a young ballerina who caught his eye."
"Yes... but when we saw him, a grown man battered and bleeding, chained to his cage bars like one of those elephants or lions... Yes, like a lion. The anger in his eyes frightened another woman there." There was a pause. Erik vaguely remembered that day. He rubbed his wrists remembering the chaffing iron's bite, the fainting woman's scream, and a young Antoinette's steady gaze. "But I saw only pain. I pitied the man. I clung to Josef later and begged him to do something. He promised he would."
"What did Papa do?" Meg said eagerly.
"We returned that night. Josef had tools to free the man hidden in his jacket. I refused to let him go alone," Madame Giry explained. She chuckled but a cough racked her body instead. When she recovered, Antoinette continued. "We snuck into the camp under the moonless sky and worked open the lock of the cage easily. The gypsies had figured not on their prize escaping. His shackles kept him from escaping, but not from others releasing him from his cage. We carried the man away to safety... to recover underneath the Garnier's house."
Erik noted that Antoinette had left out his primal reaction to their attempt to help him. Wounded and bleeding, Erik had fought Josef thinking him another gypsy because of his dark coloring. Antoinette had struck him with Josef's wrench thereby subduing him. When he had recovered, he had found himself lying on a makeshift pallet in the basement of the Opera house. They had given him so much - food, water, a place away from the taunts and jeers, quiet care, and eventually the half mask made of pristine white ivory. Unconsciously, Erik touched his mask remembering it. Antoinette had tied the ribbons into place while Josef had held him up. He cried that night realizing again that all of his confidence came from hiding his face.
Weeks later, Josef had talked with his employer and was able to procure Erik a job working in the basements and under the stage. Antoinette had realized his penchant for creating and love of music. She had given him the unstrung violin rejected by the first violinist after a rehearsal. The pair had continued to help him until he drew away from them both. They had a small child. He felt they no longer needed him in their lives. He was a grown man and could survive on his own. After Josef died and Antoinette had her accident, Erik secured her the job with the managers as the corps de ballet instructor. It was his first act as the Opera Ghost. He had given Antoinette small gifts over the years on the anniversary of Josef's death. I'm still indebted to you both, he thought rubbing at his exposed eye. For a man with no scruples, Erik found he could feel remorse. A tear trickled down between his deformed features and the smooth interior of the mask.
"We did it out of pity," Madame Giry said in a weak voice.
"Perhaps, Mother, but you did it. You saw a man and sympathized with his plight. You did it more out of compassion for your fellow man than pity, no? You did the right thing."
"Did we, Maguerite? We saved him... and he turned to... to murder. To hate. If only we had known..."
"You didn't know he would do these things back then. At the camp, he was a man who needed love and you and papa gave it to him. You were good Samaritans saving another from a hellish life like that. You… He was like Lazarus, given a new life. Oh, mother, don't cry." There was a pause. Meg's voice was softer. "Love changes us. You have always told me so. His love for Christine... it consumed him and drove him mad. You couldn't have known he would do such evil deeds so many years ago."
"He told us... once of the things he had done in a land far away. We knew, Meg. We knew and we did nothing." The desperation in Antoinette's voice struck Erik painfully. He had been drunk that night with Josef. He hadn't meant to ever tell anyone of the Sultana, the Sultan, and their twisted desires.
"Mother, please stop crying. You'll only weaken yourself." There was sniffling and Meg's murky shadow played upon the plaster again before disappearing. The question she asked, however, shook Erik out of his guilt. "Was he forced to do such evil things?"
"Yes... It's why he fled. They wanted to kill him to prevent him from revealing any secrets." A coughing fit gripped Madame Giry again, and it lasted a long time. Her voice was weaker than before. "Meg, take care of your father's grave and attend mass like the good girl you are. Don't give up your dream for anything."
"I won't, mother. I promise."
"Meg... if he lives, for I doubt he's dead, and you see him... be wary but... tell him I cherished his friendship."
There was a pause again and Erik wondered if Meg would reveal her secret. "He's dead, mother. They found a body by the lake."
"Ah, my lovely girl... You do not know him. That man..." There was a sigh followed by another series of coughs. "Marguerite, my sweet child... He promised me you would marry an Emperor."
"Mother, I don't want to marry an Emperor. I want to continue to dance." Meg's exacerbated sigh revealed to Erik that this was a conversation they had had before.
"Hush, child. Let your mother hope." Madame Giry's voice grew quiet. "I will watch from Heaven and send what love I can to you."
Erik kept his vigil in the hallway while Meg stayed by her mother's bedside. He listened to the coughing fits and then the slow labored breathing of the older Giry. She and her husband Josef had saved him from a second life as a freak show. They kept him alive when he had wanted to die. They gave him a job and purpose in life. Josef had been his first true friend and confidant. When Josef died of tuberculosis, Erik had slipped away from Antoinette and her daughter until they had need of him. But it was Antoinette who had aided Raoul. His hand clenched instinctively at the thought of his "friend" leading his rival down to his lair. The nerve of the woman... but Antoinette had been the one to raise Christine alongside Meg. Antoinette had hatched the plan to save him and not Josef. She had been the one to pressure Josef into letting Erik stay at the opera house. His hands relaxed. Christine was the daughter of his friends and only confidant. The woman was merely protecting her adopted charge and the opera itself. In her own way, Antoinette had tried to keep the Phantom from hurting himself as well. Erik lifted his head hearing soft sobs from the small room. The labored breathing had ceased. A chilly finger ran down his spine as if Death brushed past him.
"Farewell, Antoinette," he breathed not really caring if Meg heard him. He walked away from the door and headed towards the roof to cry under the starry night sky.
The next day Madame Giry's death was announced to the opera staff, managers, and corps de ballet. The following day her body had been buried. On the third day, Erik thought to check on the little ballet rat who had lost her mother. Why are you bothering? She is not worth your time! the voice said in a huff, but Erik had his reasons. His hatred for the girl had simmered to an annoyance at her unseen leash upon his existence. He had worn a collar before, and this one was looser albeit just as dangerous. She knew of his existence, but Meg was Antoinette's daughter. Perhaps an ounce of kindness was due to the girl.
When he found her, however, Erik felt the annoyance of being at the mercy of another creep into him again. He hated the girl for her feeble attempt to control him. But here, she lay on the cold stones of the chapel. A puddle of tears underneath her cheek lay on the flagstones. The rain that had threatened the day before splattered the stained glass window. It's warm, colorful light would offer no comfort to Meg. The faint glow of the prayer candles did little to hold the cold at bay. She wore one of her mother's black dresses instead of her more worn skirts and blouses of various subdued colors. The out of fashion dress aged the ballet rat considerably. Her tangles of dark hair were mussed and tousled. She looked like a broken doll lying upon the stone floor of the chapel. A pang of sympathy and pity twisted his normally powerful voice.
"Little Giry," he said quietly.
"Go away, Monsieur Fantôme..." came the muttered reply as Meg picked herself up off the floor. Strands of her hair had come loose from the simple braid down her back.
"I'm sorry for my intrusion. I came only to offer my condolences," he began.
"Then I accept them. Now go away!" she turned to where she had heard the voice. Her dark eyes flashed in anger and pain. The stone face of a sightless angel stared back at her from the corner. She gripped her head in her hands, her small fingers tightly tugging on her disheveled dark hair.
"Just... go away," she repeated in a meek voice. She didn't move when she heard the door to the chapel open. So what if another person saw her? They would leave. The Phantom didn't care about anyone. Why would he bother to come here, the place where he first seduced her friend? He was a fool to come. Let me mourn in peace and without pity. I am fine on my own, she thought to herself.
Another wave of hot tears began to flood her eyes. She cried softly into her hands no longer caring about who or what. She didn't hear the soft click of shoes on the flagstones drawing closer. She did, however, feel the warmth and weight of something on her shivering bare shoulders. She inhaled sharply as a hand gently brushed her hair and lightly touched her shoulder. Then the presence was gone.
Looking up, she rubbed at her red eyes. The person was gone whoever they were, but she knew. That voice... Dark. Melodic. No one else sounded like him. He had sounded sad, she mused as she drew his cloak tighter around her. The faint smell of cold water and spices clung to it as if he had emerged from the damp cellar of a spice shop. Perhaps this small gesture of kindness was his way of honoring her mother and showing that he cared in some small way. The thought sent her into quiet tears as she hugged herself in the cloak. Why did you have to leave me, Mother? Why did you have to join Papa in Heaven when I needed you here?