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 14
December 1882: Opera House Foyer
Promptly Meg arrived in the foyer at 6pm. Among the few loitering people, the Persian was easily identifiable. Underneath his long coat, he wore a fine tunic of green silk embroidered in gold thread and fine white linen pants. His muslin turban bore a small green jewel that matched his tunic. The only thing Parisian about the exotic man was his polished black shoes and white evening gloves.
"Good evening, Monsieur Daroga," Meg said approaching him with a smile on her lips. He smiled and extended his arm to the black clad ballerina. Her black hair was pulled back into a chignon but a few stray wisps of hair had not been tamed. The high-neck black dress, worn out of mourning he assumed, simply further accentuated her coloring and did little to hide her figure. Additionally, the soft bustle on her backside added an element of sophistication to the rather simple dress. She had loosely draped a worn knit grey shawl over her arms. No wonder you stay in an opera house, Erik, mused Nadir.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle. Shall we see our friend?" he asked congenially. Meg nodded in response and the Daroga led Meg out of the opera house. To her surprise, they entered a carriage. The Persian tapped the ceiling twice with his knuckle and the carriage began to move into the evening traffic. "I apologize for this inconvenience. Our friend is rather paranoid."
"No apology needed," Meg said relaxing as the carriage trundled down the street before turning. "Our friend does have his quirks and for a good reason, I imagine."
"Certainly," the Persian replied tugging at his sleeve and glancing out the window. "He... trusts very few people."
"So I've gathered from my mother over the years," Meg agreed. Curiosity tugged at Meg like a child begging for a sweet treat. Often she found it hard to say no to its demands. "How do you know him? I have never seen you at the opera before today."
"Erik and I," the Persian began than paused to smile and chuckle. "Before coming to Paris, we were acquaintances in Persia. By chance, we found each other again." It was a perfunctory explanation, but the Persian wasn't about to recount the lengthy story of his relationship with Erik to her. "Since 1876 we've been business partners together. Now I am a new benefactor to the Palais Garnier."
She colored slightly realizing that she had been seen leaving with him – a new benefactor and her a young ballerina. Rumors were sure to fly. Her embarrassment at such a simple mistake gave way as she realized Erik hadn't lived his life as an Opera Ghost entirely. He had lived in Persia and that he had a friend like the exotic Persian beside her. Meg couldn't stop herself from asking, "What do you do?"
"I have a small spice shop near the Seine. Erik has been a silent partner over the years providing money when needed."
"And now?"
"We have switched roles. I am the new silent patron of the opera house while he works for me," the Daroga's smile faltered slightly. He let out a sigh. "Monsieur Firmin and Fornier have enjoyed falling over themselves to make my acquaintance."
Meg laughed. "They do! I am not sure about M. Fornier, but Firmin will focus on other possible patrons after the season goes on. Msr. Firmin will stop pestering you once the opera is back on its feet." She paused and fretted with her skirt. "I always wondered what the Ghost did with the money he requested from the managers."
"He takes very little to live off of. Much of it he tries to re-invest either in my business or the opera house," the Persian offered. He rapped his knuckles on the carriage's roof forcing the driver to stop. "I hope you don't mind, but we need to walk back to the Opera House. We can resume our discussion once we enter his home."
The Persian escorted Meg out of the carriage and down the street. They walked in amiable silence, both digesting the information they had gleaned from the other. Questions swirled around in Meg's mind and she tried to keep her tongue in check. As they approached the Opera House, Meg felt a twinge of pain in her leg. She cursed mentally at herself for not taking the proper time to stretch after rehearsal. She had been in a hurry to prepare for this outing and had shortened her stretching to mere minutes instead of her normal hour. I'll simply have to push through the pain and hope for a moment to stretch myself out, she thought to herself as the Daroga led her down the alleyway beside the Opera House. Meg wasn't surprised when the Persian entered the same passageway Christine had used. She kept an eye out on the street in the dimming daylight before the Daroga helped her inside. When the door had secured itself back in place, darkness engulfed them. Meg heard the Persian fumbling and muttering before quieting. There was the sound of a match strike and a small hovering orange flame. The fire floated upward to a candle held by the Persian.
"There," the Persian said waving the match out. He dropped it and held his arm out to Meg again. "Shall we continue our conversation as we walk?"
"Surely," Meg replied taking his arm again. The oddity of the situation struck her and she tried to hide her unease. When she had walked in these tunnels before, she had become trapped in one of the Ghost's strange torture rooms. Stories of the Phantom's Punjab lasso and the grisly hanging of Joseph Buquet came to mind. "How well do you know these tunnels, sir?"
"Well enough," he said casually. "Here, this is where you went wrong last time." He pointed with the candle at the three passageways ahead of them. "You took the right tunnel that leads to the Tree. If you go to the left, you will find yourself in a pit that rises and falls with the lake. Go straight and you will stay alive." They began to walk again, and Meg heard the gentle lapping of water nearby.
"Where did he come up with the... Tree room? I've never seen or heard anything like it before," Meg questioned quietly glancing down the dark right tunnel.
"In Persia," replied the Daroga. "I will not tell you of Erik's past. That is his story to tell, but for your own well-being, I advise you not to ask him." The Persian frowned and stopped Meg. "Mademoiselle, if you value your life, take my advice to heart. The Phantom does not hesitate to harm others in order to protect himself."
"I will," Meg promised. The Persian nodded and opened his mouth as if to say something else. Instead he closed it and shook his head. She patted his arm and gave a reassuring smile. "He had the opportunity to kill me three separate times in the past few weeks, Monsieur Daroga. I understand that I am dancing with the Devil by making his acquaintance."
"He's more than a Devil, Mademoiselle Giry," the Persian said gravely. "He is a man, but he is also a monster. Treat him like a monster or demon, and he will not hesitate to end your life. His anger simmers too close to the surface."
Meg rubbed her neck unconsciously remembering his hands around her neck in Box Five. After the incident, she had stolen a large ribbon from Eleanor's stash of scrap pieces to wear as a choker and hide the bruises from the eyes of her mother and others. "I will do my best not to provoke him, Monsieur. However, may I ask another question about him?"
The Persian nodded and waited for the ballerina to compose herself. Opening her mouth to speak, a scraping of metal on stone made them both jump. Ahead of them, the hidden metal door swung open to reveal a faint light and the figure of a man. He stood with his arms crossed but being backlit, the Persian and Meg only saw his outline.
"I prefer visitors to my home to not talk ill about me without my knowledge," the Phantom said ominously to the pair.
"I was simply warning her of your temper, Monsieur," the Persian replied coolly leading the stunned ballerina forward. "She deserves that much, doesn't she?"
"She knows of it already," he retorted with a huff. "After what she did to that stagehand, I believe she can handle herself in most situations."
"You aren't like most situations," countered the Persian. "To be honest, I'm surprised she agreed to come. You nearly left her to die in the torture chamber."
"But I didn't," the Phantom retorted with a snarl on his lips. "Do you care to see it again, Daroga? It needs a good cleaning since I have been busy keeping an eye on my opera."
"If you gentlemen are finished," Meg interrupted. She tugged her grey shawl over her shoulders and crossed her arms. Not out of warmth but aggravation with the men. Perhaps the Persian should take his own advice to heart and not antagonize the Phantom of the Opera. She sighed in exasperation. "May I suggest we take this conversation to a place more civilized than a dank tunnel underneath a theater?"
Both the Ghost and the Persian exchanged glances. The Persian shrugged his shoulders as Erik turned to lead the way into his lair. The Daroga led Meg on his arm again into the Opera Ghost's lair. The odd moment of not having the Phantom drag her around but a courteous gentleman did not escape her. The Persian, however, stopped abruptly and pulled his arm away once they were inside the lair.
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, but I must leave you. I have my own affairs to take care of before the evening ends," he said reluctantly admitted. He offered his hand and brushed her's with a formal kiss good-bye. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mademoiselle Giry."
"Likewise, Monsieur Daroga," she replied with a smile. Meg wondered for a moment if she wanted to be left alone with the Phantom again. Granted, he had returned her home without threats or bruises last time, but she had found the Persian's presence comforting. "I hope to see you again soon."
"Agreed." The Persian turned and took the candle back down the passageway to the outside world. Meg watched him until the Phantom pulled the door closed. The loud click of the secret door echoed in the cavernous room.
"Reconsidering your decision?" the Phantom asked looking down at her. His gloved hand lightly rested on the door handle. To Meg, his baritone voice sounded hurt like a lover having his invitation rejected. "You can follow him back out if you wish."
"No, you asked for my help," Meg replied trying to hide her unease. She turned away to examine the Ghost's home. The fire licked at logs in the small fire place and added warmth along with light to the gas lit room. She looked at the rest of the lair and noted the pipe organ still in pieces. Orderly pieces, but nothing had changed for the massive instrument. The small but elegant clock on the mantel ticked away the time softly. The desk, however, showed signs of activity. Various books were piled high on one end and composition books on the other. Sheets were haphazardly laid in odd places. Some were placed precariously over the stack of composition books. The small table beside the couch was laden with bread, cheese, a decanter of brandy, and bottle of wine with a second empty glass. A short glass still held a touch of brandy at the bottom of it.
"You look like your mother dressed like that," Erik said flatly as she settled on the couch. Without her knowing, he pulled a key out of his pant's pock and locked the massive door. He crossed the room to stand beside the small table laden with foodstuffs. She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn't dressed in his normal finery of jacket and cape, but he wore the black slacks and white shirt still. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows to reveal thin but defined lower arms.
"Thank you, Monsieur," she replied feeling her sore legs beg for relief. He probably didn't mean it as a compliment, but Meg took it as such. "It is the one she wore to father's funeral when I was younger. She kept it probably knowing I couldn't afford one for her funeral."
Erik picked up the glass of brandy and examined the caramel-colored liquid. "She could've asked me for the money," he muttered into the glass before draining it.
"After..." Meg stopped herself from continuing that sentence. "Mother didn't want to trouble you."
"You mean she feared me?" Erik thumbed the glass. He had downed a glass before the appointed time of arrival in order to calm his nerves and temper. The plan hadn't worked as he hoped. Truthfully this conversation was not what he had anticipated for his evening with Meg. He had planned to immediately set about composing, asking her aid on a section, and sending her on her way with some of the foodstuffs.
"No... Well, maybe. I don't think she knew what to do in the end," Meg replied candidly. She played with the black lace on her skirt. Meg would have to spend more time reading the diary to find out the truth. "Mother cared about all of us. She was only trying to protect you from yourself, I think." Meg eyed the crusty half loaf of bread on the side table. "Sir, may I?"
"Oh, of course," he said setting the brandy glass down and sitting in the chair opposite the couch. Erik pretended to watch the fire, but his gaze kept glancing back to the small girl helping herself to the food. In a child like way (or so he thought based on his limited experience), she scooted herself over to the table and reached over the couch's arm to retrieve the crusty bread and smooth white cheese. She made a mess taking what she wanted before settling back down to eat. He looked away when she glanced in his direction.
"Why aren't you eating?" Meg asked the lounging half-masked man across from her. It was strange to see the Phantom looking comfortable in a chair. His bright white mask had smudges of black on its forehead that matched the ones on the man's actual brow. She chose to look at the good side of his face with its defined, masculine features.
"I ate before you arrived," Erik stated eyeing her with his good, left eye. The young woman then turned her attention to pouring a glass of wine from the open bottle. He didn't feel the need to explain why he chose to eat without her present and thankfully the food distracted her from prying into the matter. "Also, you look like you haven't eaten in a week. I prefer, and Nadir agrees, that you are an investment and must be taken care of if we want the Opera to succeed."
"An investment?" Meg nearly choked on her sip of wine. "I'm a business venture for you? And who is Nadir?"
"Ah, Nadir is the Persian you met today. He is the silent patron assisting the managers." So much for avoiding questions, Erik thought with a mental sigh. "And yes, since you work for us by way of the Opera, you are an investment. Nadir says Madame Webber sees potential in you but refuses to promote you to prima ballerina until she sees improvement. The managers disagree with the ballet mistress, but they are afraid to say such things to her face."
"Nadir is acting in your stead... so it is you to whom I am meant to impress..." Meg quietly nibbled at the bread. Erik's slight tilt of the head, a sign Meg took for his confusion at her statement, confirmed to her the strange elevation in her position to second lead. Madame Webber had no clue that Nadir worked for Erik yet the real puppet master had revealed his hand to Meg. So, she asked the question that had teased her a moment before. "So, you are doing this because you feel remorse for not helping my mother in her last days? Because you owed her your life and not because I deserve the position?"
Erik flushed a little then paled. Little Giry had proven to be smarter than he had anticipated. He also didn't plan on discussing this matter with her until he had found a way for Nadir to force the prima ballerina issue with Madame Webber more firmly. He had not anticipated for Meg to suggest that he acted out of … remorse. A monster didn't have a sense of guilt for his actions; he acted because he was compelled to. For such a mouse to suggest… that he… That he felt anything for Antoinette… Refusing to meet her dark gaze, he rose agitated and walked to the piano. He kept his back to her in the hopes of hiding the storm in him.
"Monsieur," she said turning on the couch to look at him. He turned his emotionless mask towards her by way of acknowledgement. Fear tickled her spine, but she swallowed hard. Her resolve was stronger than a niggling fear of a murderer or so she thought. "I understand you want the opera to be a certain way. I realize you may feel... guilty for certain actions in your immediate past. However, don't meddle in my affairs. I want to earn the position of prima ballerina. I don't want it simply given to me because you or anyone else think I deserve it when, in fact, I may not."
"They are not your affairs only, Little Giry," he said. The mask moved but without lips, the voice seemed to come from someone and somewhere else. "You are an investment in the opera I wish to save. Through Nadir, I've paid to help restore this place and essentially pay for your lodging and small stipend. You are a mere cog in a very intricate machine that I own."
"Indeed, that may be, but I am not a puppet to direct for your whims." Meg's countenance grew dark. She was angry with him. Erik turned fully around to face the stubborn ballerina. The foolish girl doesn't know what she's doing, does she? Oh, what a silly, pretty little thing... the voice in Erik's head mocked.
"Ah, but you all are my marionettes here in my house," the Phantom said throwing his whispered voice around the room. "Foolish girl, you truly don't know who you are dealing with here, do you? Your mother knew her place. She followed my instructions. Why can't you obey?" He smirked seeing her close her eyes and turn away to cover her ears.
Meg felt queasy at the voice coming from above, below, in front, to the side, and then behind her. She stiffened feeling the ink stained hands settle on her covered shoulders. Her shawl had fallen at some point from her shoulders. The black fingertips matched her clothing, which made his pale hands stand out starkly. She didn't recoil from him even though her instincts screamed at her to run or reach up to claw at his hands. Instead she remained still as he squeezed her shoulders painfully.
"Why does the little mouse think she can control me? Me, the Opera Ghost? The deranged murderer of the palace Garnier built?" he teased as he whispered in her ear. He heard her whimper in throat, and the Phantom gave a rueful smile she couldn't see. He let her go, chuckling softly to himself as he rounded the couch. At that moment, he knew she would rise to run, but he was quicker. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. With his other hand, he caught her in a grip around her cloth covered neck. Staring down at her, he searched her gaze for fear and found only pity. His ire stumbled at the sight.
"I can kill you here and now. No one would be the wiser. No one else in the Opera knows the Phantom lives," he breathed feeling her pulse quicken under his touch. A single tear fell down her ashen cheek. She swallowed hard but didn't move.