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 15
December 1882: Beneath the Opera House
"Go on, do it." Her voice held a tremor belying her bravery. "Add another life to your murderous tally. Kill another innocent."
Meg's words hit him like a brick. He didn't realize her free hand had reached up and grabbed his wrist until he caught a small gesture out of the corner of his eye. Her thumb sought and found the faint, jagged scars exposed on his inner wrist. So mother's entry was true, Meg thought to herself. Courage strengthened her stubborn resolve to fight him.
"Since you couldn't take your own life, take another's," she whispered. Her eyes drifted up to gauge his reaction.
"What did you say?" he breathed. The hands eased their grip and Meg could see the monster inwardly pull away from her. The man seemed to have returned. He stared down at her dumbfounded.
"Mother kept a journal, Erik," she said as calmly as she could. Her whole body wanted to move in all directions, but she had to keep herself in check. Her thumb gently brushed the scars again. "She... she mentioned you tried to kill yourself one night. The first night you stayed here in the Opera House actually…" She swallowed again finding her mouth dry. "Shortly thereafter, mother and father fashioned a mask for you."
"What else does the journal say about me?" To Meg, his voice sounded weak, almost feeble from the blow she had dealt. The features of his face shifted from cold rage to uncertainty and anxiety. His hand around her neck trembled. He began to pull away, but not completely. His fingertips gingerly touched the lace around her neck.
"I don't know. I have not read much," she continued gently. Slowly she pulled his hand away from her neck. She tested her other hand and found his grip had loosened. Her fingertips tingled feeling blood pulse through again. "She only makes a note of your presence at first. No name given. Only simple comments like the man sleeps or his wounds have worsened. He cries out at night. Josef stays with him."
"Erik, I am your greatest threat, but, for my own reasons, I do not wish to be a threat to you. I want to help you," she said solemnly. Tenderly Meg took his hand into both of hers. "Papa would've wanted me to help you."
"I just tried to kill you again," he muttered pulling away from her. Her warm gesture contrasted so starkly with his cold and callous one he found the moment shocking. He searched her dark brown eyes expecting the pools of mahogany to contradict her words. The fear was still there, but now concern seemed to emanate from them. He walked away from her and settled on the piano bench.
"But you didn't," she replied turning to continue to keep an eye on him. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, Erik. What you offer is a beautiful gift, but I simply... Let me earn my own accolades for my actions."
The silence between them stretched out until the tension proved too much. Erik wouldn't look at her. His exposed face matched the expressionless one he wore. Just as Meg opened her mouth to speak, Erik began to play the piano. The song was dolorous and lilting; the melody repeated and shifted into more complex variations. With a sigh, Meg turned her back on the man and settled back on the couch. She had lost her appetite, but as the song ended, she found herself taking up another piece of cheese and the unfinished bread.
"I liked that song," she said more to herself than to him as the piano fell silent. Without a reply, the Phantom began a different song, one more joyful and lively. Eventually she heard him humming along to the tune. Music soothes the savage beast, she thought to herself in dry amusement as she reached for the abandoned wine glass.
"What are you smirking about?" came a flat voice above the music. His words caught Meg off guard, and she nearly choked on the wine again. So unladylike. "It seems I don't have to worry about killing you; you'll do it for me yourself."
She gave him a look at that. To go from murderous to withdrawn and finally humorous, she really did wonder who this man was. So mercurial, saturnine at one moment and then… she was at a loss for words. What am I getting myself into with him?
"I was thinking to myself about your love of music," Meg said finally finding her voice. "You compose your own music, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," Erik replied and stopping the song he had been playing. "I asked you down here hoping to get your opinion on my next work. May I play it for you?"
"Please."
As he played the song, Meg tried to imagine how Madame Webber could choreograph it. She frowned as the melody took a turn to the dissident and ruined her mind's imagined scene. She turned and looked at the impassive mask of the piano player. His body swayed in time to the music and she caught glimpses of different expressions on his face. As the song rose and fell, the dissonance ebbed and waned until it abruptly stopped. Erik sat back and stared back at her. He rubbed his palms on his slacks feeling awkward and was glad she couldn't see him do this.
"The song... How does it fit into the story of the play?" Meg asked. "The start is so exuberant and playful before turning into a drama. A battle of sorts that you ended without a resolution."
"Does it matter?" he rejoined turning away from the keyboard and towards her.
"Yes and no. What is the story of your latest composition?" His left hand ran through his hair in a nervous gesture Meg had seen her father do ages ago. "You haven't determined that yet..." She offered gingerly.
"I have an idea of the story I wish to tell. Something naturalistic, real," the Phantom muttered in frustration. The makeshift piano bench scrapped against the wood floor as he stood and walked over to the couch. Meg eased back and hoped her actions didn't come across as offensive to the man. She had tangled enough with the monster. He poured a splash of brandy into his empty glass, and he swallowed it in a gulp. "I want something veristic in the same vein as Carmen, but the plot is tangled. I have these ideas, but I can't seem to find the thread to unravel them."
"Perhaps what you just played would be better suited for the leads to sing," Meg offered as a suggestion. The Angel of Music stopped his reach for the decanter and gave her look. Meg shrugged. "I tried to imagine what Madame Webber would have the troupe do, and honestly, the second portion lacked the grace ballet imparts."
"What did it suggest?"
"A lover's quarrel. A conflict without humor but full of anxiety and pain. Like listening to an argument among friends or a duel of swords. Actually... " Meg paused and glanced at his bookcase. She rose and searched among the books. Erik watched and reflected on her words. He had written the "ballet" with conflict in his heart. It had seemed natural, fitting even at the time. He hadn't thought of it being untraditional for a ballet. "Here."
A book pushed up against his chest and he took it from the ballerina. "The Count of Monte Cristo?"
"You said you've read all of your books. Remember the part where the Fernand's son accuses the Count and challenges him to a duel? The part after that Mercedes begs Edmond for her son's life. Your song reminded me of something like that."
"I remember," Erik said letting the book fall open in his hand. The pages fell open to reveal the tight printed text telling the story of Edmond Dantes' scheme to exact his vengeance on his captors and would-be friends who condemned to a life of imprisonment. "Revenge has always been a good tale to tell on stage." He gave a half smirk as his mind began to draw parallels between himself and Dumas' fictional character. If he could not have his revenge on the world, perhaps he could exact it on the stage.
Meg turned and tried to stifle a yawn. He noticed and set the book down on the side table next to the empty bread basket. Glancing at the clock on the mantle, he cursed softly. "I have kept you longer than I intended, Little Giry. Thank you for your assistance. Shall I escort you home?"
"Seeing as I don't know the way out of here," she began to point out but left the rest unsaid. He walked over to the couch and picked up her well-loved shawl. It was soft on his bare fingers. He held it out to the young woman who took it from him. Wrapping the shawl around herself, Erik noted that while Meg was dressed like her mother, she did not look exactly like her mother Antoinette. Young Marguerite reminded him of someone else and it wasn't her father Josef.
"Come, I'll lead the way," he said feeling a buried memory touch the surface of his consciousness. Erik crossed the lair to a door past the pipe organ. A lantern rested on the floor, which he knelt down and lit from a small box of matches left beside it. He turned the dial to reduce the wick and returned the glass cover to protect the flame. He paused before standing and looked up at the dark-haired young woman peering down at him. The lace pattern of the grey shawl revealed touches of her black dress underneath. He noted the high collar of her dress and remembered his fingers gripping that slender throat. Twice he had held her fragile life in his very hands and a wash of guilt swept over him. He wondered if he had left fresh bruises over the one's he had given her earlier. Looking away, he picked up the lantern and rose to his feet. Erik reached out his hand but didn't look her in the eye.
Meg hesitated. He wasn't going to blindfold her this time. He wasn't going to drag her through the tunnels and passageways. With his hand extended, the Phantom offered her some ounce of civility and perhaps a small apology for his actions. As the moment dragged on, his fingers curled and he began to drop his hand. With a sense of urgency, she took his hand and met his gaze. She gave him a small smile and his hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. The mask hid his right eye, but Meg sensed it held the same quiet apology she saw in his exposed left one.
Without another word, Erik led her carefully and gently by the hand back up to the Opera House. Unlike the other passageway, this involved tunnels, turns, and at one point, a ladder. Meg followed the Phantom blindly. How far down are we? I know the Palais has multiple basements, but I have no idea where we are, she mused to herself. Eventually, Erik stopped before a blank wall and turned to face Meg. In the faint light from the lantern, the little mouse waited patiently for the shadow of the cat to speak.
"If..." he paused and began again. "Would you be willing to return again?"
"If you promise to keep your hands to yourself," she replied a little surprised she dared to make a joke.
"I will from now on," he agreed and then gave a sad smile. The yellow glow of the lantern threw odd shadows up across his face and mask. "I apologize... It was ungentlemanly of me. I never intended to do that... But I am easily provoked. Nadir told you as much. You should not trust me."
"He did, and I am sorry for provoking you," her free hand unconsciously touched her neck. "You... weren't as forceful as last time so I won't have bruises to hide tomorrow." Her half-smile did little to ease his remorse. Shadows played across both of their faces from the small, flickering, lantern flame. To Meg, Erik seemed even more hidden than before, but it helped her to focus on the man who stood before her. She examined how his shirt had been unbuttoned and revealed a hint of a finely wrought collarbone above his firm neck. He had broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame. In the confined space, she noted his height and how his figure leant to his imposing role as the Phantom of the Opera. He would be like any other older man if he didn't wear his mask, Meg thought casually to herself.
"Meg," he said drawing her dark gaze to him. He let his voice remain soft and melodic in spite of himself. To Erik, the shadows seemed to accentuate her lithe, feminine form underneath the black dress. A faint blush graced her bronze cheeks, which accentuated the reddish hue of her lips. The brown orbs flitted away and she fidgeted against his unblinking stare. "What are your reasons for not exposing me?"
"If Mother knew you were alive, she'd find a way to keep you safe again. You... saved my life once when I was younger. There is that. You... also knew my father. You were his friend, weren't you?" Meg rattled off.
"I was," he answered simply.
Meg nodded. "I thought as much." She sighed. "My family owes you so much."
"So, you are not exposing me to the murderous masses out of some sense of recompense?"
She shook her head and the bun loosened slightly sending wisps of black hair free. Meg's cheeks grew redder, which Erik found oddly satisfying.
"Partly," she hedged. She played with the ends of her shawl over her shoulders as she contemplated whether she should be honest in this dark tunnel or keep her reasons to herself. Meg realized with a sigh that she needed to appeal to his ego as much as possible. She needed to give him a several sound reasons to trust her. "With Don Juan Triumphant, the musicwas... heart-wrenching, probably the most moving work I've ever heard. Only a genius could twist a melody so…" She would've said demonic, but she knew he would take the word the wrong way. She tried again. "The world needs to hear your music, and your works will draw the people here, to our home. My dream to be prima ballerina rests on the Opera House staying open. I can't achieve that if the opera doesn't succeed. So, in a way, I am your pawn in your grand scheme, but I have my own motivations."
Meg felt her courage and composure unraveling fast. Her thoughts had spilled spill forth. She couldn't look at him as she whispered her last reason as to why she helped him. "Also... if she knew I had been the one to send you to the gallows... well, I'd lose my closest friend, wouldn't I? I have more to lose than gain from saying you are alive to the authorities."
Meg had always been forthright. She felt a mix of guilt, pity, duty, and sympathy for the Phantom - no, Erik. Her confession, she hoped, conveyed as much to him. Keeping his secret wasn't a simple black and white affair; the decision was made up of shades of grey. Each layer had been weighed out, measured, and laid before Erik in order of importance to Meg.
"But you are making yourself a murderer's accomplice. If you are found out, you will be dragged to the pits of Hell with me," Erik replied simply. "Then again, you could simply plead that I coerced you into helping me."
"I could also plead the belly if need be," she added. His stunned expression made her panic a little. "Not with you, of course! Just that I can use it as a means to delay my trial."
"Indeed." This time they traded expressions. "I mean, you could use that plea. Not..." He coughed to dispel the awkwardness of the situation. "If you walk ahead of me, you'll find a door to a hallway in the first basement towards the back of the house. Reach up with your right hand and pull the small lever you find there. I'll stay here and shield the lantern."
"Very well," Meg replied. Erik pressed his body against the wall, but she still brushed against him as she passed. He felt his body tense at her close presence before relaxing again. With his free hand, he shuttered the lantern as Meg turned to look back at him. "Thank you for dinner, Erik."
"Thank you for your suggestion," he said in the darkness with the remnants of her in his vision. He heard the mechanism trip as she pulled the lever. The faint light in the hallway spilled into the hallway and for the briefest of moments, he saw the outline of the small ballerina. He thought he heard a soft good night before the figure disappeared and the door closed automatically. Erik blew out the light of the lantern and walked home to his lair in the utter darkness. With each step, he felt more remorseful for how he had treated Little Meg. His mind also toyed with how the young ballerina relied as much on him, the supposedly deceased Phantom, as he on her.