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 24

February 1883: Costume & Seamstress' Chambers

Sitting atop a tall stool, Meg slipped the needle deftly in and out of the fabric. Beside her, Eleanor hummed softly to herself. Meg found it difficult to concentrate on the sewing over her own thoughts. She stopped and stuck her needle into the fabric to hold it secure. The young ballerina fidgeted in her chair and adjusted her charcoal grey skirt. She stretched her back and heard a few cracks from her spine.

"You never could sit still long enough to finish stitching a hem," Eleanor mused without looking up from her work. Meg gave an embarrassed smile.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor," she apologized. "My thoughts will not leave me be."

"Hmmm. What kind of thoughts are we discussing?"

"I have…" Meg sought the right word to describe her relationship with Erik, but she failed to find a proper one. "I have a friend."

"One of those friends?" Eleanor smirked and glanced up at the young woman.

"I-No!" Meg blushed and Eleanor nodded in a sagely manner. "Nothing of the kind!"

"So you say…" the old seamstress muttered. She couldn't help but smile. Meg huffed realizing the conversation was lost. She would have to try a different tactic. The ballerina returned to her stitching, but the hard stool made her uncomfortable. She fidgeted and poked her finger instead of the thimble by accident. With a frown, Meg stopped, but she realized she had an idea to get Eleanor's advice.

"Eleanor?"

"Yes, child?"

"I ran across one of the cats in the cellar. You know, the ones that are allowed to chase the mice here in the opera house," Meg stated. "He spits and hisses at me… but at times, he can be sweet. How do I win him over?"

"Leave the cellar cats be. They are a feral lot," Eleanor replied abruptly. "I thought you had outgrown chasing the cats in the cellars, young Meg."

"Yes, I have… but… this one seems tame."

"Ah…" Eleanor said with a knowing smile. "We are not talking about cats, are we?"

Meg flushed again and mentally cursed herself. She pouted. "I should have known better," she muttered under her breath. Eleanor chuckled.

"Marguerite, tomcats have their ways," Eleanor pulled the string taut and bit it to cut it. "But mine was a lazy cat. He always preferred horses and well sewn shirts to little ballet rats."

Meg laughed at Eleanor comparing her husband to a lazy cat. Eleanor held out her hands and took the sewing from off of Meg's lap. Calmly, she began to finish the hem that the young ballerina started.

"What of your tomcat?"

"He… enjoys the night and lurking in the shadows," began Meg. "He seems to appreciate my company… but I fear he still sees me as a mouse and not as… another cat."

"Give him time. He'll see you for what you are sooner or later."

"What if he doesn't?" Meg paused. "Or simply can't or won't?"

Eleanor stopped and glanced up at Meg. "Your tomcat loves another little mouse?"

"I believe so…"

"And there are no other tomcats swatting at your whiskers?"

"N-no…"

Eleanor put her head back down to focus on finishing the hem. "Then let him go, child. You can't change a cat set in his ways."

When Meg didn't respond, Eleanor sighed and looked back up at her. "Marguerite… I tell you this because I do not want to see you hurt again." Eleanor shook her head. "We love our heartache; it makes us stronger, but unrequited affection is hard to bear. Let Dmitri go."

"I don't want him to love me," Meg clarified. However, she refused to reveal that they were not discussing her feelings for Dmitri. To reveal the true "tomcat" would reveal too much and threaten too many lives. "I want him to trust me."

"So you say," Eleanor conceded as she rose to her feet. "Now help me carry these costumes to the other girls. They needed to have started on the beading last night."

Together the pair entered the workshops, and immediately Eleanor began instructing the girls on their next task. Meg always found the costume workshop spaces to be cramped and dark yet wonderfully colorful. Half-finished costumes on mannequins sparkled in the dim light. Finished pieces lined the rafters above her. All one had to do was climb the ladder to find costumes from every opera for the past three seasons. The soft hum of sewing machines furiously working underscored the mild chit chatter as toughened hands worked feverishly. Just as Meg turned to go, two distinctly male voices intruded upon the space. She felt a sliver of anger prick her heart upon hearing the Russian accent in one of the voices.

Dmitri smiled seeing Little Meg standing before him. "Ah, Marguerite, what a pleasant surprise."

"Hardly," she said coldly. "What do you want, Dmitri?"

"Nothing from you," he replied with a smile. "I came to see if Annette was free."

At the sound of her name, an older young woman looked up from her sewing and sheepishly smiled at Dmitri. Then Eleanor rounded the corner and her eyes caught sight of the pair of men.

"She is NOT free," Eleanor emphasized. "Stagehands belong backstage and NOT in my workshop. Now, out!"

"But, Madame!" protested Dmitri suddenly fearful. Meg suppressed a smug grin. "Your husband asked me to inquire about you."

Eleanor snorted. "Liar. He sends a stable boy when he needs me. Now, out with you!" She turned her attention to the boy she didn't recognize with the hazel eyes and black hair. "And you? Why are you here?"

"Madame, I am here upon the request to retrieve Mademeoiselle Giry for Madame Webber," the young man said politely. Meg eyed him cautiously. If he is a friend of Dmitri, nothing he says is true… But if he does speak true… she mused. He glanced at Met and a blush rose to his cheeks. "She required her presence. Anjelica has fallen ill again and cannot be the understudy to Mademoiselle Teodora for tonight. Mdm. Giry is needed to rehearse the choreography for the evening."

Meg raised an eyebrow and looked at Dmitri. "How might she be ill again, Monsieur?"

The young man glared at the ballerina. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw how her brazen question alerted Annette. Meg glanced at her and nodded solemnly. Flustered, angry, and suddenly upset, Annette dashed away from her sewing with tears in her eyes. In looking back at Dmitri, she felt smug pride at foiling another of his conquests. Then Eleanor grabbed her ear.

"Marguerite, if your mother was still alive!" Eleanor growled angrily. "You will apologize to Annette later. Off you go with him!" Releasing Meg's burning ear, Eleanor turned her attention to Dmitri. "But not you… You stay and come with me."

Quickly, Meg dashed forward and grabbed the young man's upper arm to leave the workshop. They hurried along as Eleanor followed with Dmitri in tow, his ear firmly held in her strong fingers. Eventually the two groups broke apart – Meg and the young man for the stage while Eleanor dragged Dmitri to the head stage hand.

"Remind me to stay on Eleanor's good side," the young man muttered to Meg as they slowed their steps momentarily. He glanced down at her hand on his arm, and he blushed again. Suddenly flustered, Meg let him go.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to be so familiar with you," she replied in a rush.

"It's no bother," he admitted with a slight quirk of his lips upward. He seemed to consider her for a moment. "You dance very well, Mademoiselle. I am new here and I have no basis for comparison, but I enjoy watching you perform."

"I, um, thank you?" Meg offered slightly flustered. His frank but humble admission to watching her dance caught her off guard. "You have me at a disadvantage. You know of me, but I do not know of you, Monsieur."

"Ah, my apologies. My name is Guy, but everyone here calls me Chaput," he replied with a smile. He ruffled his dark hair. "Probably for obvious reasons."

She couldn't help but smile at that. "Come now. To receive a nickname is an honor among the stage hands, or so I have heard."

"What is Dmitri's nickname then?"

"Among the stagehands… a word no lady can speak in polite company is his nickname," she offered. Meg's smile grew into a smug one. "But for us ballerinas, we know him by an equally impolite name."

"Petit Don Juan, I assume, is not the nickname you use?" Chaput asked with a raised eyebrow. The action reminded Meg of Erik suddenly. She looked away from the young man beside her. He was closer in age to her than the Phantom. Not as tall but not short either. His features are not as masculine, but Chaput carried himself with an air of ease.

"He is petit, but definitely not a Don Juan," Meg muttered under her breath. She heard him chuckle and she flushed. ""Forgive me, he is your friend."

"No, no," Chaput said shaking his head. "I do not approve of Dmitri's… ways. A man should not woo every woman he sees; he should know what he wants when he sees it." Chaput stopped short of the wings at the front of the stage. Plain but handsome, he stood beside her with his hands in his pockets. He looked at her with those hazel eyes and some emotion caught her attention. Meg felt her cheeks grow hot.

"A boy dallies with a girl's heart, or so my mother told me, but a man…" he paused for effect. His hand came out of his pocket to take Meg's fingers. Her blush deepened as he bent over her hand to lightly brush her fingertips with his lips. He looked up at her while still leaning over her hand. "A man will stop at nothing to gain a woman's heart for a heart is a precious thing. Accepetez-vous?"

"MADEMOISELLE GIRY!" came an angry shout from the stage. Meg jumped and turned to see Madame Webber approaching with her cane waving at her. Fear made her cheeks pale. Yet she looked back to see Chaput… and he was gone.