Note: Thanks for the reviews. If you read my story, could you review it? It is easy, does not take much time either.

Yes, I agree that they should not meet right now.

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I reach out sleepily and turn of the alarm. There is a smile upon my lips, for no nightmare has troubled my sleep, only pleasant dreams filled the night.

Stretching and feeling refreshed, I get out of bed and light a candle.
The coldness of the room chills me to the bone; I would do anything to have a nice warm rob or some slippers, but I cannot afford to by them.

I go through my morning routine of getting dressed, except with a little more difficulty, because of my swollen, painful, bandaged hand. How could I have been so clumsy, so careless? Now I have made things harder for myself.

"I wonder what kind of work I will be assigned today." I ask my reflection, "I am sure she will give me something that will require the two good hands you do not have."
I walk back over to the little table beside my bed and pick up the red rose I have set in a vase.

Holding it up to my nose, I inhale deeply, taking in its spicy, sweet aroma; I finger its velvety softness, smiling to myself.
I gently kiss its petals before setting it back in its vase and leaving.

-----

I wait patiently in line with the other maids for my task, as Madame Bourg paces back and forth shouting orders.

Finally, it is my turn.

"You, Darcy LeClerc, will help Madame Poulin sew the costumes for the upcoming opera".

I stared at her in disbelief. I am a maid, not a seamstress. I do not even know how to sew, even if I did, I could not do so with my hand in bandages.

"Madame Bourg, I do not think-

"Silence! You will do as I order. Madame Poulin's assistant is ill, and she needs someone to replace her." Madame Bourg shouts angrily, "you will do well to obey my orders without question, Darcy LeClerc, or you find yourself without any work. Do I make myself clear?"

I stare angrily at her pudgy red face, and then bow my head in defeat. "Yes Madame".

---

I find Madame Poulin in a little room behind the stage; she has in her hand a large bottle of whiskey that she quickly hides when I enter.

"Bonjour, Madame"

"Come in deary, no need for you to hover in the doorway."

I walk in and glance around at all the beautiful costumes hanging everywhere.

"What happened to your hand deary, the Phantom gets a hold to you?"

"No, I cut it on some glass. Tell me about the Phantom. Is he real or just a myth, you know, a little superstitious tale to keep everyone in line?"

"Well, I will tell you about him, while you help me cut these materials to size."

Madame Poulin hands me a pair of scissors and demonstrates how to correctly cut the material, and follow the chalk drawn lines.
"You should be able to do that, even with that hand of yours," she laughs, tapping my bandaged hand, causing it to throb with pain again.
After a few tries I get the hang of it.

"Now, about the Phantom. He is very real, as real as I am standing here.
He haunts the Opera House, has done so ever since I can remember; I have been here for fifteen years.
Anyways, he is the most hideous thing you can ever lay your eyes on. His skin is like yellow parchment , his scars are like large hideous boils, and his eyes glow like flames from hell.
He wears a white mask to cover his facial deformities.
It is believed he sold himself to the devil, to live forever; well the price for living an eternity, was to have a monstrous face."

I listen in fascination as she animatedly talks about the Phantom.

"He is also a murderer", she continues, "and he kills those who go against his wishes or those who see his face.
You know, he uses a Punjab lasso, to choke his victims to death, twisting it harder and harder until they are dead.

During the last opera to be held before the fire, Don Juan Triumphant to be exact, his young lover, a singer named Christine Daae, unmasked him.
Oh, I do not think I will ever forget the site. His face was so repulsive that I screamed as loud as I could.
Well being exposed in public like that made him furious. He cut the ropes that held up the chandelier, and then kidnapped the young woman, his lover.
That chandelier crashed right into the audience, killing who knows how many, and starting that infamous fire four years ago. I was injured in that fire."

Madame Poulin pulls up her dress, exposing her calves. On her left leg ran a long, puckered scar.

"A piece of beam fell on my leg," she explains, fingering the scar.

"That is terrible. Are you sure that this, err, Phantom still haunts the Opera House?

"Oui, he does as sure as I am breathing. And another thing, he lives down below the Opera House."

A loud thump causes her to jump, and then looked around her quickly. "I had better not say anything else about him. He maybe is hiding somewhere, listening."

After that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not get her to say another word about him.

Of course, what I heard about him made me more curios about this tragic man, for I believed he was a man and not a ghost.
But why did he live here, in the Opera Populaire? Whatever happened to the young woman he kidnapped? Why does he terrorize the Opera Populaire members?

We pass the rest of the time in silence, except with her occasionally giving me directions; we stop only to eat a meal of cold chicken and fruits

Finally, we finish the two costumes we were working on.

Madame Poulin closely examines my stitching. "You have not done too badly for a beginner".
That makes me smile, for I so little receive any praise.
I stand back to admire the finish product.

One is a dress, done in midnight blue, with a full, shimmering brocade skirt and a daring neckline trimmed in silver.
The other, is a costume for a man. I guess it is for the lead singer, because it is designed to match the woman's. It is done in a contrasting white with midnight blue designs on the sleeves and pants.

"These costumes are very beautiful. Who designs them?"

Silence greets my question. I look over at Madame Poulin; she is drinking from her bottle.
I clear my throat to get her attention, and then repeat my question.

"Oh, I think the Phantom does." she murmurs.

"The Phantom?! Why does he design the costumes? How, I mean, why…
I am unable to continue, my mind is in confusion.

"Because he chooses to deary, he composes the operas too."

I shake my head in bewilderment. How could such a horrible, cruel man, or at least that is how everyone paints him, compose such beautiful music? Music that is so moving, so inspiring, and so passionate. Though I have never been to any of the operas, I have heard them, felt them.

"But I do not understand…why do…why would he want to do these things?"

"I do not know. Now, please, do not mention him again. Well, we are finished. You may now leave."

I nod and bid her good day.

---

I hurry to my room, seeking its quietness and solitude. I insert my key into the lock and push open my door.

There are two lit candles by my bedside, but I know that I put out the candles before I left.
I walk cautiously into my room.

Something on my bed catches my eye.
A package in brown wrapping paper; a red rose tied with a black ribbon is beside it.
Whoever cleaned the ballroom obviously left this package. But how did they know this is my room. How did they get in?

I walk up to the bed; I notice a letter beside the package. On the back is a rose shape wax seal.
Gently I open it, curiosity burning through me. The letter is short .

Dear Mademoiselle,

Please accept the gifts I have left for you.
I sincerely hope that they are to your satisfaction.

Your Servant,
Monsieur E.

-

I excitedly rip open the package.
Inside are a beautiful black robe and a matching pair of slippers.

I give a cry pleasure, and rub the robe against my cheek, it is soft and warm and so luxuriant.
I put the robe and the slippers on and look at myself in the mirror.

I turn my attention back to the letter.

Who is this monsieur E? I do not remember anyone by that name.
Oh! Surely, it is not one of the managers. They are they only ones I know who could afford these beautiful items.
Perhaps I should not use them, especially since I do not know whom they are from.

I argue with myself as to whether or not I should keep them.

Finally, I give in to my selfish side. It is yours; whoever gave it wanted you to have it.
You never get anything nice. Take it.

I decide to write a letter of thanks and leave it on the table. Tomorrow is my day off, and when I am out, maybe he will come in and find the letter.

I write:

Dear Monsieur E,

Thank you so much for the lovely gifts.
I must admit, I do not understand why you are giving them to me; but I do appreciate them. They are exactly what I have been wanting.

Please, I beg of you, to reveal you identity, so that I my thank my angel personally.

Yours Truly,
Darcy LeClerc

Satisfied with my letter, I put in an envelope and set it beside my bed.

I blow out the candles and crawl gratefully between my sheets; but I do not fall right to sleep.
My mind is too full of thoughts, about the Phantom and my mysterious angel.

After many hours of thinking, I finally fall asleep

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In this chapter, I wanted Darcy to hear a little more about the Phantom. To kind of form an opinion about him.
She will never guess that her Angel and the fearsome Phantom are the same man. Oh yes, this is good.\
That is what I want to accomplish.

Please review and let me know what you think about his chapter.

I think I may make them secret pen pals.