Chapter 9: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881
The Opera Ghost liked to the think of them as…convenient distractions.
Granted, they were not convenient when they found their way into his food supply or bedroom, but when the idea cemented itself into his mind, Erik pushed away all prejudice. Erik had spent several days inventing an ingenious trap to snare the little pests and successfully managed to reduce the population around his lair. Tonight, the Phantom sought out one of his rattraps and was wickedly delighted when he had found one captured. The rodent had already expired and the odor of the decomposing corpse applied perfectly to Erik's plan.
He had spent the duration of Hannibal's entire first act and most of the second looking for the perfect candidate for his welcoming present to the couple in Box Five. Considering his box had been stolen from him, the reaction of a rotting, filthy rat in a private box would surely make his night worth the stupidity of the managers. Not that the Phantom was letting them off that easy…
Being careful to stay in the shadows, the Phantom slinked back to the surface, making his way to the hallway leading from the Grand Staircase to the exclusive boxes on the Grand Tier. The hall was abandoned as most were anxiously anticipating Act Three and the "glorious" aria of La Carlotta.
Quite accustomed to spying in close proximity to his victims, Erik pressed himself to edge of the open doorway of the box. He leaned in to see the gentleman and lady conversing, blissfully unaware of his presence. The Phantom immediately recognized the man's light green eyes, arrogant air, the wily smile…
'Well if it isn't my old friend...the Vicomte…you haven't changed…insolent fool…'
Raoul de Chagny had been a frequent visitor to the Opera Populaire even before he became patron. Erik had never approached him and Raoul had never inquired about the "boy in the basement" for years. The Phantom of the Opera hadn't taken interest in the frivolous Vicomte for quite some time…until now of course.
"¡Madre Mia! ¡Un niño!"
Erik froze as the countess suddenly spoke.
"What?" Her escort asked dumbly. "Where?"
"There!" She pointed her finger to one the actors on stage, a man with the stature of child, standing alongside Ubaldo Piangi.
"Erm…I do believe that is a man," the blond-haired man said uneasily, "His name is Luigi Bucelli, one of our more...unique actors, so I'm told."
Erik almost snorted aloud from the shadows. 'Unique? You mean different…'
"How can he be a grown man with a body of a child?" The woman asked, in English.
"He was born that way my dear," Raoul replied, his voice patronizing. "A fate he could not escape from I'm afraid."
"¡Cuán triste!" The rich lady dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief theatrically, "What a tragic life he must lead…"
"We can only hope that is not the case, Countess."
Erik wanted to vomit. 'The true tragedy is that you're both still alive…'
The Countess sighed, now giving her attention to her escort, her eyes full of misplaced admiration.
"Es un hombre tan amable, Raoul."
The Phantom nearly gagged at the woman's hypocrisy. He opened his contraption and pulled out the rat's carcass by its tail.
'You both deserve this more than I thought…'
Erik crept forward and placed the rat next to the lady's foot, his movements uncannily silent and undetected.
"Le bon débarras, mon cher Vicomte," Erik whispered as he left, his voice low and threatening. "We shall meet again."
Christine watched Meg and the others perform from backstage, her delight lighting up her face. After Antoinette had sent for her, she had hurriedly dressed in simple gray skirt and white blouse. Christine had insisted on helping with the night's festivities, but the Girys would hear nothing of it.
Consequently, she sat on the ground, her skirt billowing around her, doing her best to keep out of the way of scurrying stagehands and scene-shifters. The damsel swayed to Reyer's perfect beats, her joy of being back in Paris radiating throughout her entire being. Christine hadn't been so happy since she had spent her days underground, laughing, playing, composing, and singing, with a certain deformed musical prodigy…
"Mademoiselle?"
Christine glanced up to see a tall, curly-haired young man holding a white stallion, both staring down at her. Christine jumped, surprised.
"Sorry miss, we didn't mean to frighten you," the teenager whispered, "But Brutus here has a large rump to navigate and I didn't want to run over you."
"Oh, no apology necessary." Christine shifted to her knees and the stable lad aided her to her feet. She came face to muzzle with the muscular draft, his wide eyes looking at her curiously.
"My, he is…enormous."
"That he is." The lad grinned widely, pride beaming through him. He turned back to his horse. "Brutus meet…"
"Christine Daaé."
"Brutus meet Christine Daaé. Christine, this is Brutus, one of the Opera Populaire's prestigious Boulonnais stallions."
Brutus, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, nudged Christine softly. Christine giggled and placed a hand on his large muzzle.
"Nice to meet you too, Brutus."
"Stop flirting, you old chap," the horse's master chastised, "She's too young for you. And what shall I tell Lola when she hears about this?"
"Lola?" Christine asked, quite amused at the young man's seemingly close relationship with the animal.
"Brutus' long time mistress," he replied, "A very moody Camargue mare. Easily provoked, you see."
"I see." Christine chuckled, "Brutus is beautiful." She ran her hands soothingly along his withers and his powerful back.
"Lola thinks so too." The stable hand affectionately rubbed the Boulonnais' neck. "I'm Pierre, by the way."
"A pleasure, Pierre." Christine said, "Do you work with horses often?"
"Yes, in the stables adjoining the opera house. I am one of the few employees who actually work, not sing or dance or paint scenery or whatever those snobs think they're doing."
Christine laughed, earning a sharp hiss from someone backstage. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand.
"Pierre Chancé! Take that overgrown oat-bag and get on stage!" A man hissed from somewhere above them.
Pierre rolled his eyes. " My audience awaits. Come on Brutus, we must go and be the romantic background… and try not to neigh in the middle of Carlotta's aria, its quite rude, not to mention distracting…"
Christine watched the two walk onto stage, the human mumbling, the animal snorting indifferently. Oh how the Populaire had opened her doors to interesting persons...
The lights dimmed and the starry backdrops were lowered. Carlotta's voice soon began to sing the first notes of the concluding aria.
Think of me,
Think of me fondly,
when we've said goodbye…
Remember me, once in a while,
Please promise me you'll try…
"No one could forget you if we tried, Signora," Christine mumbled under her breath, "Our bleeding ears won't let us."
"I hope I taught you better than that."
Christine turned around to see Madame Giry in her usual black silk, appearing as regal as ever. Despite, her chastising tone, a playful grin was on her lips.
"Sorry Maman. My absence has ruined my manners, I suppose."
"At least it wasn't your sense of musical discernment." Antoinette lovingly placed a hand on Christine's shoulder, fingering the curls that lay there. Christine shook her head, once again facing the prima donna on stage who was belting out the soft notes much too loudly.
"How has she retained her position this long?"
The older woman sighed, "Lack of sufficient talent, mon cherie. No replacement can be found to satisfy the…overseeing administration."
"You mean the Opera Ghost?" Christine asked in half-jest. Madame Giry abruptly stopped touching the girl's brown locks. The ballet mistress inhaled sharply, not replying. Christine shifted ever so slightly to face the woman, a faint shadow of confusion and worry in her dark eyes.
"Maman?"
Antoinette opened her mouth to say something, but a woman's scream suddenly resonated all throughout the opera house. All eyes turned from Carlotta to the couple sitting in the private box on the right side of the building.
"Ahhh!" A dark-haired woman most in high society knew as the Countess de la Cruz, was jumping up and down, screaming hysterically and pointing to something on the ground. Her companion, none other than Raoul de Chagny, stared on in shock.
"¡Dios salvo mí! ¡Ratas! ¡Ratas!"
"Raquel calm down!" the Vicomte hissed, rising from his seat. "You're making a scene! It was probably your own gown you stepped on."
The countess promptly slapped him across the face. "¡El pícaro insensible!"
The handful of crowd members overhearing the conversation twittered and pointed up at the abashed patron. The countess suddenly noticed that she was being observed and laughed at by the entirety of Paris and gave a cry of horror.
She punctually passed out.
Erik rarely had anything to laugh about. Tonight, on the other hand, was an exception.
After disposing of his four-legged friend, he had gone to the balconies above the lower levels, watching from a round glass peephole positioned around the grand chandelier's riggings. Countess de la Cruz had found his welcoming present and had announced it quite loudly. Carlotta's face was one of shock and indescribable anger. Maestro Reyer had slapped his conductor's wand on his music stand with severe annoyance forcing Carlotta to finish. After doing so, the Italian had stomped off stage cursing in her native tongue rapidly.
"Brava ladies," Erik snickered, a satisfied chuckle in his throat. "Your performances will not soon be forgotten."
'But you're not finished yet…'
"No," Erik agreed with himself audibly, his mood changing quickly and dangerously as it often did. "Those managers have to pay for their incompentance."
Leaving through a door in the wall, he sprinted back down to the lower part of the opera house, towards the Grand Foyer where the gala was about to be held. At least, that was for the "respected" folks of society. The real gala, Erik knew, was a raucous, drunk revelry near the stage.
Slipping up through the rafters, the Phantom waited as the cast members and staff filed in, each with a bottle or two in their hands. He studied every face, most already red and bright with alcohol induced enthusiasm.
'Perfect…If I catch them drunk, the managers will be easier prey…no one will realize what's happened until the morning…or later…'
Erik waited patiently, shifting his position among the higher, abandoned wooden platforms. The Punjab lasso was ready to be used at any moment, as soon as André and Firmin showed their faces…
"Where is that girl?"
A familiar voice spoke from directly beneath him. The Phantom turned his sharp green eyes to see Meg looking around anxiously for someone. His sour mood lightened somewhat at the sight of his old friend. She was still in her white ballet attire, her golden hair falling around her shoulders. Meg was certainly a beautiful woman, and even though she was older than most unmarried girls, she was still found attractive by many men. Erik had always, though subconsciously, kept a watchful eye on the younger Giry and her mother. Despite the fact, they hadn't spoken in months Erik held no ill will to them.
He watched her intently, slightly confused as to the urgency of Meg's search. Erik knew she did not make friends easily. She was shy, reserved, and unassuming.
'Who is she looking for? Meg hasn't had any close friends since Christine…'
The Phantom's heart nearly stopped. 'Christine…'
The unexpected thought caught Erik painfully off guard. He hadn't thought of her in only God knew how long. Not that he had forgotten her, quite the opposite. He had thought of her so much that he had convinced himself that she had never existed to help him recover from the trauma of their separation. The sudden weakness of the mental wall he had put up against the memories of his childhood almost made him panic.
Erik took an involuntary deep breath to steady his emotions as an excruciating gut-wrenching sensation froze him. He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking uncontrollably.
'Not now man…of course she's not looking for Christine…'
"Lotte?" Meg's clear, pleasant voice rang out loud and clear.
Erik gritted his teeth. 'I can still hear her pet name as if Meg was calling her now…'
"Christine! There you are! I have been looking all over for you!"
"Stop it now, Erik." The Phantom told himself. He was dreaming. Meg wasn't really...
"I've been right here!"
'Who's is that voice…why does it sound so familiar…'
A horrifying sensation seized Erik's core.
"I was watching you from backstage," a damsel spoke from somewhere he could not see, "Oh you were wonderful Meg!"
Erik saw a blur of dress and brown hair collide and envelop the petite Meg Giry. The two girls pulled away from each other for a moment.
"I've never seen you dance so beautifully in my life!" the girl said, her back to the pair of watching eyes in the shadows.
Meg blushed. "Mother still thinks I need to improve."
"She just knows your potential. Besides, Maman was always attempting to keep us humble," the curly-haired girl said, a sound of genuine happiness in her voice, "Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, remember?"
'What did she say…?'
Only one person in the world called Madame Giry 'Maman'.
Christine Daaé.
Then harsh realization struck him; the dark brown curly hair…the ability to bring Meg out of her shell…the name Maman…
The girl turned and Erik saw her face for the first time since she had arrived.
Those unmistakably innocent, chocolate brown eyes struck Erik so profoundly he staggered.
"No..."
A/N: Translations: "¡Madre Maria! ¡Un niño!" = My mother! A boy! "¡Cuán triste!"= How sad! "Es un hombre tan amable, Raoul." =You are such a good man Raoul. "Le bon débarras, mon cher Vicomte,"= Good riddance, my dear Vicomte, "¡El pícaro insensible"! = Insensitive rogue!