Chapter 5: Has the Ghost Returned?

Impatient and confused, Armand Moncharmin paced in his office, a mysterious scrap of parchment folded in his hand. The troubled Opera manager occasionally paused from his pacing, unfolded the paper, read again the strange memorandum written therein, and released a huff of frustration from his lungs before refolding the paper and returning to his pacing about. At last he heard the door burst open behind him, and his colleague and co-manager, Firmin Richard, entered the room in a rush.

"Armand, what has happened? You've roused me from my sleep! What could possibly require our urgent attention this early in the morning!"

Moncharmin unfolded the paper and handed it to Richard who, eyeing the note, already guessed the problem. "Not the Opera Ghost again!" he groaned wearily, taking the paper from Moncharmin and scanning its contents:

"Dearest Managers:
Congratulations on the success of my opera's début. I'm delighted that you deemed it worthy of your stage. I expected to be paid my legal share of the ticket sales, but I now have the unfortunate business of demanding this payment from you. You may send it to me in an envelope to my box seats this very morning. I trust you must know, by now, what to expect if I do not receive the funds.
Kind regards,
O.G.

"This preposterous prankster refuses to let us alone!" Richard moaned when he had finished reading.

"What's worse, this communication didn't come in the mail! It was sitting on my desk when I arrived this morning!"

"Months of quiet, and now this! I really had hoped that our ghost had been exorcised."

"What are we to do? Firmin, we can't call the police. They're already hounding us, asking again about the murder of Joseph Buquet, and they created such a scandal last time, making fools of us! And we even performed that Ghost's damned opera hoping to draw him out of hiding. I don't know if our reputation will ever recover from that performance! All for nothing, because he didn't show himself, and now this!"

As Moncharmin caught his breath, Richard considered. "You know, by right he should have a share of the profits, if indeed he wrote that opera. If we pay him, at least he's not stealing anything. The money really does belong to him."

"I never could have imagined that we would wrong the Opera Ghost!" Moncharmin exploded, flipping his arms in the air. "Now we are stealing from him? This joke has gone too far! And what about first-tier box five? That's not his box!"

"What else are we to do? We can't risk more… incidents; there's enough criticism about our management as it is. If he starts asking for 240,000 francs again then we'll have a problem, but right now, I think this request is actually reasonable."

Moncharmin sighed. "I really think I should like to meet this ghost."

Richard stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "It certainly seems as though we could use his advice in our matters of management, especially in improving the chorus group."

"Really, Richard! Are you suggesting that we resort to divination through a spectre in order to improve the institution under our care? Surely by now we can do our job ourselves!"

But Richard would not give up the idea. "Listen to me, my friend. No one knows better than I how terrible our condition is, after the disappearance of Mademoiselle Daaé. We need an expert to completely reorder our affairs, especially for the singers! Now, when I first perused the score for Don Juan, I realized I was reading the work of a maestro." He put his hand up to silence Moncharmin's objections. "Of course, the subject matter, or maybe the candid exploration of it, was not to our taste. Anyway, only a truly gifted composer could conjure from music those disturbing sensations we all felt during Don Juan Triumphant. It was like sorcery!"

"Quiet, Richard! Watch what you say!" Moncharmin protested, covering the mouth of his colleague. "It was like sorcery," he whispered, close to Richard's ear, "Too much like it. That ghost has possessed us all! Who knows what other incredible magic he can inflict on us!"

"Armand," Richard whispered, once Moncharmin had removed his hand, "he could be listening to us right now!"

Both managers fell silent and neither one dared to move. Their wide eyes scanned the room, expecting to spot an eavesdropper hiding somewhere close by. But, of course, no one else was in the room, and it might have seemed ridiculous for them to suspect that they were not by themselves. The astonishing power of Don Juan had terrified them both, although neither would admit to the other just how much the performance had affected him. Although they each had speculated before that the other was playing a practical joke, they now were certain that a supernatural force was behind the mysterious messages from O.G. The music of Don Juan had branded their hearts with the searing iron of its chords, and both men now feared that they had permanently forfeited their virtue. And it was the Opera Ghost who had accomplished this desecration—through music that had looked innocent enough on the page, and that had sounded harmless during rehearsals, but that had reigned supreme on the sinister night of its début. A nameless evil was operating from the pages of Don Juan Triumphant!

"Firmin," Moncharmin whispered finally, still searching the room with his frightened eyes, "we shouldn't tempt fate by inviting the Devil to train our troupes."

"What choice do we have, Armand? We already manage a cursed opera house!"

"Let's just give him his money and have done with him."

Without responding, Richard sat at the desk and produced a pen from some drawer and paper from another, and set to writing.

Moncharmin looked on in confusion, his mouth hanging open. "What are you doing, Richard? You're not writing correspondence to our Ghost…? Richard! What are you writing?"

Richard set down the pen, blotted the paper, shook it ceremoniously while clearing his throat, and finally began to read what was indeed a letter to the dreaded Opera Ghost:

"Our kind Opera Ghost:
We were very happy to oblige you in performing your excellent opera. Please accept our humble gratitude for having brought it to our attention. As for the matter of the ticket sales, we are embarrassed that in our admiration we neglected to pay you your rightful share. We had not received word from you, and thought that you must have taken to haunting some other building or maybe not haunting at all, and that as a ghost you did not need these revenues. But we will rectify this misunderstanding at once, so enclosed are the 90,617 francs owed you for the performance of your exceptional work.
...Furthermore, since Mademoiselle Daaé has left us, we must improve our lead singers and chorus. We would accept, with much appreciation, and in fact beg of you, any advice you wish to put forth as to how we should proceed.
We remain your humble servants and Opera managers, etc.—"

"Richard, its too much!" Moncharmin complained. "I might understand why we should pacify him, but you go too far!"

"Trust me, Armand," Richard answered calmly as he carefully folded the letter, "This ghost could be the key to our success."

He turned to the safe behind the desk, dialed the combination in a flurry of fingers, and drew from the safe a generous stack of francs, counting diligently the exact value of 90,617. Moncharmin could only stare.

The dark theatre echoed from their conversation as the managers arrived at first-tier box five. Two rows of chairs with red velvet cushions stood like silent red sentinels.

"Where do we put the envelope?" asked Moncharmin.

"On one of the chairs."

Richard deposited the letter on the rightmost chair in the front row. As they watched the envelope, both managers backed away toward the door and struggled to fit both of their bodies through the exit at the same time. Neither one wanted to give the other an opportunity to steal the 90,617 francs.

They stood in the hallway, sheepishly thinking of what to do next. Once the deed was done and the envelope was out of their hands, common sense returned to them.

Moncharmin cleared his throat. "Firmin, I'm beginning to think that the letter was not from the ghost after all. His notes usually came by post, but this one was sitting on my desk. And we haven't heard from the ghost since Mademoiselle Daaé's disappearance. This could be a joker, and he's getting rich from our naïveté!"

"Should we take the money back?" Richard asked hesitantly. "What if the letter was from the ghost?"

"Yes, yes, let's take it back. That letter couldn't have been from an actual ghost."

Together they squeezed through the entrance to the room. Without warning, Richard stopped, holding back Moncharmin from the seats. The color had drained from Richard's face.

"Armand, that's not our envelope!"

Indeed, the managers had delivered a white envelope, but the one now before them on the crimson seat was black as coal.

Richard tiptoed toward the rightmost forward seat and carefully lifted the envelope. "It has the managerial seal."

"Richard, your jokes have gone too far!" Moncharmin exploded.

"Monsieur, you came in here with me! You saw me place it on the seat. Then we left at the same time. Now you accuse me of switching the envelopes, while I was out there with you in the hallway? Use your head, Moncharmin!"

"Well, how else did the white envelope turn black?" Moncharmin asked foolishly. The chairs, like so many cardinals kneeling in prayer, offered no answer.

Ignoring his companion, Richard opened the envelope and read aloud the message it contained:

"Kindest Managers,

I have received the 90,617 francs. Thank you. However, I must humbly decline your request for advice, as I am confident that Monsieur Richard is very capable of managing the musical affairs of the Opera, and Monsieur Moncharmin is equally capable of managing the Opera's administrative duties. I also regret to inform you that I will no longer attend your operas in first-tier box five, and I release you to rent it at your discretion. Please convey to Madame Giry my regards; she was an excellent attendant.

I shall remain yours sincerely,

O.G."

Utterly confounded, Moncharmin could only exclaim: "WHAT?"

"It seems we are rid of the ghost at last," Richard answered seriously (and one might even say, he answered sadly).

And so it was that in a single morning, the Opera Ghost reappeared and then vanished again. Perplexed, the two managers returned to their office in a daze. The black envelope and its letter were locked in the managerial safe, and they began the day's administrative tasks as usual. But neither of them could turn his mind from this puzzling question: what had elicited such a change in their usually arrogant and menacing Opera Ghost?

a/n: I'm sure readers are wondering where Erik has gone. You'll see him again very soon.