A/N: Thanks, once again, for all your kind words!I'm doing a creative writing course in London all of next week so if updates are slow I'll blame it on that. ;) In the meantime, let me know your thoughts? It makes this even more worthwhile.
Chapter 2:
The manager's office seemed to possess a life of its own. At least that's what Julianne found when she barricaded herself in the room at the beginning of the following week. Correspondences found in the drawers of the big oak desk reminded her of the kind but decisive nature of her husband, while notes unearthed by Monsieur Moreau shed some light on the ghost story she had involuntarily found herself in. Whether Édouard had known anything about this affair was impossible to say, since neither one of the curious notes was dated.
Resting her chin on her hand, Julianne directed her gaze outside the window. It was doubtful he would have been involved in anything deviant, because he had taken this new position rather seriously. But she knew all too well that his imagination was easily captured by fantastical worlds and happenings, and perhaps this ghost had been exciting enough to awaken his childlike curiosity and abandon all caution. Hoping to find answers, she now found herself confronted with more questions that seemed to clog up her already overfull mind. Had she not felt some sense of duty to Édouard's business endeavour, she would have been more comfortable at home.
Every day she discovered another tint of grey in this spectrum of grief. Numbness and tears while seemingly at odds with each other, appeared in brief succession, while a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread startled her awake at night and had her reaching for the empty side of the bed. There was no let-up, no space for anything but this gaping hole in her life, and yet here she was, clawing at some illusive sense of focus and trying to solve this mystery she had unwillingly become a part of.
Édouard would have wanted to find answers, she told herself while rubbing her tired eyes. It was a mantra that carried her to the office doors.
She opened them so sharply that a nearby group of ballet girls startled and almost instinctively began to scatter.
"Would one of you be so kind as to fetch Monsieur Moreau?" Julianne asked.
The remaining girls exchanged nervous glances and then hesitantly nodded. She didn't stay behind to hear their whispered words but quickly withdrew into the silence of the office once more. The minutes ticked by slowly until a polite knock indicated Moreau's arrival.
"Do come in!" she called, though her voice seemed to crack under the sudden strain of making itself heard.
Monsieur Moreau looked as uncomfortable as he had done when she had last seen him after the misfortunate events at the premiere of Robert le Diable. Even now he could hardly bring himself to meet her eyes which only strengthened her belief that he had been hoping to avoid her.
"How can I be of assistance?"
"Well, first of all I wanted to thank you for both the reports you offered me last week and the notes you have left behind on the desk." She began, relying on her old etiquette lessons that had taught her that, when in doubt, cordiality could open more doors.
"Of course," he indicated an awkward little bow, "I have always aspired to help you and Monsieur Doucet."
"And I was hoping," she quickly intervened, for the man had already turned towards the door again, "that you would be able to assist me further by answering a few questions these notes have brought up."
His displeasure became even more pronounced by the forced smile that suddenly appeared on his face.
"You must think me an expert, Madame."
"I simply value your opinion, Monsieur." She answered sweetly and making sure to hold this new, uncomfortable eye contact, she sank back down in her chair to consult the notes. "Who is Mademoiselle Daaé? Our ghost seems terribly fixated on her."
"She appears to have been a singer, Madame." He answered meekly.
"I had concluded the same," she commented, conscious of the impatience that was starting to show in her tone, "but forgive me for being vague. I meant to inquire if she is currently still employed here?"
"No," he shook his head and for the first time she felt he was being genuine, "I haven't encountered her but I can't say I know where she went either."
"I see," Julianne hummed disappointedly, pinching the bridge of her nose, "in that case perhaps it is best if we consult the rest of the corps. There is bound to be someone who has been in our employ long enough to recognise that name."
All at once, Monsieur Moreau's obvious unease returned but Julianne made a point to ignore it. Instead, she locked away the notes and marched past him and out of the office.
All the ballet girls had dispersed by now, but it hardly mattered since Julianne was certain that she would find them along with the rest of the ensemble on the main stage.
She swiftly strode through the deserted hallway and gained access to the fly tower of the Opera via a backdoor. It was the tallest part of the entire building and one she entered only with nervous respect. It was dark and eerie, filled with seemingly unreachable walkways, rope lines and weights. Unused backdrops were fastened even higher up, a single glance towards the topmost part of the complex enough to make her dizzy so that she hurriedly continued walking towards the sounds of the warming up orchestra.
As expected, everyone she had been hoping to locate had assembled on the stage and was listening to what little praise Monsieur Millet, the chief répétiteur, had to offer about their recent performance. Her sudden appearance had an immediate effect as more and more people started turning their heads in her direction until Millet, at last, was forced to notice her as well.
"Ah Madame Doucet," he addressed her sharply while tapping the score against his leg, "if you have come to watch the rehearsal perhaps you would be more comfortable over here?"
As politely as his impatience would allow him to he pointed to one of the seats in the auditorium.
"How thoughtful," she smiled and curtsied diligently, "but I'm afraid I have come to discuss another matter."
"And I assume it can't wait?" he probed with a sigh of resignation.
"I'm afraid not." She shook her head and turned to address the ensemble. "I am investigating the source for the disruption of Thursday's premiere. Not only was it inconsiderate and a great nuisance, it's also a grave injustice to each and every one of you and the effort you have put into your work."
Surprised murmurs broke the silence and encouraged by the nervous smiles she continued.
"I have learned that this was not the first disturbance of a ghostly nature," she couldn't prevent the dry tone from slipping into her voice, "and I was hoping to speak to someone who might be able to tell me more. Perhaps even someone who knows something about Christine Daaé."
Some ensemble members looked downright shocked, paling instantly and making sure to find a sudden interest in anything but the woman in front of them. Other members, however, simply looked blank or mildly curious but no-one stepped forward or offered a single word of explanation.
"I do apologise for broaching this clearly uncomfortable topic." She tried once again but the reaction largely remained the same.
"I just don't understand!" she exclaimed later that day while Babette was combing out her hair. "They must hate these interruptions as much as the next person, especially if there's a strange history I am only partially informed about. Why keep whatever information they have a secret?"
"They're frightened, Madame," Babette offered bravely in return, "they don't want to anger the ghost."
"But there is no ghost!" Julianne bristled. "Goodness knows I cannot explain those ungodly sounds I heard, but I have never encountered a ghost that would write letters, let alone demand to keep a box for its exclusive use."
This time, Babette wisely chose to remain silent, focusing instead on a knot in her mistress's hair while Julianne fumbled for the notes by her side. She had decided to take them with her since she feared they might somehow disappear if she left them at the Opera overnight. She did not believe in the ghost, but she did believe in the sneaky little hands of those determined to keep the ghost's secret.
The continued tugs at her hair she barely registered. When a sudden idea struck, she turned around so quickly that Babette startled and yanked a bushel of hair loose.
"You must do me a favour," Julianne announced breathlessly, touching the sore spot at the back of her head and waving off her maid's words of apology, "you must find me some old papers. Le Figaro, no, wait! Le Petit Journal, they must have written something about previous occurrences. They live for material like this!"
Babette looked at her flushed face and swallowed.
"Madame, please, do consider how this…obsession would reflect on you. The world believes you to be in mourning, after all."
Her maid's words deprived her of air and brought the numbed pain in her chest to the forefront.
"Of course," she answered quietly and hurriedly pushed the stack of letters and notes into the topmost drawer of her nightstand, "goodnight, Babette."
The maid nodded and extinguished the nearby lamps and then carefully left the room. Julianne knew that she would fret the whole night over her words and whether or not they had been out of line, and for that she would apologise in the morning. Babette had always been kind and loyal and truly deserved much better, but for now Julianne was unable to escape the darkness in which she had been plunged yet again.
The silence did not allow for sentences or fully-formed thoughts. It was heavy and suffocating, thick enough to settle over her and smother her.
With trembling fingers she felt for the photograph she had hidden beneath Édouard's pillow. The rough edges felt soothing, and she calmed herself by tracing the familiar contours of his face that she needed no light to see. But while soothing, it wasn't enough to fill the void in her heart.
Automatically, her body curled itself up. The photograph remained in her hand while her arms came together over her head to shield her. She felt small and insignificant, vulnerable and exposed to all the expectation society now placed on her.
Why was it not enough to simply be?
If only Édouard could have been there to say something outrageous that would make her laugh.