Chapter Three - The Voice and the Comte
"Stay away from any trapdoors you may find," Meg warned Angelique as she and Jammes guided her towards the infamous Box Five of the mysterious and dangerous Opera Ghost.
"Or he might jump out from behind and grab you when you least expect it," Jammes whispered, her eyes darting to and fro as she anxiously looked about for any sign of the Phantom.
"I doubt this 'ghost' would have any interest in me," Angelique reassured them with a wry smile.
"That was a terrible trick of Monsieur Richard to pull on you," Meg scowled. "If Maman was here, she would have put up a fight. Funny, I don't remember her being out so long all day."
"Never mind that, Meg. I'll be alright, you'll see," she said, patting the ballerina's shoulder. "You two scurry along, I've got work to do."
The two girls cast her a final look, their eyes wide with concern and suspicion of the area, before taking off the way they came. As they hurried, they had to squeeze by a man carrying a rather large vase filled with roses. He gulped as he nearly had a misstep before giving a breath of relief and grumbling as he moved on towards the entrance. He was so preoccupied with the vase and hallway that he failed to notice a single rose lying on the floor, right in front of Angelique as she prepared to enter the private box.
She was adjusting her apron when she saw the forlorn flower. Kneeling down, she tenderly picked it up and sniffed its rich fragrance, caressing its velvet petals. A soft smile came to her lips as she tucked the stem into her belt before grabbing her bag and entering Box 5.
Placing the bag between the door and its frame, she selected the feather duster and got straight to work, following the routine one of the maids had pointed out to her. As she worked, she couldn't help but remember all that the girls had mentioned about this infamous Phantom of the Opera.
"He killed off Joseph Buquet, the stagehand, just a few nights ago. Carlotta became ill suddenly and Christine Daae – she was a chorus girl before – became the star for that evening," Meg had explained. "Maman says I shouldn't gossip, but really, I'm only telling you these things so you know and it's for your own good."
"Don't forget that your mother works with that terrible ghost!" little Jammes had shuddered as they had went walking down the hall.
"Your mother works for the ghost?" Angelique asked, skeptical. All this talk of a ghost haunting the place didn't sound like a ghost to her…but then, there was that angelic voice that kept tickling her ears when she least expected it…
A boastful, full operatic voice filled the air, but instead of inspiring Angelique, it made her cringe in discontent. "Sweet Lord!" she murmured, hurrying to the balcony to peek down and see what was happening.
Standing on the stage was a rather robust woman with midnight hair piled on her head, her blood-red lips parted as she sung out, straining as hard as she could so her voice would continue onto the farthest reaches of the earth.
"Madame! Please, there's no need to-" Gabriel, the chorus instructor struggled to get her to quiet down a bit, only to have the intimidating woman snap at him.
"I am singing! Let me practice, monsieur, as I am certainly not going to miss my show tonight!" she snarled, reminding Angelique of the starving dogs she had seen on her way to Paris, growling as another would enter his territory looking for a morsel.
"Mon Dieu, that's singing?!" whispered Angelique with a grimace. Wincing as the woman continued, she began to turn away when a sharp snap and the whirl of a fast-moving item earned her attention. Carlotta screeched in horror, causing the girl to spin around and watch with wide eyes a sandbag suddenly fall from the rafters and nearly smack the diva on the skull. "Oh my-!"
"He's here! It's the Opera Ghost!" the ballet girls squealed in panic, frantically gathering around La Sorelli, the head ballerina of the corps.
"Settle down! Settle down!" Monsieur Gabriel snapped at the girls, though he, too, was shaken. "Are you alright, Madame-?!"
"Do I look alright?! I was nearly plastered to death!" the woman screamed, raining curses on the fool who had dared to try such a stunt on her.
Angelique continued to watch the display before her, her brows furrowing in curiosity. Sandbags didn't just fall on their own, and papers did not materialize out of nowhere…Whatever this Opera Ghost was, she was steadfast in one belief – it was most certainly not a specter. She believed strongly in the idea of Heaven and Hell, of angels and spirits, but this didn't quite settle with her. Turning away, she started polishing the armrests of the seats, softly humming as she left her thoughts wander. Just what could it be if it wasn't a ghost…?
She stopped suddenly, hearing the soothing, hypnotic voice that hummed with her back in the workroom. She didn't move for a full minute, waiting to see what would happen. Would this "ghost" drop something on her as well, or try to kill her as it had with the stagehand, Buquet?
The still silence around her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up despite her wishes to be brave, and when the voice started humming again without her, she began to wonder what kind of a person she was dealing with. The voice seemed to come from all over the room, echoing and gentle, a whisper from the Heavens that comforted her tired soul. Cautiously, she got back to work, not daring to utter a sound as she listened to the voice hum to her. For ten minutes it continued, as she slowed her work to listen to the angelic sound, despite knowing the danger she was in. At long last, she gathered her belongings together in the bag and letting her eyes dart about.
She could see nothing that would indicate a presence, and though it unnerved her, she couldn't help but feel excited – whoever this person was, he was trying very hard to appear to be a phantom. As she placed her hand over her waist to untie that apron, she received a sweet, soft reminder of the rose she had collected from the floor. Slipping it out of her belt, she sniffed it fragrance once more before placing it on one of the seats and curtsying to it.
"Please accept this, Monsieur Opera Ghost, whoever and wherever you are," she said with a wry smile, slinging the bag over her shoulder and exiting the room.
She walked down the hall, just as the girls had shown her, and finally arrived at the door of the managers' office. Knocking twice on the door, she waited patiently until Monsieur Moncharmin called out, "Come in." As she entered the room, she could see the delight and surprise in his eyes. "Mademoiselle! You're just the person I wanted to see. And before I forget, I must apologize for Firmin's behavior and request." He shook his head at this, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's desperate to sell that box and very few venture in Box 5 all because of this 'Opera Ghost' that tampers with everything!"
"I understand, Monsieur," she bowed her head. "It was no trouble at all."
"You didn't see or hear anything strange, did you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow expectantly.
"No, of course not," she lied. "Now, where do I leave the cleaning supplies?"
"Oh, those go in the closet by the dressing rooms, it's clearly labeled and not too far from your workroom," he informed her, his face lighting up. "Now come and have a look at this catalog I have. There are several fabrics here that I think you'll find appropriate for the gowns you'll be making."
Joining him by the grand desk, Angelique peered at the pages, taking in the wonderful variety of cloths and applications that could be used, ideas already spilling into her mind. "Oh, Monsieur…these are wonderful!"
"Take the book, my dear girl," he chuckled. "Make your designs first, then select what you'll need. I will order them myself for you."
"Oh thank you!" she beamed, her eyes aglow with excitement. "I shan't let you down!"
"I know you won't-" he began warmly, only to stop when the office door opened and Richard stepped back in.
"Do come in, mons- Moncharmin, what's she doing in here?!" Richard fumed, seeing how the cleaning girl had stepped into the office.
"Richard, where are your manners?!" Moncharmin snapped back, embarrassed at his treatment of the humble girl. "She just got back from cleaning Box 5 and is going to start designing the outfits for the shows!"
"You have a new seamstress?" a new voice penetrated the room, startling both Moncharmin and Angelique.
Stepping into the room was a man in his early forties, quite handsome to look at though his grey eyes appeared cold at times. He was clearly an aristocrat and a valuable patron of this opera, smartly dressed and ready for anything the world threw at him. Upon seeing the stunning blue-grey eyes and untamed auburn locks that framed the working girl's face, the man blinked in surprise, his heart suddenly fluttering. He had never felt this way, and never expected to. The child must have been at least half his age, and yet, he couldn't help but feel strongly for her.
"Mademoiselle," he bowed deeply, startling the other three figures. "Pardon my intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself – I am Philippe Georges Marie, Comte de Chagny."
Angelique was stunned to have received such a greeting, and when she began to doubt it as a jest, he took her hand and placed a kiss upon her skin, sending Richard into a frantic frenzy.
"Comte! She's merely a cleaning girl-!"
"Seamstress," Moncharmin glared as he corrected his friend. "You started giving the title and work of a cleaning girl, mon ami."
Angelique could feel blush forming on her face, not because she was bashful before this dashing man, rather it was embarrassing to be treated so in front of her bosses. This stranger made her feel slightly uncomfortable until she realized he had said his name was "de Chagny." Perhaps he would know her uncle…
"Please monsieur, this is unnecessary for me," she insisted, tucking her hair behind her ear as she curtsied to him once he was on his feet. "I am simply Angelique Archambault."
His brows furrowed at the name, stroking his moustache as he searched his memory for the source of such similarity. "Archambault…Archambault…wait!" His eyes widened as he snapped his fingers in recognition. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Comte Pierre Archambault, would you?"
"He's my uncle," she nodded with a slight smile. "I've never met him, but my father told me he lived somewhere in Paris."
"Wait a moment, you're related to a Comte?!" Richard squeaked, suddenly feeling guilty for how he was treating her. Moncharmin just smirked at his back.
"He does have an estate here, but I'm afraid he's fallen ill and moved towards the countryside for the time being," he told her, feeling his stomach twist in a knot as he saw her eyes dim. "But I know I have his address – I could write to him and let him know of your presence here in the Opera."
"I couldn't let you do that-" she protested, not wanting to be in debt in anyone.
He held up his hand in a sign for her that he would not stop in his chivalry. "Consider it done. I'll send that letter out before the day is over. You have my word, mademoiselle." He kissed her hand again, making her turn rose pink.
Richard tugged on Moncharmin's coat, hissing suspiciously, "What if she's just making up this whole story?"
"I highly doubt this young lady would ever dare to-"
"Well I think she could be," he snapped. "E-hem! I hate to break this up, but so long as you are in this opera house, you shall work here. Right now, we need someone to take towels to La Carlotta and Mademoiselle Daae."
"Of course," Angelique nodded, eager to get away from the count, no matter how much of a gentleman he was to her. "Please excuse me," she said, taking the catalog from Mocharmin and curtsying to them men. "Merci, Monsieur, for your help," she added before scurrying out the door.
Philippe watched her leave, fascinated by her humbleness. May women he had met were either very submissive to a point it was sickening, or they were so haughty that he couldn't stand to be in the same room as them. When he had met the spunky yet classy La Sorelli, he was intrigued by her and came to visit often. But now with Angelique…he began to wonder if she might be the one that was meant for him.