And so a long process began of the young dancer sneaking down to the bottom level of the Phantom's lair, helping him clean the place and arrange a roughshod sort of living quarters for the reluctant man. She also supplied him with food and, eventually, conversation.
Both parties were tentative at first, of course. On Erik's side, there was little to interest him in the girl, little to interest him in anything outside the fog of his heartbroken memories of Christine. Thus the very idea of conversation appeared the most irrelevant of pastimes to him, as he considered his outward mortal shell – which he kept alive only for Christine's sake – essentially null and void.
On Meg's side, there were fear and distrust holding her back. In fact, their relationship might never have advanced outside perfunctory announcements of "here is your food, monsieur," and "I've recovered this lamp that wasn't too damaged by the mob, monsieur," were it not for the undeniable fact that underneath her fear and distrust, there still lived her strong fascination with Monsieur Erik, the opera ghost.
Although he had sworn to himself after Christine's kiss that he would never wear his mask again, he felt himself almost panicking without it. He'd come to rely on it too much. He resumed wearing it at odd times, particularly when he knew Meg was coming. She'd never shown any fear of his face, but too many memories of frightened wenches haunted him.
Meg would watch each day as Erik, almost like a somnambulist, would numbly go through the motions of a living being. So she did not have to bring him a new meal each day, he quietly directed her to his pantry above the lower level. Eventually she convinced him to explore the upper level of his lair with her, to help her recover what he wanted down below. He only swept an indifferent gaze over the broken furniture and destroyed artifacts, reminders of the mob. The police had given up hope of finding anything useful there, and left it abandoned once more. Erik only made the occasional assenting noise now and again in reply to her question about this piece and that piece.
He would gaze ahead expressionless, as though he were deaf and blind, when she explained what happened in the aftermath. How the opera was still shut down. How no one had traced him yet.
How the Girys were under suspicion.
"Nothing official has happened yet, of course," she said one day as she dusted off some of the furniture taken out of storage. "The police are still investigating. Mother seems to think we should be served any day now. I've already been questioned about my statement that I saw you sneak out through the Rue Scribe gate."
Erik saw her blush as she said this, and dimly realized that if the police had any wits about them, they would have noticed it too if she blushed when questioned. All he thought was that no wonder the Girys were being questioned so thoroughly, why Madame Giry felt sure they would be called to testify. Little Meg might be an adept actress on the stage, but outright lies in real life were still obviously a novelty to her.
He sat himself in front of his pipe organ. All the keys had been smashed, but the frame itself was more or less salvageable. All he'd really need do was replace the keys.
Yet what is the point? You can barely live and face the day down here without Christine, much less write anything. Ah, he answered himself, I can play what I've already written, what she's already sung. I'll play those songs until my fingers bleed if need be. Imagining her voice accompanying me will be how I live the rest of my sorry life….
As he ran one finger lightly down the broken keys, he heard the little Giry girl hum "Think of Me" thoughtlessly to herself as she dusted.
That familiar tune coming from anyone but Christine was too much. He cleared his throat. "No date for the inquest yet?" He'd say anything, anything to stop that humming.
His ploy worked. She stopped and thought for a moment. "No, and now that I think about it, that's almost certainly why Mother thinks they haven't called on us yet. The police probably want a more official surrounding before questioning us too much further. Besides, they have to wait until they can get a summons for Raoul and Christine to provide evidence."
She jumped as Erik brought his fist down with a crash upon the broken keys, the resulting sound like a cat stabbed to death. "Why can't those wretched fools leave them – leave her – alone? She is not responsible for me." The uncovered part of his face was contorted, his eyes sorrowing. "Why, why can't they let the angel be?"
Meg was very grave. "I agree, Monsieur Erik. Christine deserves far better."
Erik shot her a venomous glare. "We must reach an agreement, Mademoiselle Giry: in my presence, limit your mention of her name unless it is absolutely necessary."
She merely raised her chin and wrinkled her nose, looking for all the world like a stubborn child. "Hm. I seem to recall, Monsieur, that you are the one who brought her up this time."
She couldn't help but squeak and jump when he was suddenly towering over her. "Nonetheless," he said slowly, enunciating each syllable, "I expect you to comply."
His look and manner so perfectly captured the terrifying essence of the Phantom of old that Meg did quail at the sight of him.
Yet Erik couldn't help admiring her a little for the fact that though she trembled, she still stuck out her chin and affected defiant indifference. "Hm," was all she replied with again. Then she returned to her dusting.
As quick as his anger had flared, it receded. He heard the sweet syllables from his darling running through his mind: "You are not alone."
He looked at the red-faced young girl avoiding his gaze as she dusted his furniture.
Christine gave you a precious gift, monster, he chided himself. If you must live, try not to abuse it. Try, try showing some of the compassion that She would.
Yet trying thus was difficult for him. He couldn't face Meg, so he merely sat at his organ again. "Mam'selle, you see before you a creature so long in the darkness he can hardly recognize light when he sees it. I will not lie to you. Christine was my light. Without her, I see nothing, I hear nothing, I feel nothing. You understand? I sense you are a well-meaning thing, and I owe your mother – and now you – a great deal. But do not expect me to ever show you much gratitude. It's not because I do not wish to, but I am simply too empty, too void of any sort of life to even know how. But…."
His voice trailed off as he steeled himself. He took a breath and continued.
"But let me express what I can now. Thank you, little Giry. Not for taking care of me, as I am not worth the effort. But thank you for honoring…her wishes."
Meg was so stunned by his words that she again missed the opportunity to press him about his alliance with her mother.
She was very quiet. He did not turn back to her. He stared at the broken keys.
At last she spoke. "I do not do this for thanks, Monsieur Erik. Like you, I am thinking only of Christine right now. Well," she said, recanting. "That is not strictly true."
He cast his eyes to the corner, just able to see her gracefully approach him. "I do feel for your sorry lot, monsieur," she confessed. "I…I don't know at all what you've been through, but it must have been horrible." She sighed. "So if I in any small way can make your lot a little better, where's the harm?"
Erik looked up at her now. Her smile was warm.
Yet soon something happened that disrupted their newfound truce profoundly.
Not even below in the cellars was Meg ever so spooked as by the hauntingly empty opera house. There was something more serious and funereal to the closed opera now than after the chandelier's fall. Meg would walk quietly down abandoned halls, across the quiet stage. She'd stare at the empty seats. She noticed the mark of gunpowder on the curtain from where the fire marshal shot at Erik disappearing with Christine down the trapdoor.
Meg might have been crushed with wistful memories were it not for the fact she kept herself so busy.
First there was looking after Erik, and doing so in such a way as not to rouse her mother's suspicions. For she knew her mother was suspicious of her now, and Meg couldn't really blame her. Meg sheepishly looked away each time Madame Giry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her daughter.
Luckily, each time she came close to confronting Meg, inevitably the ballet mistress was called away to see to some matter that the managers were too preoccupied to attend to.
And there was the second way in which Meg kept herself busy: the managers were embroiled in legal matters, Madame Giry was therefore preoccupied with taking care of their usual duties, and so Meg saw to the other dancers as her mother usually did.
In this time of indefinite closure, Madame Giry insisted the dormitories stay open. Mother and daughter both knew that for many of the girls, this was their only home. The Giry women would not abandon them to the outside world, which often had very few avenues open to young women trained only in the arts.
Yet there remained the matter of money. Not only was the opera house closed, but many of the patrons had withdrawn their support in the aftermath of Don Juan Triumphant (which sadly included the absentee Raoul).
So in between rehearsals, Meg came up with a plan. Taking Cecile Jammes and the dismissed Elodie Moncharmin on as her chief lieutenants (they were the best seamstresses outside the costume department Meg knew), Meg encouraged the dancers to take some of the old, obsolete costumes that had been abandoned because of large tears or changing fashion, and repairing them.
Meg knew from experience how thrilling artifacts from a crime scene could be. She remembered a few years ago when a stagehand had bragged that the pipe he smoked was stolen from a dead duke's household and sold to the man for half price. Although Meg had intellectually agreed with Christine's scandalized assessment that such a relic was shockingly ghoulish – well, Meg couldn't help but feel a slight tingle and almost asked if she could hold it.
Thinking of this, Meg spoke with Pauline and came up with an arrangement: any of the old costumes the girls could salvage, they could advertise as "Outfits worn by members of the Phantom's Opera" – even if these pieces were from productions far older than Don Juan - and sell them.
As Meg predicted, this proved rather lucrative.
Meg instinctively had a good head for business, but she was wholly uneducated about the legality of her operation. It did not even occur to the naïve girl that the managers might need to be consulted first, a retailer other than Pauline's connections involved. Meg simply saw an opportunity to keep her and the girls working, and since the managers, her mother, and the police were far too busy with other matters around the Opera Populaire to take notice, they were able to carry on with their enterprise.
One day Cecile was hemming a silk scarf used in an old production of Scheherazade when she noticed Meg look very pensive and quiet over a voluminous skirt she was working on.
"What is it, Meg?"
"I recognize this dress. Carlotta wore it as Rosina in Barber of Seville." In a more wistful voice she said, "That was her very first performance here." She ran a hand somberly over the rose-colored material, the flowers embroidered at the bottom. Meg remembered how startlingly vivid Carlotta was in her debut, how no one in the opera house ever saw someone command the stage so effortlessly. Her voice was powerful – too powerful, true – and she did not act so much as strut.
But how charmingly coquettish that strut was, how vibrantly assured and – yes – likable she was as she beamed at the audience, trilled into Piangi's infatuated face.
Cecile recognized the look that then came into the dancer's face as Meg studied the singer's old dress.
Resolve.
Meg stood outside the large mansion, mouth slightly agape.
She was not used to taking expeditions to the wealthier suburbs of Paris. She barely ventured outside the opera house except for walks with the girls, occasional shopping trips with her mother, or when she used to visit Christine at Mamma Valerius's. Even so, she could tell this house was conspicuous amongst even the rich and tasteless.
The paint was a pale but decided pink. Tall Greek columns supported the archway, giving it a vaguely tropical air. In the middle of the courtyard was a gigantic sculpture of a naked man and woman locked in a passionate embrace. Nude art wasn't unheard of in the lawns of Paris's elite, but in such an ostentatious display….
Yes, Meg thought. This is certainly the home of Carlotta Giudicelli and formerly of Ubaldo Piangi.
She was let into the expansive front entrance and taken up the spiraling staircase by the maid but let in to see Carlotta by the recently instated nurse. Meg stepped into the large bedroom, which was as pink as the rest of the house, full of paintings and photographs of the Italian singers. The vanity and chairs had gilded edges, and the pillows were all delicately embroidered in silk.
Yet an eerie lifelessness hovered over the room now. Similarly to what Meg observed in her few seconds downstairs, the pink lampshades and curtains were all shroud in black: in mourning.
For all that she had genuine sympathy for the diva, Meg still expected to see La Carlotta beautifully made up in a satin dressing gown with curled hair, sitting propped up and proud in bed.
So she sucked in a breath when she saw instead a huddled figure curled in on itself, clutching blankets over her head. The only sound that greeted Meg was quiet sobbing.
It took a moment for Meg to find her voice. "La Carlotta?"
"Leave me alone, nurse, just leave me alone." There was none of her usual impertinence in her reply. Only the resignation of a heartbroken child.
"It's not the nurse, Signora," Meg said, tentatively approaching the bed. "It's Meg Giry."
At that Carlotta shot her head out from under the blankets. Meg just kept back her gasp of shock. Carlotta was wearing no makeup, and without it she lost her artificial glamour and gained instead a look of raw honesty: lines, circles, and true rage and love transformed into a face of intense grief.
But what took Meg's attention the most were her eyes. They were red and angry, but not angry with the vain contempt she'd shown to Christine, nor the impatience with a tardy maid or clumsy wardrobe assistant. Instead this was an anger borne out of losing the one thing that kept her going.
"Ha!" Her hands trembled from where she clutched the coverlet. "At last, one of you dares to face me! And you, her friend! Not even the managers have come by. Oh, they hovered at the door downstairs a few days after it happened, I heard them. But they did not even try to come up and see me. 'We do not want to disturb Signora,' that Andre sniveled. 'Just give her this bouquet, please.' They don't care. They just want to butter me up so I don't file a lawsuit! Well, damn them all to hell! No one cares! No one ever really cared about me except for" – here her trembling increased and she at last broke down, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, God! Ubaldo!"
Meg had a little difficulty following along; Carlotta's accent was particularly thick now and sometimes she'd mix up her French and speak in Italian instead. But Meg understood two key points well enough: Carlotta's heart was broken and the opera had abandoned her.
They had all abandoned Carlotta, she who had devoted six years of her life to the Paris stage, bringing in more crowds than ever before. And now they did nothing for her. Carlotta was temperamental and difficult, there was no doubt, but that no one came to visit her….
Underneath her sympathy, Meg felt fury and shame on behalf of the Opera Populaire.
"I'm so sorry," she said at last. "Not just for…what happened, but that no one's come to see you."
"Don't pity me, you brat," Carlotta spat out from behind her fingers.
Meg took no offense, simply lowered herself into a chair nearby. She folded her hands neatly on her lap. "It's just not right, is it?" Meg mused aloud. "So much has taken place, yet the world goes on as it always has. Things are different, of course, but people recover so quickly, too quickly. Strikes you as strange, doesn't it?"
Carlotta was lying back on her pillows now, staring in front of her with a dead expression. "I wouldn't know, little Giry," she intoned in a dull voice. "I've not left my bed since, so I have no idea how the world is taking anything."
Again shame burned Meg's cheeks as she recalled how she stood by and listened to the gossip about Carlotta after the catastrophe, how the diva had broken down completely and spent a week in the hospital afterward. Meg swallowed guiltily as she recalled she'd been as wide-eyed and eager to hear the news as anyone else listening.
"How are you feeling?"
Another sarcastic and bitter laugh. "How do you think?"
Yet another quiet moment. Then Meg's little voice: "What can I do for you, La Carlotta?"
The plain sincerity of the statement caught the miserable singer's attention. She cast a look at the girl. Meg's pretty face was grave, respectful. There was kindness in her eyes.
And something in her own face softened.
"You're…you're not a bad sort, Miss Giry. Of all the cruel idiots at that establishment, I've never had any real objection to you outside your close friendship with that little tart. You caused some mischief here and there, but c'est la vie, as you French say."
Meg never heard such a gentle tone in her voice before.
Carlotta continued. "I appreciate your coming to see me. But there's nothing you can do." She turned desperate, frightened eyes to her. "Don't you see? I once felt such hatred for Christine, for…that man. And I do still feel hatred, I do! I hate them both so, so much. But," she was shaking so violently it looked like she was having a seizure. Tears clouded her eyes. "But…I feel so helpless! Useless! Without my love, I…I…."
She grasped Meg's hand, pulling at it, somehow trying to plead with Meg to understand. "Oh God, I just want to disappear! Die!"
She cried out then, bringing a stunned Meg to her feet.
At that moment the nurse came in. She was a refreshingly practical and efficient person, the perfect choice to minister to La Carlotta. "There, there, dear," she said matter-of-factly as she administered a sedative to the singer, removed her tight grip on Meg and settled her back down on the pillows.
The nurse turned to Meg and said, "That's all for now. She's too excited."
Meg stood staring at the fading singer as she lost consciousness. The dancer's little fists were clenched at her side.
Erik stood in his halfway newly furnished lair. A dim lantern hanging on the wall shone down on the sketch he held up in his portfolio that he'd just finished. He was studying it in the light.
He lightly touched the curve of her charcoal cheekbone. He was especially proud of the eyes. He'd captured if not the true haunting, soulful spark in the dark irises, at least the closest a mortal man could.
He'd done well shading the details of her hair, too. How he'd worshiped those brown locks, the intricate natural curls flowing endlessly down her back.
He could almost believe it was truly Christine's face he gazed at. He could almost feel her skin beneath his fingertips….
Erik gave no notice of Meg's arrival. It wasn't until he heard her slam down the bag full of his repolished silverware that he raised his eyebrow and turned around.
His breath caught in his throat. He'd been staring at the black and white portrait for so long that seeing something so vital, so alive, so bright with color as Meg Giry today as she moved about in obvious fury, was jarring to him.
Her soft cheeks were crimson, her narrowed eyes angry emeralds. Her thick strawberry blonde curls bounced violently as Meg dumped the silverware unceremoniously on the table. So far she had as yet to meet his gaze, to speak to him.
He'd never seen the little dancer so angry before. "Upset are we, Miss Giry? Someone criticize your plie?"
The glare she shot him sent a shock straight to his chest. He…he'd never known the little Giry girl could hold such fire in her eyes and expression.
"Of course not. As I've told you before, because of a certain someone, the opera house is closed. So no one's around to criticize my plie one way or another. Nothing's been done to me, monsieur," she replied haughtily.
"Ah," he affected carelessness as he turned back to study Christine's portrait again, denying his curiosity. "Never mind, then."
His own fury awoke when Meg suddenly slapped his portfolio out of his hands, sending it flying across the room. "You don't care at all, do you?" She yelled at him. "You don't care about anything at all!"
He felt the tell-tale hot wave of deep, searing anger return as he stared at the bright red face of the girl with her shaking fists balled at her side. Without knowing the context of her words, Erik shot back, "Why should I care about anything? Seldom has anyone cared for me in return! Outside of mockery and abuse, that is!"
"Ubaldo Piangi didn't abuse you!" There were tears in her eyes now. "No, nor La Carlotta! I know you hated her, and I know she was mean to Chris" –
"Don't say her name!"
"– to Christine, but what did she ever do to you that you should destroy her life? My god, monsieur! I've seen her! That proud woman! She's devastated to the point where she can't even leave her bed! And Signor Piangi," A tear rolled down her cheek. "He…he was a good man. He…he didn't deserve…." She remembered the sight of his purple face and prone dead body. The lasso around his neck. Good god, I am looking after the man that did that to him!
Her lips were quivering uncontrollably, but she squared her shoulders and calmed herself. She continued. "Buquet, too. I never liked him, he scared me, but who knows, someone out there might have loved him. That old woman you dropped the chandelier on, too. How can you claim to love someone to distraction yet then as if it were nothing destroy the lives of people who also might love or be loved?"
Along with fury, there was now an honest appeal in her eyes as she looked to him for an answer.
She'd expected another dark snicker, a flippant reply steeped in sarcasm.
Instead she saw the Phantom lower his head and close his eyes. When he opened them again they were bitter and heavy with self-loathing.
"Of course you're right. I am an evil, twisted soul, mademoiselle. Have I ever led you to believe otherwise? I did not deserve Ch – her kiss, her compassion. If I could take back anything I've done in my life, it would not be the murders, the scheming. No, I would have refused that kiss. That was my true crime. It is against nature for a goddess of light and kindness to kiss a corrupted satyr – half demon, half beast."
He collapsed tiredly into his antique armchair, which took the place of his throne in this new bottom lair. "Yet here I've been exalting in that memory. I should have turned away before she could touch me. I should have never touched her. Should have never spoken to her. Should" –
"'Should, should, should!'" Meg interrupted impatiently. "Forget your stupid shoulds! What good do they do anyone now? Forget what you should have done then, and focus on what you can do now!"
The corner of Erik's mouth curled up at the sight of her acting the pedantic little girl again, hands on hips.
"What I can do, girl? Tell me what exactly I can do. What can I do for La Carlotta, eh? Bring back Piangi? I may be brilliant and innovative, but I am no Frankenstein." He shook his head, resigned. "There is no redeeming me, mademoiselle. The most that can be done for me Chris – yes, Christine already has done. She's awakened this dead, putrid thing called my soul, just enough to stir my conscience so that I can truly take in my crimes. Is not this punishment enough, little Meg?"
She stared at him for a moment.
Then, "No."
He did laugh now, harsh and sudden. "You are a stubborn little goat, aren't you? Fool."
"Call me what you like." She stood in front of him. "But listen here: I will find a way to make you redeem yourself, to do something to help Carlotta. I refuse to hold your hand and redeem yourself for you, monsieur, but I also will no longer aid a murderer who does nothing to improve himself."
"Then leave."
"No. I promised Christine. So I'm stuck. I won't aid an unrepentant murderer, but I won't break my promise to Christine. Therefore, it's up to you to get me out of this mess and pick up the pieces of your sad life and do something worthy." Her posture was ramrod straight as always, her hands folded quietly in front of her. Her eyes, however, still held that fire.
And that fire…stirred something within Erik he couldn't define.
For the first time since Christine left him, he felt true life surge through his veins again.
Yet he tried to stamp it down. "All right, so you won't hold my hand." His small smile was wry. "But I am open to any suggestions."
Her nostrils flared as she considered. "I'll think of something," she said decisively, then turned around and ascended to the upper lair again, leaving him musing and pensive.
As she left, Meg repeated like a mantra through her head Christine's words to her: "If you can, show him mercy, and he'll be as gentle a soul as you've ever met!"
This was proving far easier said than done.
Yet he hadn't hurt her so far, had he? He'd scared her, of course, but was otherwise perfectly benign in his behavior.
And he had suffered. Suffered terribly. He'd mentioned sideshows in bitter ramblings earlier, and he'd just brought up abuse and mockery. Who could go through that their whole lives and remain unscathed?
Perhaps underneath all that there was still someone with a grain of morality.
Still, she wasn't entirely convinced….
But something suddenly occurred to her as she hurried back to her flat before her mother arrived.
If deep down I'm really so distrustful of him….
How come I've never once raised my hand to the level of my eyes in his presence?