Erik's efforts to convince himself that he cared not what occurred in the secret police headquarters, or anywhere at all, or what happened to anyone who was not Christine, were constantly interrupted now by the flurrying white figure of Meg Giry pacing back and forth in his lair like a chicken with her head cut off.
He tried to block out her breathy little voice prattling on incessantly, her small hands twisting this way and that as she spoke aloud her fears from yesterday's encounter with the police.
As Erik stared steadfastly at the keys on his organ from where he sat, Meg poured forth her insecurities, dropping them onto his lap.
"I spoke too soon, don't you think? Far too soon. I shouldn't have just let them assume I would get the part. How do I know for a fact that I will get the part? Oh, and I'd hate to get it on any other merits than my own! I am like Mother in that regard." She slapped her hand to her forehead. "What a mess!"
Erik snorted then, in agreement with the girl. Yes, what a mess the thoughtless dancer had landed them all in. His memory was clouded by the jarring sensations of going so openly into Paris for the first time in…ever, and with the vitalizing and obnoxious air of the police offices. A dark shadow hovered by these images: the figure of Stephen Marcus. He didn't know why; of all the officers, Erik recognized in Marcus the closest thing to a fellow comrade in cynicism and realism. Yet the hungry gleam that had appeared in the ruffian's eyes as he'd looked at Meg tugged at a small corner of Erik's mind like a sharp pain, and the very fact he didn't know why he should be so affected contributed to his sour mood.
Yet the girl did not once mention the officer. Erik's lair was still heavily guarded, but Meg (the determined, nosy thing!) still held onto the map he'd drawn for her mother. Therefore, she was able to find one more tunnel circling the left wing of the opera house that led to his establishment through a series of trapdoors. So far, Darius even in his thoroughness had missed this outlet.
Thus, the girl was able to renew her visits to his abode undetected.
There were many thoughts and feelings Erik was unconsciously keeping at bay. And one of the peskier was the feeling of…contentment and home that came upon seeing Meg enter tentatively through the trapdoor this morning, quietly inquiring if she could be of any service.
However, the moment he'd given his outwardly reluctant assent, she'd quickly hopped up and let the trapdoor fall with a bang, and from then on she'd unleashed her running monologue of anxiety.
Erik only plucked the new set of keys he'd installed on his repaired organ, providing a somber sort of background music for her musings.
"…And Monsieur Robard! The first time I meet him I have to dance for him! For his own ballet! Oh, God. How…how do I know I'm ready for this?"
At last Erik replied to her, though his half-face was bland in expression. "I've never known you to suffer from stage fright, little Giry. Weren't you practically born with toe shoes on?"
"Yes, but this is different! So much is riding on this! How can I be a good spy if I fail my first assignment by not even getting the part? Oh, I've never been this nervous…."
She took to pacing again, which was the last straw for Erik.
"Look, child, why not put your nervous energy to good use by practicing? You tell me auditions aren't for another week. You've always struck me as a fast learner. So practice."
Meg's cheeks burned at his compliment, but a sudden idea came to her that made her forget it. "Monsieur Erik!" She sped over to him, clutching his arm. "Even better! Why don't I rehearse down here, with you?"
Erik must give the little girl credit where credit was due. He could not recall anyone befuddling him, Erik, as much as this girl.
"…What?"
She acted as if she had proposed the most sensible thing in the world. She gestured to the new keys. "Your organ is repaired. I've always heard from – well – never mind" – Her attempt not to mention Christine was clumsy and she knew it, so she quickly pressed on: " – I've always heard you were such a magnificent musician! So why not let me dance down here? This way I can have a lot of space to dance and you – you could give me pointers?" This in a shy voice, head tilted inquiringly, hands behind her back.
Erik shivered, memory churning in his chest. "I don't think that is wise, mademoiselle." His voice was so quiet.
She was suddenly kneeling in front of his bench, little hand clutching his wrist. He stiffened at the contact.
"Please, monsieur! What harm could it do?"
He wrenched away his wrist, his cold eyes avoiding the dove-like gleam in hers. "What harm, you ask? Can't you see, girl, that all my inspiration is gone? I am like a moth who glimpsed the moonlight and flew toward it, but then the night swallowed that light whole. Now I've nothing to fly toward. You would be dancing for something dead, my dear."
There was such a funereal passion to his magnetic voice that Meg did feel momentarily humbled. But the itch of ambition within her – they were all counting on her, she couldn't fail, and this was a chance to dance the starring role in a Robard ballet! – conquered her reticence.
"I'm not asking you to…well, bewitch me or anything like that. But you can't tell me that all your knowledge of music and theater has left you! You still know enough to differentiate between good and mediocre. Really, Monsieur Erik, that's all I need! Please!"
He merely closed his eyes and shook his head grimly.
The anxiety and frustration turned into temper within her, and Erik could almost feel her vibrate with anger as she spat out, "You have to! We're a team! If I fail, we all fail! All you have to do is play your stupid organ, monsieur, forget the pointers."
He stared at her narrowed eyes, those plump lips squeezed downward into a frown.
Fire dances within her.
"I don't even know the score," he drawled carelessly, looking away.
Swiftly now her fingers scrambled inside the little pink knit reticule she'd brought with her. From this she took out a neatly folded bundle of papers.
"Here," she said. She indicated he open it.
Tiredly he did.
"'Belle Dreaming at Her Mop,'" He read aloud. He quirked a wearied inquiring eyebrow at her.
"Yes, it's her first big dance! Her sisters make her clean and be a servant to them, you see, and so she's daydreaming that her mop is a prince and she dances with it before her arrogant suitor comes in and finds her."
Erik scanned the musical notes. They were…charming, he must admit. Of course, he'd always admired Robard so far as he admired any contemporary ballet composer. Erik tended to look down his nose at the standard ballet score composed these days.
But this…this certainly had potential.
"Did you sneak this away from your mother, little Giry?"
"I don't sneak everything away," Meg's cheeks went pink at the insinuation. "No, this is available to anyone wishing to practice before the audition."
"Ah."
She was on her knees again, eyes so appealing and hands tight on the bench. "What do you say, monsieur? I'll bet you can play this just fine. Why don't you, and I'll just dance along to it? If you happen to see anything remiss in my dancing feel free to comment, but otherwise, you can just enjoy playing a new piece of music. It's been a while, I'm sure," She cast a glance at the yellowed, dusty sheets on the organ's music rack.
Erik shifted, discomfited. He liked the old, the reliable. He was determined to sit down here with only the memories and artifacts from before…from before Christine left him. He'd rather act as though time stopped here in his lair, his abode isolated in time and space, hovering suspended from the moment she kissed him.
Now this little chit was here, and everything was new, new, new. Aggravatingly, nauseatingly…revitalizingly new.
He did not want to be revived. He did not.
Her little hand touched the third line on the sheet. She was very close to him, her tutu brushing his leg. "I think that's when the melody starts to get so very beautiful," she breathed. A few sunny, fire-tinged ringlets fell over the paper as she leaned even closer. "Don't you think?"
Erik dropped the pages unceremoniously onto his music rack. His fingers were poised at the keys. He began.
At first Erik contented himself merely playing the deceptively simple but rather enchantingly intricate melody. For a while Meg was only a darting, twirling blur at the corner of his vision, easily ignored.
At last, however, Erik happened to raise his head and caught her dance.
He was surprised to note his mouth went dry.
The girl was grace incarnate. He'd seen many dancers. Hundreds and hundreds of dancers. But none were dance. Meg was. She was more curvaceous than the average member of the corps de ballet, but when moving she seemed weightless. Her gestures matched the music so perfectly it was as if they were born from the melody.
Yet as she pantomimed the mop and tried to evoke a sense of romance, Erik's brow creased. Something was missing.
And it took him but a few moments to discover it.
"You dance with passion, Miss Giry," he said over the music.
Her eyes were closed, but the wide smile on her face revealed how much his comment meant to her.
"But you have no heart."
Her eyes flew open.
She stopped dancing at once, arms down at her sides, and feet in the first position.
"What?"
He chuckled, shuffling the papers. "You've never been in love, have you?"
She fidgeted awkwardly. "Well, no."
Of course not. Anahid and I wouldn't let her. No man can be trusted who enters the opera house and seeks out the ballet.
The barest sniff of disdain from the Phantom. "That explains it. You act very well, mademoiselle, but it's obvious you are only acting and not really feeling love here."
Although Meg grew up in the ballet and was used to some degree of criticism, she was also used to usually being exempt from it, Reyer and the managers praising her more often than not (her mother, of course, would always criticize her. She was determined Meg not have an easy escape from the rigors of the profession).
And so she was a little unnerved and a little nonplussed that anyone not her mother would deliver such a blanket condemnation of her...her…emoting. Thus she raised her head almost haughtily and said, "Monsieur, please! I'm supposed to be dancing with a mop. Do you really expect me to be in love with a mop?"
"Yes." She jumped at his sudden vehemence, the burning intensity in his eyes. He was leaning over the organ, glaring at her so fixedly she felt his gaze was searing through her soul. "You are a beautiful girl stifled by jealous, ignoramus sisters who give themselves the freedom to flaunt and flirt, while you…you, prettier, kinder, smarter than they, you are resorted to wasting your youth cleaning for them, serving them! Your father, you love him, but he is useless, weak! You'd never admit that to yourself, but that is the truth! You're flattered but disappointed by the handsome, callous youth who comes calling. He should fulfill your every desire since he outwardly worships you. Yet there is a hardness to him, a cruelty. You feel anxious and uncomfortable every time this handsome youth comes near you. You don't know what your feelings are! You know only one thing: that all you can depend on in life is your own mind. And the palace within. There you can be confident, sure. There you can fall in love without question, and be loved back. That is not a mop you are dancing with. That is passion, love. That is all you have. Give yourself to it, body and soul."
Meg was barely breathing, lost in his eyes.
Erik's outburst took him by surprise, so he did not anticipate the physical change his words would have upon Meg.
For the first time since he'd known her, there was a romantic fire in her eyes. The sort beautiful maidens in poetry and lore who survive countless adversities have in their own eyes. She trembled but did not cower. Her lips were parted just slightly, and realization dawned like sunrise in her Parisian-Persian features.
Like her, Erik was breathless.
He said but one word more: "Dance."
The arm that wrapped around the imaginary mop was slower, grander now. There was melancholy there, but a sure hard strength as well. Her body followed suit as he played again.
Her eyes closed once more, but her face held no smile now. She looked almost in pain as she moved, but it was a spiritual pain. Yet in that pain there grew ecstasy.
And as she twirled faster and faster with her imaginary mop-turned-lover, a fiery playfulness imbued her movements. She loved and was loved in return, so she grew daring, mad with teasing joy.
She was so enthralling Erik did not even feel shame or surprise at the strong stirring in his veins as he watched her. He was not conscious of anything but music and Meg Giry, dancing.
He played the final note.
Meg stopped dancing.
She panted, her breath having returned to her.
She felt mildly ashamed she'd never put so much thought and feeling into a character before. Dimly she realized there was a whole other layer to art she'd never contemplated all these years – avenues of emotional depth you could get lost in, like one drowning in a deep stream.
She looked at Erik, inscrutable as always at the keys. She looked at his slim but muscled form, the pale but strong featured face untouched by the mask. The lips that were too thick – so thick they became almost beautiful.
And his eyes. Erik's eyes. Dark, rich, sensual brown and shocking, maniacal, pleading ice blue.
It was as if someone had grabbed her insides and was running them up and down to her head to her stomach, like running clothes up and down a washing board.
He was music. But not any music: he was the music beneath the music, the wild spirit that made it come alive until he soared above it.
Angel of Music…
She started when he gave a barking laugh. "That…was more satisfactory, Mademoiselle Giry. Much more satisfactory." He inclined his head in artistic acknowledgement, and Meg was never so warmed, so humbled by a compliment.
He laughed again. "I do believe you were lying to me, however."
"What do you mean?"
"You can't have danced like that without at least knowing somewhat the pangs and longings of love."
For some reason she couldn't name his words brought a flash of panic to her chest. Still, she shrugged honestly. "But I haven't! I haven't experienced anything like that except from what I've seen in other couples and on the stage."
Erik felt a strange kinship with her. That's how he was, before Christine, at least. Unlike Meg, he did know love then.
He couldn't say why, but the sudden thought of Christine made him feel…guilty.
Because you promised never to take interest in anything other than her after she left, and here you are coaching Meg Giry.
Bitterness and disgust at all he'd lost twisted in his throat. "How about unrequited love?" He muttered darkly, glaring down unseeingly at the pages on the rack. "Never even experienced that?"
"No. I don't believe in it."
His laugh was mocking and almost hysterical now, like the hyena of old. Meg shivered. "You mad girl! Whatever do you mean by that? How can you not believe in unrequited love? When countless people across the globe suffer from it every day?"
She was mostly back to her old self again, forthright and practical. As she picked up her reticule and slung it over her shoulder, lifting her hair out from under the strap, she forgot Erik's pain and thoughtlessly said, "I suppose that's just infatuation they feel."
"Infatuation?" He spat out, incensed. How dare she presume so much when she's never experienced the despair, the heartache of it? "How do you know?"
Meg tilted her head, contemplative. "I guess I just don't see how there can be true love if both parties don't feel the same. How can there?"
At this query Erik's heart went empty and cold.
He didn't answer her, just glowered at the keys as he started playing another dirge.
His temples pounded with every note.
A/N: I know some of you might think my description of Belle's situation sounds more like Cinderella's. However, please know I'm inspired not so much by the Disney movie as I am by the 1940s French movie La Belle et La Bete, which is closer in storyline to the version of the story popularized in the 1700s. In fact, I picture the music for this ballet as similar to the soundtrack in the '40s movie (esp. the music about 2 minutes into this video here: watch?v=yhq8pTDQVXY).