Rehearsals and further educating herself in the art of spying made time fly by at a dazzling speed. Before Meg could catch her breath came the debut performance of Beauty and the Beast.
After multiple times asking her fellow spies on the force when she would finally meet the Count, Darius at last took her aside and told her. "Look for him in the audience opening night. It won't be long after that."
She gazed out across the audience from the small hole in the curtain now.
She saw his gleaming blue glass eye flash in Box Five.
Her heart thudded dully.
Then she felt a warm hand on her arm.
She turned to her mother.
Although the ballet mistress's expression was as impermeable as always, Meg recognized the deep tenderness and pride sparkling in Madame Giry's eyes and the very beginning of a smile at the corner of her lips.
Meg returned the smile unreservedly.
Madame Giry didn't need to say a word. Meg knew that this was her own night, and no one was going to take it away from her.
She touched her mother's hand. "I'm ready now."
Of the many reasons Erik had nothing but vicious disdain for the Count, perhaps the shallowest was that Erik could not watch tonight's performance from his usual seat in Box Five. The lecherous criminal liked sitting in his place, apparently.
Erik still adhered to the promise he made to himself after Christine left. He considered himself reformed enough not to continue menacing under the guise of the Phantom.
However, that didn't mean he couldn't still employ a few of the Phantom's old tricks just for himself, such as situating himself in the rafters around the new chandelier now.
The orchestra started. So far he'd only heard the music for Belle's character, since that's what Meg fret over and rehearsed with him. What he heard now pleased him immensely. The music was gloomy yet laced with romanticism; otherworldly.
Magnificently Robard.
Erik justified his own presence tonight as merely satisfying curiosity. Meg – the Giry chit, he corrected himself – had taken up so much of his time fussing about the piece and practicing that he saw no reason to miss out on how her performance turned out.
The curtain rose.
The set was a quaint cottage, surrounded by beautifully painted cut-out trees, full of paper cherry blossoms. Belle's brother and the suitor japed around a bit with their bows and arrows, then the vain sisters emerged, scolding them. The suitor danced around them, trying to look into the cottage. For Belle.
The platform whirled around, revealing Belle scrubbing the floor inside the cottage.
On page, she would have looked pitiful: a lonely girl scrubbing away as the day dawned bright outside.
But Meg Giry, brightly radiant in her plain maid clothes, vibrated with brisk energy.
She was beautiful, but more importantly, she was alive.
Neither Erik nor the audience could take their eyes away from her.
The mournful, longing pas de deux with the mop was even more vivaciously touching than in their private rehearsals together. Erik was surprised by his discomfort when the young roguish suitor entered and attempted to join her in the dance.
Instead of paling delicately, a flash of fire turned her eyes to emeralds. It was clear that she might be attracted to the suitor, but that deep in her heart she was repulsed by his piggish manners.
The set and music changed tone drastically once her father became lost in the woods. The trees were painted a darker shade and the music crescendoed like a wind storm. The beast's castle was a stylistic masterpiece; all that was visible were black walls and the occasional macabre gargoyle. The dance chorus transformed into enchanted candle holders and statues.
Fonta was at the top of his form as the Beast, and Erik's eyebrow flew to his forehead at the sight of his costume and makeup.
He had the face of an animal. Matte hair covered his face like fur. Fangs and whiskers combined to make him look something half lion and half bull. Pointed ears and fangs completed the ferocious look, but Fonta's great black eyes lent the Beast a gentle sort of pathos even as he terrorized Belle's father.
What took Erik's attention the most was the Beast's outfit.
His wide ornate collar was definitely influenced by the 18th century setting, but something about his long black cloak and his serpentine moments reminded Erik oddly of…himself.
He wondered how much Robard had been inspired and influenced by the gossip from the theater for his ballet.
Erik felt more closely tied to this strange tortured beast than ever before.
When Meg first entered and encountered the Beast, she fainted. Erik shuddered a bit – he was reminded of Christine's own fainting spell that first night in his lair, upon seeing her dummy dressed as his bride.
Yes, Erik felt a kinship with the cursed prince.
Meg recovered very quickly, however, and proved her mettle by dancing right up to the Beast, her eyes fiery emeralds again.
A strange compassion soon imbued her soft movements…she tilted her head in that characteristic way of hers as the Beast physically expressed woe at his sorry state.
Belle and the Beast grew close, establishing a rapport through dance. This fascinated Erik. Something about the precise, matter-of-fact way Meg moved and reacted reminded him of…her own interactions with him. This Belle was obviously awed by the enchanted surroundings she found herself in, and more than a little wary of her strange companion. Yet Belle's curiosity and compassion took over, until she treated Beast more as an erring child who must be put to right by her example rather than a true threat. Before long, they both treated each other as equals instead of prisoner and warden.
Yes, that reminded Erik of the two of them.
That and the similarity to Beast's costume and his own made Erik…deeply uncomfortable.
Above and beyond everything was Meg's astounding charisma onstage. The music seemed written for her. The contrast between the classical, almost baroque scales and the contemporary, eerie pulses beneath matched her lively dancing, her animated expressions.
From what little Erik could see of the audience below, they were both spellbound and charmed by the ballet and most in particular with the unconventional sprite at its center.
Meg was unquestionably a Star.
In between acts, Meg was as busy as ever, not resting as most performers would in their starring debut. She rushed to and fro, peeking out the curtain, jumping up and down excited with Cecile and Adele, helping Pauline with last minute adjustments for the dancers in the next act.
All this Erik spied from the rafters. He eventually crept closer to the backstage area, lingering near the curtain.
He heard her whisper to her mother, "Do you think he likes it? Do you?"
For a brief, horrifyingly bright moment, Erik thought she might mean him.
But no.
Erik unconsciously deflated when he realized she only meant Robard.
Erik felt cold and clammy as the last scene began. The Beast lay dying in the rose garden. Belle came upon him looking like a flustered child. She was adamant he should live and pulled at him, tears in her green-gray eyes.
Erik struggled with his own tears behind his mask.
He shivered as the child disappeared and for the first time Meg's face took on a look of mature womanhood. She kissed the Beast.
Erik closed his eyes, memories beating against him mercilessly.
Throughout the scene Beast's face was hidden by his cloaked arm. As he stood now, it was plain this was due to Fonta no longer wearing makeup. He revealed himself lifted of his curse by Meg's kiss. He was again a handsome prince.
What happened next was Meg's own invention. Erik could tell because he read her parts of the manuscript.
She looked warily disappointed by the change.
In a somewhat coquettish manner, she at last acquiesced to the handsome man's charms, but the curtain fell on one final impression: Belle would always miss her Beast.
The audience roared in approbation.
Meg was called out several times for encore. She made a delightfully comical sight trying to juggle the large bouquet of pink roses handed to her that was almost her height.
Erik noticed that as she curtseyed, she kept her eyes on one figure only:
Her conductor, Monsieur Pierre Robard.
The look in his eyes made Meg happier than all the applause in the world.
Gratitude.
Erik took a long walk in the dark streets of Paris afterward. He knew he was missing observing the after party, but he shuddered when he thought of it: he knew, he knew that there she would finally meet the Count.
He couldn't bear that right now.
His cloak's collar hid the bottom half of his face. He looked merely like a man shielding himself from the night's chill.
He passed absently by a slightly more populated neighborhood.
"Flower for your special lady, monsieur?"
Erik turned to the squat old lady who sat in her shawl by her boxes of flowers.
She held up to him a single yellow rose.
All at once Erik thought of Persia. He remembered one blissful day when he escaped from the guards' watchful eyes, probably thanks to some distraction or another Anahid provided. He found an empty orchard of yellow roses and lied on his back there, staring into the brilliant azure sky. He could still remember the sweet smell of the roses all around him. He was all of fourteen years old.
Tied up in this memory was Meg, Meg. There had been such a profound feeling of simple happiness in that orchard. No insanity, no bitterness, just a lively appreciation for this unquestioning, undemanding beauty all around him.
Meg.
Erik bought the rose.