"I demand you tell me where she is," Raoul says, taking Madame Giry by the shoulder, turning her around to face him.
The ballet girls stop their chatter at the sound of his voice. However refined, no one speaks to Madame in that tone, even a man appearing to be of wealth and quite handsome. Much more appealing than some of the patrons who leer at them during their afternoon rehearsals. And yet, this is Madame Giry.
Mornings generally allow them time to practice without the presence of the leering, mostly older gentlemen. The air of congeniality enhanced by the freshly baked croissants and chocolate delivered like clockwork from the patisserie across the Rue Scribe on the four days they performed is shattered. For some of them, this is their primary meal and the Vicomte's presence only reminds them of what might be necessary to enjoy a meal later in the day – after the performance.
"What are you doing in here?" the ballet mistress calmly replies. "These early rehearsals are closed to anyone other than the dancers."
"I do not care about them. Whatever business dealings you conduct and when are not my concern." His lips curling in disgust, he waves a hand at the corps and calls out, "Get on with whatever you have been doing. I am not interested in any of you."
"Pity," comments one of the younger girls, winking at him before snatching another croissant and piece of cheese from the serving table.
"Cecile, you are so fresh, that is not like you," Meg laughs, threading her arm through the dark haired girl's, guiding her behind the scrim to find a place where they will be better able to hear the rest of the conversation. "That is the Vicomte de Chagny. He came to visit Christine last night."
"And she ran away? I always thought she was rather dim," Cecile says, munching on her sandwich. "He would be quite the catch, better than the old beasts with foul breath who generally ogle us."
"If he speaks to her the way he talks to Maman, I should not blame her for running."
"There are worse men here. I only wish a man chose only to curse me – but you would not know of such things."
"I am sorry. I did not mean to be unfeeling." Meg hugs the girl close. "Maman's salary and mine…and Christine's make is possible for us to avoid the men," Meg explains. "I do know there is one patron who provides the food we have just eaten and does not ask for anything in return."
"Who? I should like to meet him. Free food," she says, rubbing her flat, almost concave stomach. "Three of us share a room, but there is still not enough money. We are looking for a boarder so none of us need to be barter for food."
"Maman will not say, but just that this is so." Pressing her hand against Cecile's mouth, she places a finger to her own lips, dragging farther into the darkness behind the scrim. "Shh. Let us listen."
"You would do well to show a modicum of courtesy if you cannot manage to be respectful, M. le Vicomte," Adele snaps. "However much money you invest, the state still provides the major financing for the opera house and my word carries much weight with them."
"The managers…"
"Are temporary – five year contracts," she scoffs. "Like Lefevre, they will leave after bleeding the patrons and the box office – or will be removed because they lack common sense…and a knowledge of theater. They will use you and your money to enhance their own lifestyles, so do not be so cocky."
"How dare you speak to me in such a tone," Raoul complains. "My brother will learn of your insolence."
"Pish. I have been with this opera house since it opened and the other for over twenty years," she continues. "Trust me, they will fill your ears with promises and empty your pocket book. You will be left with nothing to show for it…and I will still be in charge here."
"Then how does the theater survive, if I might be so rude as to ask?"
"I told you, the state keeps the opera financed with an annual allocation of funds. The managers come in as investors to produce the shows and to, hopefully, make a profit. They must produce a certain number of older works and some newer pieces...with approval, of course. Rather than use their own money they work to secure pledges from people like yourself. As I said, you are supporting their lifestyle as much as the operas and ballets."
"And you?"
"I make certain the performances go smoothly."
"What of this talk of an Opera Ghost?"
"What of it?"
"Do you control him?"
"If I believed in ghosts at all, I doubt I would be able to control one."
"So this ghost…phantom is a man."
"I really have no idea what you are talking about," she sniffs, folding her hands on her staff. "Now, I should like for you to leave."
"Not before you tell me where she is."
"Who?"
"Christine…Christine Daae. You gave her my note."
Wide-eyed, she replies, "I do not know."
"You told me last night she had another engagement…with whom?"
"As I recall I said she likely had a previous engagement."
"And I ask again – with whom?"
"M. le Vicomte – I do not know where she is or if she is with someone at all."
"You cannot fool me. I know what you are about with the girls."
"And what is that, Monsieur?
"You make arrangements – M. Firmin told me as much," he says, face flaming red. "He told me you were the person I should speak with to meet someone."
"Did he?" she smirks, raising her chin to look at him from under her hooded dark eyes. "Well, I shall have to address that with him."
"I have listened to you patiently, but now you are raising my ire."
"No, you are demanding information from me I do not have. Your ire is of your own doing," she says, turning away from him, the movement rustling her black gabardine skirt. "I am not your mother susceptible to your temper tantrums. Now, I have work to do. The dancers have completed their petit dejeuner and must now rehearse."
"Madame Giry!"
The sound of his foot stamping the stage, has her turn to face him once more. "A petulant child, as I thought. I have no more to say to you, Monsieur. Good-bye." Limping slightly as she walks away from him, she addresses the troupe, "Your break is over. Now, we dance."
"Bothersome woman, i'nt she?" Joseph Buquet slides down a rope from the catwalk where he has been lurking. Stretching to look over Raoul's shoulder to be certain Madame Giry is out of earshot.
"Who are you and how dare you eavesdrop on a private conversation."
"Not so private when yer yellin' at the Madame during a practice session," Buquet laughs revealing a gaping hole where his two front teeth used to be. "The rats all be listening to yer conversation."
"Well, what of it?" Pushing past the bulky man, Raoul looks to the auditorium for an escape.
"You wanna know where the little songbird is, right?"
Stopping short, the vicomte turns back. "You know who she went with last night?"
"I might."
"How much," Raoul sighs, digging into his waistcoat for a coin.
"Oh, I don' want money," Buquet answers. "Just a little revenge."
Raoul frowns.
"Fell down I did chasin' the bugger into the cellars. Lost me footing and knocked two front teeth out."
"I am sorry, you chased one of the opera house's patrons into the cellars?"
"No. No." The older man shakes his head, laughing. "The opera ghost…the Phantom of the Opera, if you will."
"Excuse me," Raoul says, shaking his head, "you are telling me a young woman went willingly into the bowels of this building with a ghost? Do you take me for a fool?" Laughing out loud, he catches sight of the stairway from the stage next to the pit. "I am glad you refused my money, although it would have been worth a good laugh."
"Snob," Buquet waves a fist at Raoul's back. "You will see." Soft whispering behind the scrim distracts him from his rant. "Who is back there?"
"No one, M. Buquet," Meg and Jammes laugh as they run toward the other dancers.
"He will see. All of them will see I am not a fool." Pulling a flask from his hip pocket, he takes a swig. "So called ghost has met his match," he mutters as he climbs back up the rope to the catwalk.
"Do you think Christine is really with the OG?" Cecile whispers as they join the line.
"Do you think there actually is an OG?" is Meg's retort.
"You are always the one talking about how we should beware the Phantom of the Opera."
"I just think it is funny to see everyone get all upset and excited…especially Carlotta."
"Meg Giry…Cecile Jammes, you arrive late and now you engage in gossip wasting all our time," Adele says. "I think another half hour of practice when the others are excused might serve you well."
"Maman!"
"Enough."
With everyone's attention otherwise occupied, Erik movies stealthily from behind one of the heavy curtains separating the stage from the wings. Taking one of the cloth serviettes from the table, he places three croissants, several chunks of the Gruyere cheese and a few pieces of dark chocolate in the center of the large square of linen, then ties the corners into a loose knot. The owner of the patisserie has added some fruit to his order…a sound idea, he supposes.
The owner of the carnival never starved any of the animals – that would be bad for business – although some came close. Others might have lived longer with a better diet. Still the occasional bit of fried bread or a bit of apple was always welcome. Chocolate was a particular favorite of his and he was happy the dancers did not take all of the treat. Christine might like a bit…but only after practice.
The decision to come to the theater rather than confronting the crowds on the streets in search of something for her to eat turns out to be a fortuitous one. Not only for the food but learning a bit more about the boy…her young man from the past – Vicomte de Chagny – younger brother to Phillippe, Count de Chagny – the fop courting La Sorelli. Clever as the lead ballerina is, he hopes her wiles include securing a pension for herself. Young Meg is certainly aspiring to the position of Prima Ballerina and the dear lady seems tired of late.
The manner with which Adele handled him was all he could hope for. While much of her loyalty stems from the money he gives her for running errands and the like. The funds also allow her daughter to concentrate on dancing instead of fending off men like Phillippe and Raoul for her existence.
While he is unable to help all the girls, the young one with Meg, Cecile, shall see an increase in her pay packet. Perhaps an increase for all of them. As Adele told the young vicomte, the managers are very good at feathering their own nests, they can spare a bit more for the dancers. A note is in order, he decides.
Buquet's misfortune is, however, the best part of his visit – with his own hole in the middle of his face to grieve about. To find out the results of the fall caused permanent damage is particularly pleasing to him.
Best not to linger, so after taking two of the apples, one for each pocket, and lifting up his small bundle, he slips once again behind the curtain.
The time away from the house, and the immediacy of the recent events with Christine, gives him heart and a new confidence and a sense of belonging to their world. He was, after all, the topic of the conversations he overheard, even if only as the ghost he often feels himself to be.
Time is passing, however, and Christine must eat. If he is to make up for the events of this morning, he must treat her with utmost care. How much of his face did she see he wonders. Not that bread and cheese…or even chocolate would drive the vision from her mind. A full stomach and a calm host might lessen the shock she experienced. Hate can turn to love or so he hopes.
The knock on the door is almost imperceptible.
"Angel?" Christine says, leaping from the edge of the bed.
The Ormolu clock on the bedside table advises that only an hour has passed since she returned to the bedroom after the row, if that is the correct word for what transpired between her and her Angel. She must discover his name. One does not call a man "Angel."
Uncertain of what she should do after returning to the pretty blue room, she considered reading. Nothing in the bookcase piqued her interest enough to quell the unease at the situation she found herself in. So, she sat, picking at the lace on the cuffs of her dress, wondering if she could add lacemaking to her other skills of sewing and knitting as she tried to keep her mind busy awaiting his return.
"I have something for you to eat," the voice still seductive even when obstructed by the wooden door. "I shall leave it here just outside."
"No. No," she exclaims, padding quickly to the door, swinging it open. "Please come in."
Clearly surprised at the welcome, he takes a step backwards, nearly dropping the tray he carries. The croissants, cheese and one of the apples cored and cut into sections are arranged on a plate of fine white China decorated with pink roses. A matching teapot, sugar bowl, creamer, cup and saucer complete the service. The chocolate pieces sit alone on a smaller plate. "I would not wish to intrude."
Christine laughs in spite of herself. Who is this man? Only an hour ago, she was convinced he was going to kill her…or at least do her great harm. Now he behaves like a waiter in a café and she is quite easy with inviting him in. "I should like the company."
"If you wish." Brushing past her, he carefully moves the silver brushes and combs to one side and sets the tray down on the vanity.
Looking at the meal, she sits down on the bench, taking it all in – the precise placement of the food on the plates. The dinnerware itself so unlike him. Just like this room – family heirlooms perhaps. "This is much like what we would find on the stage before our morning rehearsals – only not served with such elegance. The china is very beautiful."
"My mother's. She was fond of roses."
"I like them as well, but my true favorite are gardenias…the fragrance…the flower itself."
"Yes, well, I shall make note of that," he mumbles. "The meal did come from the rehearsal table…I did not have anything here to serve you."
"You know about the buffet?"
Allowing himself a small chuckle, he says, "I know most everything about this place. It is what you might call my vocation."
"The entire building?"
"The building is quite sound, if I do say so myself," he says, waving his arm to take in the entire space. "Built to last far beyond any of our lifetimes."
"Did you help with the design…everyone says M. Garnier was the architect."
"I did. This house was my creation among other novel ideas."
"Oh, well, yes, I did not consider that," she says, looking around with a different eye. However did he build a house within the walls of another building? "You are quite clever. This room is so beautiful."
"As with the china, the furniture choices were those of my mother."
"But the drapes and bedding are quite new, I have never seen anything quite so lovely."
"You flatter me."
Even in the dim light, Christine can see a flush on the cheek of the uncovered part of his face. "Pappa always told me to pay a compliment when one is due. The world is a harsh place and kind words are often rare."
"Your father was a wise man." After clearing his throat, he says. "In truth, my concerns lie primarily the performers. If there is a problem in one area…say a Prima Donna who sings well enough, but cannot emote, then steps must be taken."
The eyes blue as the sky widen. "Steps?" The pranks. Falling scrims and mice in her dressing room. Were those steps toward having Carlotta leave?
As if reading her mind he responds quickly. "Your training. Preparing you for the position." Moving away from the topic of Carlotta, he says, "A better example considering the situation at hand is the need for ballet dancers to have sustenance in order to perform?"
"The petite dejeuner? You?"
He offers a slight nod in affirmation.
"Well, this could not be better," she says.
"You are certain?"
"Everyone always looked forward to this meal," she says. "We were so grateful to the patron who thought to provide such a lovely meal for us – many of the girls would take the leftovers to eat later."
"I see," he says. "Well, good then, I am happy I made the choice not to shop."
"What about you?" she asks, unfolding the napkin on the tray to cover her lap.
"Mine is in the kitchen," he says, standing awkwardly, his arms behind his back, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other.
"Please sit down, you are making me nervous," she says. "I should have insisted sooner, your legs must be getting numb."
Erik takes a seat on a small damask-covered chaise next to the bookcase. "Better?"
"Better."
Erik taps his fingers on his thighs, shifting his gaze away from Christine to the bed then the door, then back to the young woman again.
Finally, unable to resist her hunger, she breaks off a piece of a croissant, adds a piece of cheese and eats the small sandwich. "I wish you had at least brought another cup, I could offer you some tea."
"I am fine, really," he says, rocking in his seat. "One display of my face in so short of time is quite sufficient."
Putting her food down, she says, "I am sorry. I was very rude."
"And I am very ugly."
"Stop it. Do not speak of yourself in that way."
"Fine," he says, shaking his head. "Please eat. Drink the tea before it gets cold. I did not have a cozy for the pot."
"Then I shall make you one," she exclaims. "I am quite good at knitting."
"Yes, you spoke of that. Knitting and sewing. Your mother, Rebecca, taught you."
"You remember her name?"
"Mother: Rebecca, father: Gustave," he says. "You were six years old when she died."
Christine nods, the beginning of tears form in her eyes. "You know so much about me and I do not even know your name."
"I have had many names over the years," he says. "But you may call me Erik."
"Erik?"
"More appropriate than Angel, do you not think so?"
"You shall always be my Angel of Music."
"Perhaps, my dear, perhaps," he says wistfully. "Now finish your meal. Then we can have a lesson."