Chapter 26: Wounds, Letters and Plans
The sun had already set by the time Erik half-slipped, half-tumbled into the corridors spread beneath the opera edifice.
The cut on his arm (now cleaned with snow and tied with his cravat) stung like hellfire. The wound wasn't very deep – he had survived much worse in the circus – but it definitely added to his overall exhaustion. The Opera Ghost hadn't been able to risk either a carriage ride to the Palais Garnier's neighbourhood or a walk out in the open after the duel, so the return had taken him several hours. Several painfully long hours of waiting, sneaking through side alleys and creeping through fragments of old catacombs and walk-in sewer tunnels like low scum.
Wrath and frustration flared up inside him with full force. His hands clenched into fists, and he hissed in pain when a sharp stab pierced his injured side.
The Phantom cursed loudly. Black spots whirled before his eyes, and he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and scolding himself inwardly.
Hell.
His legs felt as if they were made of lead, but somehow he managed to force his stiff body to cooperate. After a few minutes, he finally reached the corridor that led to his atelier, and the muffled murmur of two anxious female voices floated to his ears.
It seemed that the Girys already knew.
Erik muttered a few more phrases that were hardly gentlemanly. Gritting his teeth, he straightened and adjusted his cape so that it covered his bloodied and torn sleeve. Then, he crossed the last metres and pulled aside the curtain that separated him from the room. A pair of gazes focused on him as soon as he walked – or, rather, staggered – inside.
Meg froze mid-step in her nervous pacing around his desk, her eyes widening. Undoubtedly, he looked far from presentable – he was battered and exhausted, his clothes dishevelled and wet. Nevertheless, a heartbeat later, Meg's worried expression melted into a strangely warm half-smile.
"You came back…"
The ballerina hurried towards him, relief clearly written on her face. In contrast, the only thing etched in Madame Giry's countenance was strictness. The ballet mistress rose from the bench in front of the pipe organ, crossing her arms and sending him a harsh look.
"I hope you have a good explanation for your actions, young man," she said coldly, "because for the past few hours I've been trying to find any sense in them and failing miserably." Her narrow lips pressed into an even thinner, displeased line. "Just what has gotten into you to fight with Raoul? For goodness's sake, boy, have you been thinking at all?!" Losing her usual composure, Antoinette Giry threw her hands in the air in exasperation.
Erik clenched his jaw, feeling bitterness and irritation burning in his chest.
"The full explanation might take some time," he ground out dryly, "so I'll allow myself to summarise. I accidentally saw Christine on her way to the cemetery. I followed her, hoping it could be my chance to apologise fully. Soon afterwards appeared the blazed viscount, waving his sabre and generously offering me a life-long condemnation in prison." Unhinged notes slipped into his voice, and his mouth twisted.
"For inexplicable reasons" – the Opera Ghost waved his uninjured arm in a mocking flourish – "I politely declined. But, as it turns out, the fop cannot take a 'no' for an answer. As a result, a fight ensued," he went on, vexation and frustration flooding his tone more and more. "And so, I once again frightened Christine, endangered the other two women I care about with the repercussions of my actions, and made my plans of fixing anything go straight to hell! All because I naively wanted to believe that I could at last do something right and deserve a second chance. Thus, to answer your question, Madame Giry, I'm afraid that no, I have NOT been thinking AT ALL!"
Both ladies Giry stared at him in shock. After a few seconds, the older one's eyes narrowed into two suspicious slits.
"Did the viscount hit your head?" Antoinette Giry came closer, scrutinising him attentively.
The Opera Ghost barely stopped himself from recoiling. The wave of heat took him over instantly.
"Of course not!" he growled. "Besides, what, for blazes' sake, does that even have to do with what I just said?!"
The ballet mistress tilted her head. "You just admitted you were wrong and said that you care about us in a single speech. I had to make sure you are not suffering from concussion," she explained calmly. It seemed that his outburst had chased away her doubt.
Erik wasn't sure if he should feel offended or embarrassed by the fact.
"Anyway," Madame Giry returned to the topic, unruffled, "I would like to hear more details of your unfortunate escapade, but they can wait for later." Gentler, almost caring semitones resounded in her words, surprising him for a short moment before the woman returned to a more severe business-like attitude. "As for now," she said, "you'd better get rid of that stinking, drenched cape and overcoat before you catch a cold, and sit while I prepare something warm for you to eat and drink. You look like death itself – even more than in that awful red costume of yours at the masquerade. A bath wouldn't hurt either." The ballet mistress wrinkled her nose, passing by him.
Erik could not argue with that. The only problem was that taking off his outer garment also meant revealing his injury. On the other hand, he probably couldn't avoid it anyway, since both ladies Giry were evidently inclined to keep him company.
The Opera Ghost scowled and slowly undid the cape's clasp.
Meg rapidly drew her breath as soon as she saw his cut sleeve and the bloodied, improvised bandage. "You are hurt!"
Both Girys were at his side in a blink.
"For heaven's sake, why didn't you say anything, boy?!"
Their attention made him feel even more embarrassed.
"Because there was nothing to say," he replied through gritted teeth. "I already took care of it." He wanted to act indifferent, but he didn't manage to hide his grimace of pain when he tried to shed his overcoat. Meg hurriedly helped him, taking the heavy woollen material from him. "It's really nothing serious," he grumbled.
Madame Giry's thin eyebrows pulled down even more. "It is I who will be the judge of that. I have seen enough of my husband's and his co-workers' injuries to know how to deal with such things. Now, sit down and take off that jacket."
Erik swallowed hard. "It's really nothing–"
"Sit!"
Despite her much smaller stature, the ballet mistress practically pushed him into the nearest chair. Not having much choice, the Phantom submitted with a grunt. Opposing would certainly have been easier if his legs hadn't been as inert as sandbag counterweights.
A raspy huff escaped his lungs when he started to struggle with the more narrow sleeves of his morning coat; the dried blood definitely made it harder. Meg assisted him again. Her eyes fleetingly rested on the folder with the documents he had in his inner pocket, but she had enough courtesy to put them away without asking. Her fingers gently brushed his forearms and back as together they got rid of the wicked piece of garment, and against his will, a wave of heat crept up his neck.
Part of him couldn't help but note that, with his clothes in utter disorder and two buttons ripped off his shirt's neckline, he had never been so improperly dressed in front of anyone during his whole adult life. The other part wondered if Madame Giry hadn't somehow had some harpies from Greek mythology among her ancestors.
Ignoring his dark glower, the ballet mistress skillfully undid the knot of his cravat and examined the wound through the rip in his shirt, bringing a quiet hiss from him. The wrinkles on her forehead deepened.
"The cut probably doesn't need stitches, but it's long and looks rather nasty, especially since it has partially reopened. We definitely have to clean, disinfect and dress it properly. Do you have the dressing materials?" Her gaze moved to his face.
The Phantom nodded grimly.
"In the cupboard in the lavatory."
"Good. I'll go get them and also boil some water. Both for cleaning and for tea with honey for you to drink. We can't let you faint from exhaustion."
Erik's good cheek flushed again. "I do not faint, Madame Giry," he hissed. "What's more, I repeat that this whole fuss is not necessary. Hell and blazes, cannot a man have even a pinch of peace and privacy in his own home?!" His voice rose in an irritated, throaty growl.
To her credit, he had to admit that Madame Giry didn't even bat an eye at this outburst.
"Not if said man is a stubborn oaf who doesn't take care of himself properly," she said simply.
A frustrated groan was all he could do in response.
The ballet mistress sighed. "I know I should have done some things differently," she admitted more quietly. "I probably still say and do things that aren't quite right. And I also know you are not exactly used to taking help. But, please, just let us do this for you, Erik…"
The use of his name and the peculiar gentleness in her tone made him look up in surprise.
Antoinette Giry's strict features softened slightly. "After all, we care about you too…" A shadow of a warm smile flitted across her countenance, taking him completely aback. Before he could form any reply, though, the woman was already striding off to her duties.
"Oh, and Meg" – she threw over her shoulder – "in the meantime, please, cut off the left sleeve or help Erik take off his waistcoat and shirt. I need full access to the wound."
Erik felt his face turn scorching hot.
"That won't be necessary!"
His protesting, irritated shout wasn't met with contrition, nor did it receive any other answer. And to think he had almost started to trust this hellish woman again!
Erik cursed inwardly. His eyes met Meg's gaze, and both of them instantly looked away.
"The scissors should be in the top drawer of the desk." The words tumbled from his mouth a little too hastily, but thankfully, the ballerina seemed to be as determined as him to avoid the alternative. With a short nod, Meg spun on her heel, and then she was already at the desk, rummaging through his belongings. Maybe it was just his imagination, but her cheeks and the tips of her ears took on a deep pink hue.
The Opera Ghost stifled an absurd urge to run away when no one was watching.
Blazes. He should never have let Madame Giry into his abode.
The further first aid process had gone efficiently in a professional atmosphere, and Meg could only thank inwardly for that.
Watching the gash on Erik's arm made her stomach flip, but fortunately, just as her maman had said, it wasn't too deep. The fight had also left the Opera Ghost with a lot of nasty bruises – from what they could tell by the rigidity and caution in his moves – but these didn't need urgent attention. Anyway, her mother's proposition of further examination had been met with such a dark glare that the offer had just ended with a sigh and a promise of bringing a salve later.
After dressing the wound, Madame Giry led Meg further into the cave, while Erik was left alone to clean up a bit more and change into a new set of clothes. To the dancer's surprise, the Phantom's lair had not only a lavatory but also a fully functional kitchen, equipped with a sink, a water cistern, a stove with a chimney (half-made from a natural stone duct) and a large larder. The Girys made use of it all, and returned to the main room with more tea and plates with some bread, cheese and vegetables, shamelessly looted from the Opera Ghost's supplies.
One such plate was shoved towards Meg ("You have been so nervous that you haven't eaten anything since morning either, child, don't deny it"), and the other was placed on the desk in front of the Phantom. This last evoked another argument about not needing a caretaker, but after a few minutes, Erik surrendered with a frustrated growl.
Having made sure neither of them was going to starve to death, Madame Giry excused herself back to the kitchen to cook "a more proper warm meal" for all of them.
As she and Erik were left alone, Meg couldn't help but wonder if the most fearsome creature roaming the opera's corridors wasn't actually her maman.
The ballerina smiled slightly and glanced at her partner, who sat stiffly by the opposite side of his large desk. The harsh demeanour of Phantom of the Opera crumbled down a little now, as her mother was gone, and Meg had to admit that it was a bit strange to see this much more informal version of him, dressed in a more comfortable oriental robe thrown loosely over his shirt and waistcoat.
Erik did his best to avoid her gaze. Tilting the cup in order not to hit his mask, he drank some tea. Then, he divided his food into tiny pieces and awkwardly took a few bites.
Meg had already noticed before that his deformed profile limited the range of his facial expressions, but only then did it occur to her that it must also affect his eating mechanics. His attempt to do it elegantly and with his mask on was clearly making the whole process more difficult, even though he tried to hide it.
An unpleasant knot formed in her stomach, and she hurriedly lowered her eyes.
"You know, neither I nor Maman would mind if you ever took your mask off in our presence…" she whispered.
The way the atmosphere thickened made her almost regret that she had begun the topic.
At the edge of her field of vision, the ballerina saw the Opera Ghost's hands clench so hard that the ridges on the deformed one spasmed in an eerie way.
"I would mind," he ground out. "It's not a sight anyone should be forced to see. Especially during eating." His voice was so throaty that it barely resembled any human sound.
A lump formed in Meg's throat. And that was when an idea came to her mind.
"But what if I sat on your left side?" she proposed shyly. "That way, you wouldn't have to worry that I accidentally saw the right side of your face when you didn't want it!" A spark of excitement lit inside her, and she glanced up, propping herself on her elbows.
The Phantom's gaze could burn a hole in a metal.
The dancer looked down. "We don't have to try this out now or any time soon, though…" she added more quietly.
A heavy silence hung between them again.
Erik had told her that he didn't want her to hide behind a polite smile when she needed support, yet he himself was still separating himself from everyone with so many walls most of the time. She wished to change that, but perhaps all the progress he could accept for now was that he hadn't replaced his soaked gloves with another pair. She sighed inwardly.
For a long moment, they both focused only on their food and tea, and she did her best to keep her eyes away from her friend to spare him additional discomfort.
After another few minutes, Meg shifted in her seat.
"I… I'm not going to force you to talk more about what happened," she began uncertainly again, "but I just want you to know that when I met Christine, she wasn't in big distress. Actually, she seemed more angry at Raoul than frightened. She even chided him in my presence." She risked a peek up. "I also want you to know that neither Maman nor I blame you or assume you had bad intentions. I'm sure the sword fight would have been much easier to avoid if Raoul hadn't been so inclined on it."
She had hoped that her reassuring words and smile would help, but the Phantom only hunched even more.
"But what if a part of me had?"
His hoarse question surprised her completely.
Erik clenched his jaw and hands even tighter and lowered his head, dark shadows consuming his visible features. "I tried to act calm," he growled, "to explain myself. But then, everything started to slip out of my control and…" he broke off abruptly, and his features contorted even more.
Meg's heart wrung at the sight.
Part of her wanted to rush to the Opera Ghost's side and embrace him, or at least stand by him the way he had done for her in the chapel, but she wasn't sure if he would welcome any of these gestures. Uncertainly, she reached forwards, squeezing Erik's right hand. The man tensed at the contact, so after a short moment, she withdrew her fingers, clasping them on her pendant.
"I'm not sure if it's much of a comfort," she stated in a hushed tone, "but I think that everyone has moments in their life when they feel everything inside and around them is slipping out of their control…" The scraps of those awful weeks during her father's illness and after his death returned to her, and she swallowed hard, letting them go.
"But even in more trifling matters," she continued, "my emotions sometimes took – and occasionally still take – the better of me. I danced a lot and always knew I wanted to be a ballerina, but when I was to play my first role in the opera's corps de ballet, stage-fright almost paralysed me. Fortunately, Maman noticed my trepidation and helped me deal with it." She smiled at the memory. "It's a bit like a pirouette."
Erik sent her such an intense gaze that it instantly brought her a pang of self-consciousness and abashment.
Meg looked away. "I mean," she tried to explain, "when you spin, the world is whirling around you. You must be aware of that, just like you must be aware of problems or your emotions. But if you don't want to get vertigo, you have to fix your gaze on something else, a steady spot. So when I feel overwhelmed, I just try to do something similar. I ground myself. Usually, I simply concentrate on the task and proper breathing, but it also helps me to focus on other things – on the steady sensation of the floor underneath my feet, on the comforting presence of a friend, on music, on the way my body moves during the dance…" She blushed. "I know your situation is much worse, but maybe something similar could help you a little too?" She shyly glanced back up.
Erik was staring at her with an unreadable expression. She wasn't able to tell if he was irritated by her suggestions or just felt uncomfortable continuing the topic.
Meg bit her lip and forced herself to focus on finishing her share of food.
She hardly ever had trouble with talking with other people, but somehow now she struggled with finding the right words. There were so many things she wanted to do and say, yet she was no longer sure if her usual chatter was a good idea.
Her feet thudded against the chair's legs.
"The Moonlight Nocturne from the festival play?"
Erik's hushed voice brought her out of her reverie, and her cheeks coloured for another time this evening. How could he guess that just by how she tapped the steps?
"That's right," she admitted, glancing up and finding that the Opera Ghost was looking at her. "As you know, we staged the show today, so it stuck in my mind. Besides… Well, I wanted you to know that you gave those children a lot of joy, helping with the script." It sounded like a rather weak consolation in the face of current problems, but since they'd started the topic, she might as well say it aloud.
There was a longer pause, but then Erik shifted slightly. "So… how did it go?"
Meg beamed, feeling a spark of happiness ignite in her chest. "Splendidly, I would say. The younger group, of course, forgot their choreography at some point, so I had to step in and help them finish, and the others needed a prompter's help once, but generally I would call it a great success. The audience was truly enchanted by the play. Many even said it was the best piece they had seen for the past few years!"
Erik didn't smile fully, but the tensed lines of the unmasked side of his face relaxed a bit, softening his usually rough appearance, and she could tell that he was just as proud as her.
The blonde rose from her seat. "I guess it's not the best time for it, but there is something I was supposed to give you. It's not a lot, but… anyway, I think you should take a look." She fumbled with the small bag at her belt, producing a card. "Here."
Unfolding the cardboard sheet, she placed it on the desk and clasped her hands. In the middle of the inside of the card, there was a calligraphed inscription: "FOR THE ANONYMOUS MONSIEUR COMPOSER FROM THE OPERA: THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP!" The letters were surrounded by a chaotic swirl of names as well as cacophonic sketches of music notes and floral ornaments.
Erik stared at the paper, eyes wide. Disbelief flashed across his face, and then his expression became completely blank. A few weeks ago, she would have taken it as a bad sign, but now she knew he just didn't want to show that he was touched.
The Opera Ghost swallowed hard.
"They… they did it on their own?" He attempted to look and sound indifferent, but she easily noticed the slight, emotional hoarseness in his voice. His fingers brushed the edge of the card as if he needed to convince himself that it was real.
Meg grinned. "Well, mostly. Some of them didn't exactly get the idea of anonymity and wanted to pay you a visit. I had to persuade them out of it and suggest that a card would be a better option." She chuckled softly as the Phantom looked at her in shock. "I also might have helped some of the youngest with writing down their names. And stopped them from gifting you an undefinable one-and-a-half-metre-high element of scenography hand-made from brown paper," she added, amused.
Erik's lips twitched.
"I owe you eternal gratitude, then, Meg," he said. His gaze moved back to the gift, and he cleared his throat again. "Nevertheless, I had a feeling you were involved. One could definitely see your hand in it." The left corner of his mouth rose a little more as he pointed at a particularly messy signature with a reversed capital "S".
His tone was still a bit tense, but something inside Meg made a series of giddy leaps just because he had made an attempt to joke.
"That's not evidence at all!" she exclaimed, her own laughter undermining her attempt to sound indignant. "I swear I've gotten better at writing since my preteen years!"
Her protest earned herself another shadow of a smile. The grey-blue irises turned to her with a soft glint.
Funny, how the eyes of such a cold colour and intimidating glare could also be so warm…
A moment later, Erik averted his gaze. The silence crept between them anew, but it was no longer so gloomy.
Meg felt hope surge inside her. The incident and the problems it had brought were certainly upsetting, but she believed that together they could deal with everything. Warmth filled her once again.
"Erik?"
The man glanced at her questioningly, and somehow that only intensified the weird affection inside her.
"I'm happy that you came back safely." With these words, she simply leaned forwards and – still standing at his right side and being careful not to touch his injuries – wrapped her arms around the Opera Ghost in a gentle hug.
Raoul de Chagny ran a hand through his hair and returned to pacing across the room, fuelled by the tangle of emotions boiling inside him. He felt like an overheated steam boiler on the verge of exploding.
Darnation, he simply couldn't forget or let this matter quiet down without any consequences! How could Christine even suggest it?!
A frustrated growl escaped his throat.
If it were possible, he would have already taken Christine to England. Or at least quartered her here, at his family estate, gossip and propriety be darned! Unfortunately, the mansion was located in the suburbs of Paris, far from the Opera Garnier, and this inconvenience had become another argument that had weighed on the decision to choose a compromise solution and rent his fiancée a room in a hotel at the Place de l'Opera. And to pay a few more people to look after her and monitor the theatre's corridors.
Raoul twisted his mouth at the memory of the disagreement. Christine most likely would have protested against what he was going to do right now too, but he had to protect her no matter what. Even if it required taking some actions without her knowledge.
A trace of guilt slipped into his chest, settling heavily in his stomach, but the aristocrat quickly pushed these sensations aside.
Christine was too empathetic and emotional, and that could be easily taken advantage of. She needed someone stronger to make harder decisions. Just like in a company, someone had to coordinate everything and have the final word.
Good business partners definitely shouldn't withhold information or conceal their actions from one another, though…
Raoul winced and adjusted the pin in his Ascot cravat, chasing away the uncomfortable thought. He was just doing it for Christine's own good, he reassured himself, and his usual self-confidence partially returned to its place.
A doorbell pulled him out of his reverie, announcing the arrival of his quests. The viscount stopped, listening as Philippe, his right hand and butler in one, welcomed the visitors in his hushed voice and then ushered them through the foyer to the drawing room. A moment later, they all appeared in the doorway.
Raoul summoned a formal smile. "Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin, I'm glad to welcome you to my abode. I'm truly thankful that you agreed to this meeting at such short notice." The managers reciprocated his handshake eagerly, but it was hard to miss the slight confusion in their gazes.
"It's we who are grateful and honoured to be here, Monsieur le Vicomte," Richard Firmin said.
"Exactly. You are one of our most generous patrons, monsieur, and we all respect de Chagny family," Gilles Andre threw in politely, while both of them were invited with a gesture to take the seats by the table with some refreshments and cognac decanter. "T-there… there is one thing, though, that we found a little surprising…" Andre broke off, glancing at his colleague.
"And it's the firmness with which you, monsieur, insisted on meeting outside of the opera house's walls and on keeping full discretion," Monsieur Firmin finished, furrowing his generous eyebrows. "You gave us the feeling it is an urgent and serious matter…" His questioning gaze rose back up.
Raoul nodded grimly.
"It is because the matter is urgent and serious. What's more, I couldn't risk someone from the office talking about our meeting. Nor that our conversation might be overheard by someone else. What we say here, messieurs, must remain just between the three of us, just like the decisions we must take together." His expression became even more serious. "And they are going to concern the individual we know as the Phantom or the Opera Ghost."
The managers exchanged a shocked look.
"I-it's actually quite a convenient coincidence, for we wanted to discuss this matter with you too, Monsieur le Vicomte," Gilles Andre stammered out. "We have received a slightly confusing letter from the previous manager, Monsieur Lefevre, who is currently residing in Australia a-and–"
"We would like to show it to you and hear your opinion on it, monsieur," Richard Firmin cut in. "But first, we would, of course, listen to you. Has something new happened?"
"Unfortunately, yes, it has." Raoul frowned. "In a telegraphic brief: that madman who declares himself the Phantom of the Opera tried to bother my fiancée when she went to visit her father's grave. A truly heinous act. I intervened, and as a result, a sword fight ensued." It was probably a bit below a person of his status, but Raoul couldn't stop a few low, darker tones from slipping into his voice.
Both managers drew in breaths loudly. Their faces paled.
"Mademoiselle Daaé hasn't told us anything about that!"
Raoul winced. "Well, that's part of the problem. My fiancée has a heart of gold and is too kind and empathetic for her own good. She still wants to believe her ex-tutor is not a bad man. But, in my mind, he is clearly too unstable to be let wander free." His frown deepened. "Therefore, I postulate we take the matter into our own hands, messieurs. I know that after the masquerade ball, I let you convince me that covering the whole incident and letting it resolve itself would be a better approach, but I can no longer agree with that. We need to arrest that man and let the right authorities decide what to do with him. I have already prepared a draft of a plan. But first, let's take a look at that letter you mentioned."
Monsieur Andre obediently produced an envelope from his pocket and handed it to him. The aristocrat unfolded the paper and glanced down at its contents, written in neat handwriting.
–
Dear Messieurs Andre and Firmin,
I hope you are faring well, bringing even more glory to the Palais Garnier and Parisian art. I am sorry to bother you, but I recently received a letter from our mutual acquaintance which has worried me a little. When I showed you the contracts and accounts book with salaries along with the ones considering O.G. (known as the Opera Ghost), I tried to stress it was not a joke, but it seems I have failed. And thus, I would like to explain everything again. Perhaps, starting from the very beginning, this time.
I started to receive some anonymous suggestions about the upcoming productions signed as "the Opera Ghost" back at the previous opera house in the Salle le Peletier. They were usually short and infrequent, but rather insightful, so I implemented most of them, believing they were coming from my employees. But it wasn't until we moved to the Palais Garnier that I became truly intrigued by them.
At the end of the year 1874, I received a dozen-pages-long essay about improvements concerning the inaugurating opera, along with a copy of the score and libretto with marked changes. I must admit I have never seen anything like it. It was a work of pure genius! Despite my high appreciation for my co-workers, I realised it could not be their deed. I tried to invite my anonymous advisor (or perhaps group of advisors, for it is hard for me to believe one person can possess such knowledge about both music and stage engineering) for the official meeting, but he/they declined, stating he/they could not reveal his/their identity.
You, messieurs, may perhaps consider my next action a little controversial and unconventional, but I decided to give the one/ones behind it a formal job contract under the initials of O.G. Some of the previous notes had been appearing in the theatre out of nowhere, and – though once again you, messieurs, might judge it unusual – I asked not to change this custom. The Opera Ghost's occasional interventions gave our theatre an additional gothic appeal and, from what I could tell, also caused larger interest from the patrons and visitors.
Anyway, my cooperation with the so-called Opera Ghost was going without problems, bringing us mutual benefits. The productions definitely became better than ever before. The notes I was receiving were always well-thought out and brilliant, so I was implementing most of them. I rejected only a few (mostly due to financial reasons or a lack of other resources) in polite words, and it never evoked an argument.
I have not probably fully emphasised the amount of help I received over the years. The Opera Ghost stood behind all the most successful productions, and there was no show that did not receive his thorough attention. I have shown you the archives along with the section of the advice he (or they) sent, but I suppose you have not have time to look at them. Therefore, I list here some of the most important suggestions of improvements I received and implemented:
Firstly, ...
–
Raoul skipped this part and focused on the last page.
–
All in all, I would advise you, messieurs, to seek some agreement with the O.G. – I believe that you, as well as the opera house, will only stand to benefit. And if you do not wish to continue the cooperation, I suggest you do it in a bit more elegant and formal style. I must agree with O.G. that ignoring the employee's suggestions without explanation nor termination of his/their contract is unfair and ungentlemanly.
If you have any further questions, I will be at your service. I presently reside with my son's family not far from Port Darwin (you have the address), so if such a need arises, you can contact me on much shorter notice by sending a telegram to Port Darwin. The office there should be able to reach me quickly. I'm aware that such a solution is only good for short messages, but I still think it would be a better idea than waiting another few months for letters to be exchanged.
I wish you every success.
With best regards,
Pierre Lefevre
–
Raoul finished reading and returned the letter. A strange knot formed in his stomach. The managers glanced at him expectantly, Richard Firmin rubbing his dark moustache and Andre Frimin nervously curling his fingers around a glass of cognac.
The viscount swallowed hard.
"Well," he stated firmly, "it only proves that the so-called Phantom is more bound to the opera house than we had thought. It doesn't matter if his genius has or hasn't been true in the past, because now it has clearly turned into madness. A madness we cannot tolerate." His hands clenched slightly.
The managers exchanged looks again.
"W-we must confess," Gilles Andre started uncertainly, "we c-considered obeying Monsieur Lefevre's advice, b-but in the current circumstances…" He glanced at his friend, wiping a drop of sweat from his greying temple.
"We would definitely reconsider that," Andre Firmin said. "And we are, of course, open to your suggestions, Monsieur le Vicomte."
Raoul took a deep breath.
"I'm grateful, messieurs. I told you that I have a plan, and the fact that we know that the Phantom is inclined to get involved in every production is only going to help us. We can also use Monsieur Lefevre's letter as our cover. I propose we stage the Phantom's play and leave box number five for his uses to bait him, and then…" Raoul lowered his voice, starting to explain the next details of the plan.
Author's notes:
1) From what I've read on the Internet, the first telegraphic connection between Australia and the rest of the world was established by a submarine cable between Port Darwin and Java (which had already been connected to Europe) in 1871/1872.
2) Speaking about Australia and cooperation, I want to once again thank my wonderful beta reader Lily (librarylexicon) who comes from that beautiful country. ;)
As always, thanks for reading, liking and commenting!