Author's Note: Happy New Year!
I must note the absolute hardest part of this chapter was not the scenes themselves -but starting them.(Then researching Monceau Park and digging up pictures totally did not take Erik's favorite number of hours...)
Hopefully, this was worth the wait.
Review responses are going back to PMs
Opportunity Once Denied
Meg Giry sat alone.
She was in the shadow of a bridge located near the heart of Parc Monceau. Passersby would cross the opulent work of brick and masonry that exceeded the needs of the narrow canal it spanned over, unaware of her presence. It allowed her a modicum of solitude by deviating from the usual spots where Parisians liked to congregate. A little worn blanket spared her dress from the damp soil, the prickly nettles from a pair of young spruce trees, and the scant medley of weedy fauna that managed to take root.
It was clear that she was not the only one who found the spot desirable. The thin trail that scarred the earth and carved a path between two hardy bushes was telling enough, but she had yet to encounter anyone else there. Not that she could blame another for making use of her favored spot when it offered a stunning view of the Colonnade across the small lake, or rather, the remaining columns that had not fallen to war and revolution. The willow on the smallest of the two tiny islands in the lake reflected on the still water in a near-perfect mirror as weeping branches swayed in a gentle breeze.
The day was bright and sunny, highlighting fresh new growth in the vibrant greens of spring leaves, now unfurled from their former cocoons. Birds sang there in frisky delight as they flew between the trees in a courting dance.
It was a tranquil setting, and many other Parisians strolled along the paths or picnicked with their families on a grassy lawn to take in the warmer temperatures after a frigid winter.
Meg getting to steal away on the water bank was an added delight, though she struggled to appreciate the moment. With her finger pinched between the pages of the book she struggled to read, the dancer stared at the young willow tree that was still too young to take on the whimsical appeal of a mature tree.
In many ways, she felt like that little willow on a lonely island, both noticeable but easy to overlook and dismiss. It seemed she had endured a lot of that in recent weeks. Christine, a starlet now, was spending the bulk of her time with her new masked Suitor while a pesky nobleman pined for her attention. Meg was happy for her best and most trusted friend, but she missed her too, and that was a harder reality to grasp.
Then, there was the patronage. It was of little surprise that Christine would get a sponsorship without the common expectations, and a blessing that such generosity was extended to her as well — but it was a bittersweet thing. Meg knew that the odds that the de Marais's seeking her out to extend their support were slim. Madame de Marais had extended support out of propriety because Meg happened to be there. It would be rude to support one girl in need and ignore the other…
Meg had danced principal many times before Erik manufactured a night where understudies carried the weight of the Opera on their shoulders, and she had yet to gain the necessary attention for support.
Because she was a Ballerina.
Because she stayed out of the Foyer.
Meg battled against the stereotype of her reality, and it was a disheartening one. Although she had a small stable of loyal admirers, they were not going to offer financial support to her position without her giving into that stipulation that it seemed every dancer had to pay. It was a cruel reality that success in ballet and opera for a pretty face like hers meant she would have to become viewed as little more than a commodity.
Did ballerinas the world over have this issue? Or was France and Paris the outlier?
Meg knew she was luckier than most, and that she should feel more grateful than she did, but that did nothing to solve her slip into this irritating state of melancholy.
Under normal circumstances, a chat with Christine would lift her mood, coupled with a wander through the city, peering into shop windows at things they could scarcely afford…
But Christine had her own life now, where she was no longer so inclined to share its every facet. The singer would not even illuminate her as to why she suddenly appeared at the Giry home after spending the last several nights with Erik. She would not even admit to a simple little lover's quarrel – only a poor, dismissive, 'nothing happened' and 'everything's fine' finished with a, 'I just wanted to spend a night or two here.'
They were not outright lies, as Meg had a way of knowing when the older girl spun a falsehood, but they were not much of a truth either. Something occurred between Christine and the Phantom, and her friend was not breathing a word.
The muffled snap of twigs and crunching nettles pulled Meg back into the moment. Her eyes darted to the little path where she spotted scuffed black boots that had already lost a recent polishing, then the cuffs of dark brown trousers speckled with lighter-colored grime around the ankles, typical of a man traversing the city more by foot than transport.
"Excuse me, I wasn't quite expecting to see someone else here…" the stranger commented.
Meg's gaze skipped ahead of its upward trajectory, glimpsing a book in his hands before focusing on the clean-shaven face and the small, shy smile.
A sigh escaped her as she patted around her skirts and the blanket until her fingers found the ribbon she used as a bookmark. "It's all right. You can have it."
"No…you were here first. I can find another—"
"It doesn't make much difference," Meg interrupted, shaking her head, "I wasn't getting much enjoyment anyway. Perhaps you'll have better luck."
The man craned his head a bit as the dancer rose to her feet and stooped to retrieve the old blanket. It was not much of a tilt, but enough that it caught Meg's notice and spurred her irritation for being gawked at - while in a modest dress no less! "Have something of a wandering eye, do you?"
He blinked, and a flush ran through his features as he straightened, "No, I wasn't looking at you — well, I was, but not in the way you think," he stammered out before he pressed his dark blue eyes shut and cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is…I was more trying to read the title of your book than look at you — not that you are not very attractive —" he reddened a bit more, scratching the back of his neck before giving an awkward chuckle. "I'm making a fool of myself."
"That you are," she agreed, eyeing him and the worn-out book in his hand.
He bowed his head, though his disposition remained in good humor. "Fair enough. Though, before you go, Mademoiselle," he said after his eyes flickered over her left hand, "you must answer one thing."
A sleazy pickup line perhaps? A dinner invitation? She had heard them a dozen times before with the few admirers she had, all wanting something that she was not yet willing to give. "If you must," she muttered, not bothering to hide her disdain.
"How can you find La Bête Humaine to be a bore, or is it the subject matter that is disconcerting? I know of few ladies outside my sister-in-law and her associates that have an appetite for such fiction."
Meg glanced at the book by Monsieur Zora in her hand, flummoxed by the unexpected query. She was only a few pages in and while she found difficulty with reading it at the moment, her reasoning was not one of boredom or the character traits borne of demented family lines. "Oh, it's hardly boring — and it's no more deranged than its predecessors - I just…I'm unable to give it the attention it requires."
"That's unfortunate, though I can relate to having various distractions from reading. Zora's works are not easy to digest, despite their interesting concepts. But, when your attention lapses enough to make you re-read the same three paragraphs for the twelfth time, well…I suppose it's best to admit the defeat of the moment and settle for something more familiar," the stranger's fingers flexed and rippled against the book in his hand.
Meg tilted her head a little, squinting to read the weathered title. "Like Monsieur Lecoq?"
The man smiled and looked at his book with fondness, "A tried and true favorite where I am always happy to return. I may fail to properly read a passage here and there, but I don't have to go back over that section when I'm already so familiar with the story."
A small smile tugged at her lips at the stranger's enthusiasm coupled with that unusual flutter of an exciting new crush. "A favorite story does have a special way of bringing familiar comfort," she admitted.
"It does," he agreed softly, those dark blue eyes sparkling a bit as he watched her. After a moment though, they dimmed with a hard swallow before he stepped out of the narrow footpath. "I suppose I've taken enough of your time."
Meg gave a quiet nod, gathering her skirts in her fists as she began ascending the bank's gentle slope. When she came to pass him, she found herself hesitant to continue onward. It would be bold of her to comment on her current wish, but at the same time, she had been rather callous to him.
"Perhaps… you might consider postponing your mystery with Monsieur Lecoq to a later time," she commented, casting a shy glance at the stranger.
"I might," he said after a pause, "if I were to have good company at the café around the corner, preferably with a Mademoiselle with a sense of ambition."
"What if she possesses a sharp wit?"
"All the better – if she can take it in return."
She grinned, "I'm Meg Giry."
"Valen LeMaitre," he smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Meg Giry. Would you give me the honor of joining me at the café to continue our conversation?"
"I would like that."
Valen offered his arm, and Meg eyed it with childish giddy before she managed to reign in her excitement and take his elbow as a polite lady should.
~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~
Raoul sat in his parlor, staring blankly at the useless stack of advertisements on the table before him. Although he spent the better part of the day sifting through them in search of a competent investigator, they yielded nothing. Every potential investigator was either some notable half-wit or refused his case, leading the Vicomte back to square one.
"There are other avenues you could… explore," commented his friend, Lucien de Gautier. The fellow Vicomte leaned forward in his seat to pour the last ounces of bourbon from its decanter with the familiar chink of glass tapping glass as he first poured some into Raoul's tumbler before his own.
Raoul's eyes, heavy in mental fatigue, slid over to the spirits when Lucien returned the decanter to the silver tray, "Such as…?" he asked, picking up his glass and staring down into the brown liquid as though it were a window into another world.
"Well, this Christine Daaé is clearly in a disturbed state. Without a family, it would not be difficult to secure a clear diagnosis for hysteria."
Raoul continued, staring into the glass, "That is a bit extreme…"
"But always favorable, especially when it would be easy enough to prove that she is under this man's spell, as you say — a danger to herself!" Lucien shook his head and continued, "Aside from that, there are still a few more options, it's just a matter of knowing the right people —"
A squabble outside the parlor door drew the bachelors' attention as Raoul's valet uttered an insistent protest. The failure of the valet's deterring comments was explained by the jarring tone of the other's voice as he delivered a sharp retort, "If you wish to continue earning your cheque, I suggest, you see his other guest, out."
The parlor door swung open to reveal a man of similar build to Raoul, though well over a dozen years his senior. It was hard to miss a man like Comte de Chagny, his striking features amplified by a fine-tailored suit that both flaunted wealth with its materials and the regality of its style. Those steely eyes honed in on Raoul with unyielding resolve, breaking contact to take in de Gautier with a disdained purse of his lips.
"Monsieur Vicomte, I apologize for the interruption—" the valet uttered.
In turn, Lucien shifted in his seat before he stood without protest, "I will see myself out then. Until next time, Raoul, Philippe," he gave a nod to each of the brothers before sliding by Philippe at the door.
Raoul waved away his red-faced valet, who vanished on Lucien's heels. "Philippe, what an unexpected surprise," he greeted.
"Yes. I imagine it is about the same level of surprise I felt when the de Marais's came to my door a short while ago."
"Is that so?"
"It is…" Philippe drifted into the room with an unhurried step, his hands drifting to clasp behind his back as he took in the room. Heavy draperies blocked most of the sunlight in favor of a trio of sconces on the walls that brought illumination through electricity.
"Spinning wild tales, I imagine."
"Jasmine is not one for convenient fallacies, Raoul," the older man asserted dryly, eying the stack of advertisements as he passed the table that held them, and what little remained of the bourbon.
"Why would she have such a vested interest?"
"She has been a dear friend for many years."
"Dear friend, I'm sure."
Philippe bristled, "Yes, Raoul, a friend and nothing more, despite whatever the rumors may claim. For many years, she was my closest friend until she came of age. It is because of that old friendship and her concerns for our family's reputation and this Christine, that she came to me."
"She is as meddlesome as every other lady of class."
"You are hardly one to talk, considering the deplorable behavior you exhibited at the Opera today."
"You have only heard one side of it—"
"No," Philippe snapped. "I went and spoke with Andre before I came here, and you are far out of line."
Raoul shook his head. "No—"
"There is an etiquette, Raoul! You can find the company of a willing girl in the Opera in the Dancer's Foyer or one of the subscriber Salons—"
"—That man means to hurt her—"
"I don't care!" Philippe growled and shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "And here I thought you joining the Navy would have brought you some grounding — to experience the world outside high society and away from foolish boys like de Gautier," his hand flew to the door where the other Vicomte was last seen. "Instead, rather than making you a better man, you've become more boorish than most gutter rats."
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Raoul spat. "The Navy did just as you wanted! It opened my eyes to how sick and twisted this world can be, and how it will treat someone like Christine. I am only trying to help her and protect her from someone who wishes to take advantage of her good nature."
Philippe shook his head. "Did it? It seems that whatever you saw there has had the opposite of the intended effect. You may very well have seen terrible things and you are using that to excuse your behavior, but that is not good enough."
"I love her, Philippe. I love her. That man…" he shook his head. "I keep having these nightmares of her, with his hand around her throat and tears staining her cheeks, pleading for me to help her. I can see her smiling at me as we get married — he has some sort of spell on her—"
Philippe softened a little as he listened but began shaking his head. "—They are dreams, Raoul. Nothing more. Nothing less. You cannot keep pursuing this girl after she has denied interest and especially since she is, according to Andre, in a relationship with this man."
"No, I just need more time, proof—"
"No," Philippe cut off. "At the Opera, there are rules about fraternizing with the girls. The foremost among them is that the girl must be willing. Now, I know many like to play coy and shy in order to invoke pursuit and they flock to the Dancer's Foyer and the Salons, but there are some who do not want to be pursued."
"Philippe—"
"—You will listen! You are no longer one of Christine's patrons, that agreement is revoked. While you may still go to the Opera, you are to leave her alone. No talking to her, no seeking her out, no going to her dressing room, or they will bar you from entry permanently. You will also have no say in how the Opera conducts their business."
Raoul's face reddened. "How very uncharacteristic of you — you are condemning her to a fate worse than—"
"Enough! It is not your place to dictate her life, especially when you have no part in it to begin with. Not every woman wants the same thing, and the gentlemanly thing to do is to respect that and move on. God knows there are plenty of women in this city who would welcome your advances. You would do well to consider finding other friends as well."
Author's Note:
La Bête humaine by Émile Zola - A Psychological Thriller with some really messed up themes (I have not personally read this) but Meg eats this stuff up.
Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau - Detective Novel, (Also haven't read this, but I want to) and if it weren't for Monsieur Lecoq, we probably would not have Sherlock Holmes and other similar books.
I am always eager to learn your thoughts(And if you like/hate the idea of Meg/Valen) so if you don't mind taking a minute, there is that little box below...