Fantôme Chapter 4, Part 1

The morning of their first full day on the job, neither new manager was daisy-fresh and as dapper a turn-out as the night before. A manager in any theatre cannot reasonably be expected to a morning person, but on this day especially there was no respite for Moncharmin and Richard, for it was the first of the month and their office was inundated with deliveries, requests for their signature, and excitable under-managers hoping to discuss the programme. Firmin Richard was laid out on the office couch in his shirt-sleeves and vest, a cold compress on his head. His fragile nerves caused him to bob his head and wince as every time the sharp, efficient noise of footfall drew near their office, and he audibly moaned and writhed at every rapp on the door. Moncharmin was doing better: he had skipped breakfast and taken a walk in the morning sun, and was ensconced behind the heavy-wood desk with the copy books spread out in front of him, dipping into a little green enamel ink-pot and scratching away in a jotter.

“For heaven’s sake, man – have a brandy so that you can get on with enjoying the day.”

“Is that your secret, Moncharmin? Have the late nights on the job driven you to drink already?”

“My dear partner – ho! Partner! Doesn’t that sound exquisite? – my dear partner, I was not so worse-for-wear as you last night, although I must admit I had a rollicking good time. I never knew that Pierre de Civrac de Lorge had such a healthy baritone! Who the devil was your friend, anyway?”

“My friend? But you know Madame Valerius’ niece! Ah! That yellow-crested oriole hat looked superb on her… it made her eyes look dark like an actress…”

At this, Moncharmin stopped writing and looked straight at Richard without even setting his eye-glasses back up on the bridge of his nose.

“I mean, Richard, the gentleman with the very still face, with whom you shared ribald laughter and numerous drinks. The one who stormed out after scandalising the whole party. Who was that?”

“Oh!” said Richard, and then his face fell “Oh. You know, Moncharmin, I don’t believe he told me. If he did, I have forgotten entirely.”

“Did Madame Valerius not address him at all?”

“The only people who looked our way at all were yourself and our forebears, Debienne and Poligny. And I must say, they seemed a little unnerved by my striking up a friendship with the chap.”

“Yes, I saw them too; it was quite furtive how they looked at your fellow. I wonder what they know?”

“We must find out what he meant by his scandalous parting words. A death! Why, Madame Valerius was quite upset by his conduct, and I will not have her offended.”

“Hmm, yes. We ought to go downstairs and gather what facts we can before asking Debienne and Poligny to tell us what they know of him, and why they did not engage him when they so clearly know him. Why, the very rudeness of it rivals his own – no wonder he was angry if they snubbed him!”

“My dear partner, I do not see what those old rogues have to do with it – after all, the Opera is our concern now.”

“Well, Richard, he must have been informed by someone – why, it is quite possible he even works for us in some capacity! We must solve the problem ourselves and then confront them with our prudence and skill.”

“But it will not be today, of course. You are working, good sir! And I… I am wretched today.” He gave a convincing moan to articulate his point further.

Moncharmin pulled his glasses off his face and looked squarely at Richard, who was laying abject on the couch with a his arms laid up and to the side in an artistic gesture (although, if one were less charitable, it could be described as melodramatic). His colleague looked back at him feebly, but Moncharmin’s gaze penetrated the wall and caused the composer to look back at him with some level of engagement.

“What I am doing is not so important, old chap – books can be balanced any time. And I have seen you in such a state before – taking the air will be quite good for you; it is nothing you cannot take, you salon-frequenting fiend.” Richard only moaned again in response and pulled his compress over his eyes. After a moment of looking at him, Moncharmin went back to his books before letting out a little guffaw.

“You mean to say you had your way with our hostess’ niece? Why, you sly little sea-dog, I should never have expected it of you!”

Richard only smiled wryly and raised an eyebrow. “It is not the first time she and I have been seated together, my good chap. We have been acquainted for years – why else should she leave her husband in Limoges when coming in to town to see her aunt?” Moncharmin smiled and shook his head. “Well, I never.”

***

It was downstairs, with the to-ing and the fro-ing and the sawing and the door-slamming that the gentlemen ventured for answers to the questions that ought to have been asked the night before. If the mysterious guest knew of goings-on backstage before the managers then he must have a backstage connection himself, the men reasoned, and so they ventured forth, deep into their domain, for answers.

Truly, there is no repose for the hard-working manager who has suffered at his quarry. If the footfalls caused pain to Richard, it was Moncharmin who suffered now. The man looked a little queasy now that he was on his feet, and it clearly took great focus for him to stop his knees from knocking. He had been quite right about Richard, however; and though the man was suffering a little from any loud and surprising noise he was noticeably less pallid. There were croissant-crumbs in his moustache and the gentleman was much capable of speech.

The managers questioned their workers about first the death, and then the party-crasher from the night before. Although they gave full and frank answers to the questions about Joseph Buquet, the men were shifty cast their eyes downwards at even the gentlest prompting about who the mysterious figure might have been. “Ask Madame Giry” was the only answer the managers could get, except mumbles.

“Am I to take that as a suggestion that one Madame Giry is the guilty party?”

At this, the men spoke with fervour. “No sir, not her sir. Only that she’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Richard took a break from looking louche and wan behind his colleague to shout, briefly, a demand for answers. The result of this was that one brave man stepped forward in the ranks, turning and twiddling his hands before him as he tried to meet their gaze.

“Look, sir, it’s like this, sir. We don’t like to talk about –“ the man stopped abruptly and looked around, before picking his train of speech back up in a whisper, “We don’t like to talk about the ghost. That’s what happened to Joe, see, he didn’t stop talking about him, and we all liked to hear it, he – Joe – had a great skill for talking large, a very funny man, god rest his soul and bless his wife. Anyway, the, uh, the ghost heard Joe talking, and we none of us know if it’s murder or suicide, but we know that it’s because He wasn’t happy with Joe talking that way, so I think I speak for all of us when I say that we ain’t saying anything. We cared for him proper, like – took him out real respectful, got up a collection for his wife – but I think we’d all breathe easier if we never had to mention it again, and not in these walls, at least.”

“But Madame Giry…” and there it was, that expressive eyebrow raise, that asked a question when no question was asked danced on Richard’s face.

“Madame Giry is the only one who can talk freely on such a, uh, prickly, a, uh, delicate, subject, due to her being His keeper. She knows the, uh,” he mouthed the word slowly, “ghost… she knows His wishes better than any of the rest of us, like.”

Moncharmin pursed his lips and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled deeply.

“Who is Madame Giry and how exactly does she ‘keep’ a ghost?”

This question excited a few stifled laughs from the gathered men, who nudged their foreman to speak.

“She keeps his box, sirs. An Opera Ghost must naturally watch the productions from somewhere, and she keeps his box.”

At this, Richard could not help but exclaim. “Oh, this is preposterous, gentlemen! La! You mean to tell me that this ghost has a box at the Opera? Has he an account at La Galleria also? Does he dress himself at Jermyn Street and take a Grand Tour holiday?”

Another man peeked up from the crowd, further back.

“That’s all we know, Sirs, and we ain’t gonna say no more.”

A rumble of assent worked its way across the gathered workers. It wasn’t clear who it was that had spoken, but it was clear that they spoke for the assembled mass, so Firmin Richard gave an imperious wave then turned heel. Moncharmin gave a short bow to his workers, then sped after his colleague. The men looked around at each other, shaking their heads, and it was decided that there would be a coffee break before returning to their labours after such an interruption.

For the managers, it was a brisk walk back to the office. Richard had a large stride, so much so that although Moncharmin walked fast next to him every five-or-so steps the shorter man had to make a little skipping motion and break into a momentary run to keep up. Poor Remy, the junior-clerk who had been promoted, with this change of administration, to the Secretary of the Opera-Managers, was shuffle-running behind them, pointing his finger out and getting ready to speak whenever they came to a corner.

The door slammed closed in front of poor Monsieur Remy and he stood, mouth agape, papers in hand. Momentarily it opened again, but before Remy could gather himself Firmin Richard’s powerful voice declared,

“Send for Madame Giry!”

And just like that, the door was closed once more, with poor Remy on the wrong side, awkwardly holding forth a letter inked in neat, vermillion text. Luckily for Remy, he would not need to disturb his employers to pass on the letter, for its duplicate lay on the other side of the door.

***