Fantôme – Chapter 4, Part 2

It only took a moment for Moncharmin to notice the heavy linen-white paper envelope at the top of the pile where his numerical scrawls had been.

“Richard, did you lock this office when we left?”

“You watched me, my fine fellow. Why, you watched me unlock it just now!”

“Then how, my good man, have we a new correspondence here?”

Moncharmin took the envelope over to the couch. Richard swung his feet around and up on to the footstool to allow his colleague to sit down before pulling out his pocket-knife and handing it to Moncharmin. Moncharmin opened the letter and the men pored over it, the florid, curlicued red letters obfuscating the words. The men began reading it together, then Moncharmin took the letter, then handed it to Richard who, with some squinting and the occasional appeal to Moncharmin to decipher a word, read aloud:

Messrs Moncharmin & Richard,

It has come to my understanding that you are the new managers of the Opera. Congratulations on your post, and it is my sincere wish that you do well in your term. I have been a patron and a protector of the Opera for many years now, and I have the same terms for you as I did for your predecessors, and theirs before them. Listen well.

I require roughly F4200 per month, or F50000 per year.[1] This will be paid from your pocket or through the Opera’s expenses, whichever pleases you more. In the accounts-book you have been studying so diligently this morning, you will have seen a ledger in red ink. These expenses are me. In order to make your tenancy easier, and ensure I am kept well, I keep the record of how much you have paid me, and whether you choose to do so in instalments or in a lump sum will be duly noted and accounted for. I myself have no preference, as long as my income is paid to me.

Secondly, Box Five is to be reserved for me at every performance. I am a music-lover, and this is the box with the best acoustics. It will continue, until further notice, to be kept by Madame Giry.

The last of my terms is that you listen to me as regards the artistic direction of the Opera. I do not often demand a change to the programme or a the development of new talent, so heed this.

The young soprano Christine Daaé has shown a great development of talent. She ought to sing regularly. I understand that Carlotta must be retained, and I do not demand her replacement, but Mademoiselle Daaé has a prodigious talent and must perform. She need not sing the lead, but she must sing regularly that she may develop into the world-leading performer I know she will become. Already she will draw crowds if you advertise her – give her what you can.

Let us develop a friendship, gentlemen; or at the very least, a working partnership. The Opera weighs even larger in my heart than in yours – it is my home, and all its matters concern me. Do not attempt to hide from me, as any deceit will be discovered and repaid upon you a thousand fold.

But – I do not mean to threaten. There is no need to assent to these demands, I shall take your agreement for granted. Madame Giry will tell you how your predecessors went about paying me.

Yours,

And this was in an imperfect, jagged print:

Opera Ghost (O. G.)

The men were gobsmacked by this letter, and sat in silence when Richard finished reading. Neither of them knew how long went until the door knocked, but it sent the pair into a flurry of motion – Richard leaped up to open the door, and Moncharmin shuffled over to the table to unhook his glasses and leave them in a sensible place. It was, of course, Remy, proffering his copy of the letter and announcing the arrival of the requested woman. As he drew his breath in to speak, Richard spoke. He looked straight past his assistant, barked “Madame Giry?” and, as she nodded but before she could vocally assent, whisked the woman into the study faster than a waltzing couple. Remy, once again, found himself looking at the closed door of the office, letter in hand, with a facial expression like the fish in the koi pond at the Japanese embassy.

Inside, Madame Giry found herself with two gentlemen who seemed, to her, like perfect opposites. At the desk was Armand Moncharmin, whose demeanour was gentle and warm. His white shirt was slightly yellowed by tobacco smoke and his hands had small patches of faded blue where he had fastidiously scrubbed the ink from them. He bowed a short bow and said, in his soothing voice, ‘Madame Giry’. Behind her, at the door, was Firmin Richard, who stood straight and tall and well-groomed. If Moncharmin’s voice was honey, Richard’s was pepper – cracked and sharp and with a spicy heat behind it. His bow was staccato and practised from his years on the stage, the epitome of studied politeness, but it put Madame Giry on edge. She kept her eyes down, and curtseyed.

“I was surprised to hear you send for me this morning, gentlemen, for I was on my way to you.”

She was grateful that it was honey-soft Moncharmin who answered her.

“Oh, Madame? What need have you for us today?”

“Only a letter, sir, that I must deliver.”

Moncharmin smiled and gestured to his colleague, who took the letter Madame Giry fished from her pocket, slightly crumpled.

“Please, Madame, take a seat whilst Monsieur Richard reads – the couch is yours.”

“Devil take us, Moncharmin! It is quite the duplicate of the one we just read! It has the same hand, the same peculiar ink – and the very same wording! Why, I do not know what to think.”

“Madame,” said Moncharmin, “who gave you this letter? Was it the old managers, readying some prank?”

Madame Giry was shocked. “Sirs, this is no prank. The letter was left in Box 5, as all the others have been

Firmin exhaled deeply. “I expect theatre-workers to be superstitious. Those down-below, we know which of Shakespeare’s they won’t speak the name of and that they’re particular about certain areas of the basements. But you, Madame, work with the educated and fashionable people of the audience, and must know better than this. And I certainly don’t believe that Debienne and Poligny went in for Opera Ghost nonsense. Please, Madame, tell us who is really behind the letter.”

Madame Giry turned to Moncharmin, who shook his head a little. “I must say, I am with my colleague here

“Just because I am out front doesn’t mean that I don’t know Opera goings-on! Why, I know them better than anyone! Humbug indeed. Why, you gentlemen don’t seem to know how volatile the Phantom is, and how powerful!”

“Well you see, Richard, the whole thing is settled – for those are the exact words used by Poligny to describe your gentlemen friend last night. I am sure that this is an elaborate prank. Madame Giry is simply using the words that were used to her.”

The colour drained from Madame Giry’s face. “You met him, sir?”

“Yes, my good lady, at dinner last night. He was quite uninvited – at least, by the hostess.”

“You met him outside of the Opera?” She muttered, and crossed herself. Richard rolled his eyes at his colleague, who walked over to the couch and laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder, to quiet her.

“Tell us your side of the story, Madame. You are, er, a servant to the ghost?”

“I believe, Sirs, if I may, that I am more than that!” Mrs Giry puffed herself up pompously, straightening her frills, “I acts as something of a liason, Sirs, between Himself and the Managers. At least, I did with the last pair.”

Richard spoke, from across the room. “So, you have seen him?”

His question disturbed Madame Giry, who looked up at him wide-eyed, “Oh no, sir. I only heard him, never seen him.” She turned back to Moncharmin, “Although I can say, sir, that they never believed him at first neither.”

“Who, my dear lady?”

“The old managers. Yes, they were quite like you at first, all disbelieving, like. But he’s a powerful customer, and they came around after Guy Frossard.”

“… And what did Guy do, Madame?”

“It is what happened to him, sir! He was right powerful injured when they didn’t listen to the Phantom and he put them right.”

This time it was Richard, exasperated, who answered her. “You are going to need to tell us more than that, madame, for we know nothing of the story.”

“Well, sirs. The Phantom, he told them he wanted to see Faust.” She turned to Moncharmin, “that’s his favourite, you know. Anyways, they didn’t, and when their show came on, he switched the set to the proper one and played the music for Faust himself. Nobody in the audience was any the wiser, but in all the confusion backstage Guy Frossard was hit square in the shoulders by a set piece that was being hauled in the air.”

“A confusion backstage, then.” Richard saw Madame Giry about to put him right, and quickly added, “Supernaturally precipitated, of course. Is that all?”

“No, sir. After that, the old managers decided to see what all the fuss was about, so they went to Box 5, his box, which,” and here, again, she sat up straight and puffed her chest out, “I have for many years now served exclusively, and which we never sell. Anyway, I was given the night off and they went to Box 5 for the show, and I don’t know what happened that night, but I’m powerful sure they encountered Him, for they never crossed him again.”

After a few moment’s silence, Moncharmin spoke again. “So you do not see the ghost?”

“No, sir.”

“And when he speaks to you, what does he say?”

“He tells me to bring him a footstool.”

Richard spluttered, “A footstool! For a ghost?”

Madame Giry was unmoved by his surprise. “For his lady, sir.”

“You serve him very well.”

“He tips generously, sir, and I believe that he is powerful enough to…” she bowed her head into her lap, and the men looked at one another in confusion.

“Powerful enough to what, Madame?”

“Well… he never told me not to tell. It was in my first year of service to him, see, and he left me an envelope with a tip, as he does. But in this one, he also left a letter. It was a list of all the little ballet girls who’ve made good matches! And my Meg, little Meg Giry, she’s a ballet girl here at the Opera, earning enough to keep the whole family, bless her, ever since my husband died. My salary goes on Meg’s dresses and shoes and such. Anyway, at the bottom of this list of sweet things who became ladies in England and contessas in Italy was my little Meg’s name, in that spidery print of his. It said, ‘Meg Giry – PRINCESS” and, I figure, he has the power to make it happen, and I never seen him do wrong by me or God, so I’ll serve him and make my girl a wealthy princess.”

“Thank you, Madame Giry.” Moncharmin put his hand on hers. “You have been open and honest with us today. Would you be happy to go about your business straight from here?” She was nodding, but Moncharmin continued. “No, of course not. You must take your daughter – she will not be in lessons until this afternoon, I believe? You must take your daughter for tea and cake. Here, Madame, I shall give you the morning off and a small pecuniary gift from the Opera, as a thank you for your service to us this morning. No, no – there is no need to thank me, it is only proper. Go, now.” He pressed a crisp 10-franc note into her hand and closed the door behind her. He leaned backwards, his eyes to the heaven and his seat falling to the floor.

“Lord, that woman. I do not want to hear her speak again.”

“It is quite clear to me,” said Richard, “that Madame Giry is simple. The old managers kept her on, tending to an empty box, out of respect for her years of service her late husband’s contributions, and so that her daughter may stay in the academy. I, however, have no such sentimentality for her feelings – we shall pension her off, and sell the box. She will no longer have to work but it will be as if she did. And the profit we make from selling the empty box shall more than pay for it.”

“What of this prank that has been left to us by the old managers, then?”

“Well, that is certainly very droll. We shall play along next time we see them, I think, and have them admit it was a hoax.”

“If you are sure we will not look humbug, my dear fellow?”

“I think we should look more humbug had we no sense of humour about it, my friend. Let’s to the Box Office, and get that embargo on Box 5 lifted.”

With a lighter heart, Richard clapped Moncharmin on the back and the gentlemen left their office. As Moncharmin locked the door behind them, Remy, seeing that this might be the only moment, pushed himself forward with the letter and handed it to the manager. Richard took a cursory glance at the envelope and its unusual hand and colour, and dismissed his secretary.

“My boy,” he sighed, “we have two the duplicate of this already.”

Remy could say nothing – he merely looked down in the letter, still in his hands, as the managers strode away.

[1] F50,000 translated at the demise of the Franc to roughly €8000, which, with inflation, could be up to £750,000 in today’s money.