Fantôme – Chapter 7, Part 2

since it has been some time since Fantôme updated, you may care to begin here or here to refresh your memory. if you know the story so far, however… proceed.

“Ay! Good god!” exclaimed Carlotta, her hand over her heart. She narrowed her pretty, kohl-rimmed eyes at the familiar figure in her doorway.

“Madame. I would not disregard those red-inked letters. Their writer is… volatile, and loyal to a fault. He has chosen Daaé over you, and I counsel you to accept whatever bargain he proposes.”

Carlotta had seen, but never heard, the dark gentleman, who slipped all around the Opera and the depths of backstage. Had his foreign countenance not set him apart then his neat tailoring and over-polite gestures would certainly have shown that he belonged not with the workmen and the sewists, yet his seriousness and quiet demeanour made him distinct from the patrons, and he seemed to fit nowhere. Carlotta had previously disregarded him as a status-chaser with no love of art, and she had clearly been correct in this assumption if he sided with the little trilling bird above the Prima Donna. His lilting accent spoke of places far from Europe, but instead of being intrigued Carlotta heard the contempt dripping from his polite, over-enunciated speech. Carlotta’s heart pounded in her chest as she rose and glided over to the door, but her resolve to slam it in his face fell about her feet when she realised that there was no soul but he in the corridor. She would not be backed into a corner, and she knew all too well about provoking rage in men. In a fluid movement she pulled her muff from the hook behind the door and barged past the almost-stranger. Turning to him, her passionate artist’s eyes flashing, she spoke with some indignation in her voice: “Sir, I will not be intimidated, nor will I stand aside from a position that we must both remember I have earned. My friends will support me, for I have earned their friendship also, and many of them are to be considered, as well as connoisseurs of fine singing, influential enough to weather a storm in any jurisdiction. Good day.”

The figure only doffed his hat and leaned against the door jamb. She felt his eyes, as expressive as her own, boring into her as she walked to the postbox outside of the Opera. Mercifully Carlotta still wore outdoor clothes, not a wrap: the full, long dress covered her indoor slippers, covered the trepidation she felt at casting aside his… threat?

Had she looked back, she may have read pity in his eyes.

***

Just as Lachanel had foretold, there was no evidence of any struggle in the stable, nor was there evidence of any work. There were several horses, chewing the cud, and a powerful stench of wet fur and animal feed, but no grooms at work. Lachnel gestured abundantly as Moncharmin stroked the snout of a grey-dappled Araby and nodded; Richard stayed as far as possible from the beasts and the hay and the water-trough, barely in the room with the other men until an ostler in a flat cap came behind him and the manager darted out of the way in surprise.

At this late addition to their party, the head groom went spare: his excessive use of gesture bubbled over into raving as he shouted at the man “what time do you call this” and “see, I brought the managers to terminate your employment” and “you have taken advantage for the last time”. Richard and Moncharmin caught one another’s eyes in disbelief, but then Moncharmin saw the crooked smile on the ostler’s face, seeing the same impudence as his employee must deal with regularly.

“No, sir – these managers will not fire me any more than the last ones did.” He walked to hang up his jacket, and as he was facing away he added, “Lachnel, your voice disturbs the horses.”

“Insolence!” countered the enraged groom. “Upstart!”

“Well!” said Moncharmin, backing away from the little filly whose hooves were indeed beginning to display an agitation. “I believe we have seen all that we need to.”

“I look forward to never seeing the faces of these little men again!” roared Lachnel. “I will hire my own boys; young boys, who love animals and know their place and mine in the damn hierarchy, who know that the better they serve good men then the nicer the horses they will train and groom shall be! Who know what it is to take pride in an animal! Oh, Cesar, I hope your thief treats you well… I hope to god none of the gentlemen’s horses we tend for visitors go the same way…”

At this, Moncharmin ceased his retreat suddenly.

“Are they likely to?”

A shrug. “No, sir. I treat them like my own – better, even. But with these uncaring brutes around, who can say for sure?”

“Mmmm… quite…” was Moncharmin’s response. “We shall likely not be back later, but will send a runner with those termination letters.” As Lachnel made an exaggerated bow, the managers left.

It was two staircases up before either man broke the silence, but Richard could bear it no longer.

“We terminate Lachnel as well, do we not?”

“Of course, my good man. You think stress is an excuse to exhibit such passion? No, we shall have them all sent away – the under-grooms may leave today, then Lachnel when he has trained up competent staff. We simply cannot have such country manners in our refined House.”

By the time these gentlemen had climbed and puffed their way back up to their office on the second floor they were ready for a quiet moment, so it disheartened them enormously to find a visitor waiting outside their door. It was Moncharmin who greeted her, as Richard was too busy rolling his eyes. He was overly demonstrative to the lady, who did not see in that action what his partner did.

“Noble Madame Giry! I see a true Opera patroness here, one who cannot be kept away! Take my hands – Richard, open the door – and tell me what it is that brings you back in your retirement. Can we get you tickets to a show? Little Meg is entrancing on the stage, it is surely a sight her mother must behold. Come, Madame, sit before our fire as you tell us what it is that we can do for you.”

Madame Giry, in her same best dress as before but with a new doodad affixed to her hideous Victorian hat, was rendered speechless in the fluidity of the tidal motion that swept her from indignantly waiting outside of the office to warm by the fire inside, squeezed onto the couch alongside Firmin Richard as Moncharmin took the armchair. Richard was poking the fire, Moncharmin was making tea, and neither seemed ready to listen to her even as they egged her on to speak.

“Well, sirs, it’s like this…”

“Oh I’m sure it is, Madame. Would you like a cup?”

“… why, yes, sir, I suppose I would, though I don’t suppose I would like lemon with it. I once tried lemon and it was rather much in flavour, but I don’t believe folks like you would put orange slices in a tea. No, sir, plain it is for me, and I shall be grateful for such luxuries as God gave them to us. But I must show you…”

“Oh yes, you simply must, but here is your tea, first, Madame, sans lemon, and please, sip as you tell us your thoughts.”

After a heavy slurp, Madame Giry sighed and began, “Well, I got another letter from the Ghost, and he says…”

The gentlemen exchanged a look, and Firmin Richard felt his blood begin to rise. Perhaps it was the difficult morning, or the freshly-stoked fire bringing it to the boil, but he did not want to hear about the damn fool Opera Ghost today.

Moncharmin laid the most honey in his voice that he could, however, and asked Madame Giry “Please, do go on.” He leaned forward to attend her words.

The lady fished a letter out of her reticule, written in that same red writing the managers had become accustomed to seeing.

“I never had Him write me with a stamp before, don’t know how he got my home address, but I knew it was Him straight away, like you do sir. I see how you look at it, and at him too, and I know the feeling that comes with dealing with Him, so I understand, even if I don’t know what to call it.”

“Trepidation, perhaps; or mutinous. Tell me, madame, what your letter said.”

“Well, same as all of them, to be quite honest with you: he wants you to stage Faust (I did say it was his favourite), and he says, in no uncertain terms this time, that if you do not put that singer on (I forget her name) and do not give him his box back, then the production is cursed, that was his word exactly, and he asked me to be sure that you heard this message and understand the gravity of the situation.”

“Christine Daaé?” asked Richard, his eyebrow raised, and Madame put her cup down to turn bodily to him.

“Yes sir, that’s the lady, I knew you’d have been getting messages another way, he’s a very fastidious… um…”

“Yes, we too wish to refer to the spectre as a man, so you should feel free to speak about him that way in our presence.” Richard sounded as stretched-thin and arch as he looked, and Madame looked about her hands.”

“Well, I appreciate your openness, sir, but it’s Him I defer to, not yourself, and I never really discuss him this much so I don’t have the words for Him either.”

Richard only waved dismissively, and Madame turned back to Moncharmin.

“So you see, sir, I don’t mean to bring you a problem, but I take Him seriously, and what with Meg being a dancer and my own late husband being so faithful to the Opera, and it being my source of income in return, I felt compelled to share the warning – even though I knew you’d have already got one of your own – and add my own voice to the choir surely telling you to heed Him, for He has always got His way.”

At this, Richard exploded.

“Madame,” he said, standing up and extending to his full, formidable height, “it is clear to me that you know as well as we do that this is humbug. We have humoured you, bought you lunch and pensioned you, and still you come to us with poppycock stories of ghosts. We, Madame, are your employers, and we demand the respect of straight-talking.”

“Well, sir, I never asked for a pension; I have always been happy to work, like my own mother worked when she raised us. There’s dignity in a job well-done, sir, and He has always been happy with my work.”

At this, Richard was stomping his feet. “Do… not… refer… to… ‘Him’… with… such… REVERENCE!” He stomped on the words, emphasising them and his anger and his closing of the conversation. “Save… that… language… for… CHURCH.” The china flew up, rattling around on the saucers as the elegant side table jolted at the force of his kicks. Madame Giry gathered her shawl around her and stood to leave, bowing small at Monsieur Moncharmin who nodded at her in return, followed by the devil Monsieur Richard. As she left, Madame Giry said plainly, “I feel I have bought some amount of loyalty with my service and patience; were I in your position, sirs, I should fear Him.”

This was too much for poor Richard, overcome was he with such blind rage. “Out!” he screamed. “OUT!” and stomped and kicked and propelled his airborne foot into Madame Giry’s dowager backside, slamming the door behind her.

“Well I never,” said Madame Giry, huffy as she took the familiar corridor. She stopped multiple times on her short journey to the staircase to pout and shake her head, “Never have I ever known such a brute,” and then, “Imagine! To treat an old lady in such a way!” and she touched her behind, unsure if she had imagined the full force of the foot on it, but felt it she had, the foot and its Italianate shoe. She could not think that there was a man in all of Christendom who deserved more the wrath that was about to befall him, though she feared for her beloved Opera, and even more for her only daughter’s safety in the performance.

Back in the office, Moncharmin was already at the desk, Richard’s outburst entirely ignored, attempting to close the myriad problems that the day had presented before the Opera opened for the evening, though he soon found the heavy record books did not allow for the solution he had hoped.

“Oh, heavens. May our problems never cease?”

“What is it, old chap?”

“Look here, the records of employment for our stables: as neatly kept as the others, but with so much less paperwork.”

Richard moved elegantly across the office to the desk of his compatriot and looked over his shoulder.

“See, here,” and Moncharmin flicked backwards through the binder “are the records as they ought to be. These are the servants of the sort you might have at home: char-women, cleaning-maids, the general staff you would expect, with records of time served here, who employed them and any occasions on which they have spoken with the managers, any praise or complaints relating to their service, bonuses paid, that sort of thing. See how they are signed by the departmental managers weekly to say that they have taken their pay-packets to distribute? When we move onwards to the ‘stable’ category, we find incomplete records: see here, we have only the records for Lachnel, and a list of workers who are apparently under contract to the government, not us! Their wages are paid by some Monsieur J. Rapp at the Interior Ministry, and he last signed five years ago.”

“Good grief, are there spies amongst our workers?”

“It certainly seems that way. And, to make matters worse, when I read Lachnel’s records it seems that we cannot get rid of him either, not for harmony: he came to us from the house of M. Debussy, and his references are Monsieur Fallières and Madame la Princesse de Polignac – see, here are their hand-written letters, Fallières sent his on the president’s letterhead. We should be laughed out of the coffee-houses were we to disagree with them! We should never dine out again!”

“It is good we did not say it to his face; how prudent we are as caretakers of this fine establishment!”

“Still, I shall commit some wizardry to paper and try to move the apparent spies from under him and into a new department; if they are unskilled horse-keepers, I do not see why they should vex Lachnel specifically – not now that we know who his benefactors are!”

“Such a politician you are, my friend. I am glad to count your skills among my own in this endeavour!”

“What is your opinion on hiring some low hands to help him?”

“He asked for boys – do any of our staff like Madame Giry have a son who needs employment? It seems that the Opera breeds loyalty through families.”

“Ho ho, sir, now it is you who is the politician! I shall enact this plan forthwith – but first, my dear sir, luncheon?”

“Sir, though it be your voice that speak, it be my wishes spoken. I am always easily riled when I have so great a hunger as I do now.”