The Search

Peering through the curtained window, Giry was surprised at the sight upon her door step. A bedraggled girl, her hair in a lazy chignon with loose curls sticking out here and there, stood behind the front door with a look of anxiety across her plain face. She recognized the girl as Brigitte, Christine's maid and apparent friend, a fact that often drew an unsolicited jealous ire. Christine had needed a close friend these last few months and Brigitte had been it. But what was this girl doing here at her door late in the hour and without a patron?

Twisting the knob, she opened the door and greeted Brigitte warmly.

"Brigitte! How unexpected."

"Mam'zelle Giry, I apologize for the late hour." She offered no other explanation, just shifted from foot to foot awkwardly.

"Please, call me Meg. Do come in. You can leave your shoes on the mat. Maman is particular about her floors. Here, let me take your coat."

"Thank you," Brigitte replied quickly. "Is your mother home?"

"No, she is at the opera house. Rehearsals run longer the closer it gets to opening night."

"Hannibal?"

"The Magic Flute."

"Ah."

The truth was, she was disappointed to find the younger Giry here. She had hoped to speak to Antoinette herself as she had been closer to the Phantom – Erik – than Meg had. But perhaps Christine had spoken to Meg? Brigitte was unsure of how to extract information from the girl (if there was anything to garner at all). As they walked to the parlour and Meg bustled about, preparing tea and instructing Brigitte how best to accommodate herself, Brigitte turned over all the information she had about Meg in her mind. She had met Meg a handful of times and they had got on well enough. There was not a lot to know, but Brigitte did recall that Meg had been somewhat sympathetic about Erik and Christine's relationship.

Meg carefully poured Brigitte a hot cup of tea and placed it at the small round table that stood in front of the parlour sofa where she sat. Curiosity was practically killing her but she managed to hold her tongue and go through the necessary social rigors.

"Sugar or milk?"

"No, thank you."

"Lemon?"

"You are too kind. This is sufficient."

"It is quite cold out."

"Yes, it is." Brigitte sipped her tea and silence fell upon the two. Meg had never had Christine's quiet patience and Brigitte seemed in no hurry to loosen her lips, so she got up and poured herself a tea and added a thimbleful of brandy. She turned to Brigitte and raised the decanter. Brigitte nodded.

"I like to indulge when Maman is away. Silly, I know, but it makes me feel …"

"Older?"

"Dangerous," Meg replied as she poured brandy into Brigitte's cup.

Dangerous, like the Phantom, Brigitte wanted to ask but bit her tongue. Instead she spared a small giggle.

The fell into pleasant conversation, discussing the latest news from the Louis XIV Opera where Madama Giry was ballet mistress and Meg, a dancer. Meg entertained her guest with thoughtful anecdotes about Christine and Meg's time at the Opera Populaire. It was not long before both parties ran out of idle things to chat about and silence echoed.

Taking another sip of her tea, Meg asked, "Do you drink often?"

"Christ, no, I'm no lout," Brigitte replied thoughtlessly. Her cheeks coloured at her lack of repose but Meg giggled.

"Of course not. The drink is considered men's sport, but I find it quite relaxing. Warms my blood and enlivens the spirit."

"I agree. Christine and I used to partake in a glass of Scotch when family was away." Meg gasped at her admission and Brigitte smiled softly. Scotch was considered explicitly a men's drink, whereas gin was for the women. She shrugged. "It gave us a sense of adventure, what with the shackles of propriety at every turn."

"Christine did not like that much?" Truly, that Christine drank Scotch occasionally did not shock her so much as her ignorance of it did. She had missed Christine dearly since her marriage to Raoul, and these bits of information warmed her heart.

"No, it was not -- it was others, you know? They never let her forget that she was not one of them. All the better for her, but they made her believe she was not … They never let her forget."

"I miss her."

Brigitte looked up into Meg's red-rimmed eyes. She moved a little closer to the girl and motioned for her to sip her drink. Meg complied and took a deep breath.

"Excuse my ignorance, but it is late and … you have never visited before."

Brigitte had prepared her speech in her mind prior to coming to the Giry household but she found herself at a loss now. Standing up, she made her way to the serving cart and poured herself and Meg another cup of tea sparked with brandy.

"Well," she began, settling back into the couch, "I miss her too and I came because I wondered what you knew."

Puzzlement coloured Meg's pretty features. "Pardon?"

"Meg, may I ask you something in confidence?"

"Yes," Meg whispered, her eyes huge. She cleared her throat and repeated confidently, "Yes, you may."

"I had hoped to speak to your mother as she knew more about the situation than yourself but I wonder … did Christine speak of her happiness?"

"Her happiness? What do you mean?"

"Her marriage, her state of mind. Did she appear content to you?"

"Well …" Meg leaned back into the couch, the warmth of the brandy flowing freely though her veins now. "She never spoke outside of what was expected. I suppose her sense of propriety kept her from her truer admissions but …"

"But you knew she was unhappy?" Brigitte finished.

Meg nodded quietly.

"Did you ever ask her of the source of her despair?"

"She -- I would inquire in privacy but we never – she was never alone much. I know Christine. I have known her since she was a child and she keeps her suffering between herself and God. She figures problems are better sorted through in the privacy of ones thoughts and God's grace. But she never …"

Brigitte nodded, taking this all in. Christine had evidently not spoken to of her and Erik's affair in Bordeaux to Meg, therefore this made Brigitte's line of questioning all the more important. She did not know if she could trust Meg with the information of Erik's existence yet. She feared Meg would tell her mother who, in turn, would tell Raoul. Raoul's reaction would be swift and vengeful. Brigitte had considered that Erik himself was the source of Christine's misery but she had also considered that he was the key to her happiness as well. If Raoul were to muddle in affairs before things were resolved … My God, I do not even know if Christine is with Erik. The uncertainty with which she was to proceed overwhelmed Brigitte and she let out a great sigh. If she did not ask, she would never know.

"Do you love her?"

"Pardon? Of course!"

"Meg," she began slowly, "what did you know of Christine's relationship with the Phantom of the Opera?"

Startled at the course the conversation has shifted to, Meg sat back stunned.

"I'm sorry?"

"The Phantom. Christine said –"

"I heard you quite well, Brigitte." Pausing, Meg replied, "I knew as much as any Parisian did. He was a madman. His obsession with Christine brooked rapture and turned into something entirely more dangerous."

"Did Christine love him?"

"My goodness! Why would you ask such a thing?"

"You know nothing else about the Phantom beyond what the papers have written?"

Meg crossed her arms, slightly irritated. "No."

"But Madame Giry – your mother. She knew him quite well."

"What does this have to do with Christine?"

The two young women stared at one another, both unwilling to budge an inch. Brigitte was entirely sure that Meg was lying about what she knew about Erik and Meg was positive that Brigitte was not telling her everything.

"Please, I … I think it will help Christine."

"Help her how?" Meg sighed, exasperated. "She ran away. She was unhappy and she ran away. It was her choice."

"Do you really believe that, Meg?"

"I believe the word of Raoul de Chagny. Do you call him a liar?"

"I do not."

"Well?"

"You said earlier that when Christine was troubled, she believed in solving her turmoil herself."

Meg stared at Brigitte, realization slowly sinking in. It was true that Christine was not the type to run away, but the two women had drifted apart since her union to Raoul. Meg had seen her changed in a way. It had struck her as very odd that she had chosen to run away from Raoul, Paris, everyone, but not unlikely.

Meg closed her eyes and pinched her forehead. "You are saying that you believe Christine did not run away? That she," Meg broke off, laughing, "She was spirited away by the Opera Ghost himself?"

Meg's chuckles died off and silence descended on the pair. Brigitte's face was as resigned and as serious as it had ever been. Meg did not regard Brigitte as a very serious girl so her reaction sobered her.

"You must help me."

Bewildered and panicked, Meg grabbed a fistful of her skirts and began twisting them furiously. "You cannot be grave."

"I am as grave as Death himself."

Stunned, Meg chewed her lip. "On what basis does your logic lie?"

"I cannot tell you everything as it is right now. When will your mother be home?"

Meg glanced at the grandfather clock perched at the south wall and replied, "Soon."

"Then I must go."

"But you said you wanted to –"

"I did, but … something has occurred to me." Standing, Brigitte shook out her conservative skirts and passed a hand through her loose hair. Meg stood as was customary, staring at Brigitte with a look of utter confusion. This girl was strange, no doubt, but this is preposterous!

"You must do me a favour." At the doubtful expression on Meg's face, Brigitte added, "Please trust me. I was Christine's closest friend." Meg ducked her head, but Brigitte took her hands in hers and gave a warm squeeze. "You must trust me."

Something about the quiet desperation and hope in Brigitte's eyes gave Meg pause and she nodded unthinkingly.

"You know your mother better than I ever could and she knew Erik."

"Erik?"

"The Phantom."

He had a name? "Erik," she repeated the name softly as the two walked to the hallway. Something in the recesses of her mind stirred but she could not place her finger on it. Meg absently handed Brigitte her coat.

"Yes, Erik," Brigitte repeated, shrugging on her coat. "I think she may some idea of his whereabouts, but do not ask directly."

Dazed, Meg replied, "Of course not."

"No, just simply …" Brigitte trailed off, the kinks in her reworked plan showing. "Do what you can. I fear that where Erik is, Christine must surely be."

Stepping out of the warm house into the chilly September air, Brigitte prepared to leave but Meg's voice called out.

"Do you think she is in danger?"

Brigitte stopped fiddling with her coat and sighed. Did she? Christine's story of the Phantom's reign over the Opera Populaire had been harrowing at times but there was something in her eyes whenever she spoke of him. A kind of gentle glee, as if she were drifting away in the most pleasant of memories.

Sighing, Brigitte said, "No. But I do not think she left willingly either."

Meg stood in the doorway, watching as Brigitte disappeared into the dark. Meg stood there long after Brigitte's shadow melted into the moonlight and she was alone with nothing to accompany her but the night breeze and her thoughts.

………………….

The Comte de Chagny loved his son. Besides being bound by blood, Raoul was also heir to the de Chagny's fortune and the crown title once his older son, Philippe, stepped down or passed – whichever came first. His wife had died when Raoul was very young and Philippe was nearing eighteen. The Comte knew Raoul had shared with his wife the bond of shared loss and for that he had been sympathetic. But Raoul was a Chagny and Christine was a commoner. A butterfly was still a caterpillar for all its pretty adornment. Some things would never change.

Gaston placed the envelope filled with crisp bills and a few important dockets on the oak table and tapped the wood with finality. Christian, the man had alleged was his name, took the envelope and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. The smarmy man's face lit up like a Christmas tree and he shook the Comte's hand. Gaston smirked disdainfully.

"It is done then. You know where to begin?"

"Yes sir. At the opera house."

"And whom will you be looking for?"

Christian stuttered, unable to recall the target's name, and the Comte glared at the insolent man. He hated having to resort to consorting with gypsy criminals (was there any other kind?) but it was necessary if his son was to be protected. Word had not yet leaked that Christine had abandoned Raoul. Gaston had cleverly put a stop to gossip before it began by explaining Christine's absence as mere sickness. She had been ordered, you see, to the country to recover from a small bout of pneumonia. Since Christine was not of noble blood and thus more likely to retain illness, no questions were asked. Staff were paid for their silence and peace had persisted. However, Christine could not be sick forever.

"Christophe – "

"Christian."

The Comte fixed the gypsy with a look so severe, the man appeared to shrink before his eyes.

"I have anticipated that you would lack the cerebral capacity to understand my simple instructions so I have enclosed all the information that you need in the envelope. Any more questions about what you are to do, you will find the answers inside. Under no circumstances are we to meet eyes again until the job is completed. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Report back with developments to a man at the Banc de Paris at the south corner of the Cirque. I will give you his name, but I dare you not to speak it unless at the bank itself."

"Yes sir."

"Now, you will go to the opera house and interrogate the woman and report what you have found to the banker in three days time."

Christian nodded his assent. Comte Gaston gathered his coat about his shoulders and turned to leave. The gypsy was thumbing through the envelope's contents, greedily soaking up the sight of the money when a thought occurred to him.

"The opera lady," he called out. "Madame Giry. How serious are we talking?"

The Comte considered this, weighing the consequences of either action. "Keep that one alive."

"Oh."

The Comte opened the door to leave but was stopped once again by the idiot's rough, uncultured voice.

"The banker's name? What is it?"

The Comte closed the door solidly and faced the gypsy once more.

"Dimitri Kvelsak."