Phantom Nocturne (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfic)

4. Capriccio

Whispers quickly spread throughout the troupe:

"It is the ghost! The opera ghost!" young Meg Giry proclaims.

"Yes, it must be he!" a fellow dancer cries.

"Silence, Marguerite. Do not speak of things you do not know," her mother reprimands flatly.

"Oh, but it was the ghost, Madame," Little Jammes insists. "I've seen him myself! Skin as pale as a corpse, with claws for hands and eyes like rubies." The boy's own eyes are round with honest fright.

"He haunts the theater in search of his lost love!"

"Nay, he seeks victims to serve him in the spirit realm."

"Hush ladies and gentlemen, please!" M. Debienne requests with arms raised in plea. "It was simply an accident—entirely corporeal in nature—nothing more. There is no ghost."

Disbelieving murmurs permeate the crowd, but they cease readily when M. Poligny joins his fellow manager and pins the assemblage with his severe glare. "We shall set everything to rights regarding safety about the rigging with all due haste, however, the immediate issue at hand is our precipitous lack of a principal soprano. As you all know, the opening gala is imminent. We absolutely cannot delay proceedings. It—"

He halts abruptly as Mme. Giry steps forward. What is said between them cannot be heard, as they conduct their conversation at an inaudibly low volume, but their eyes flicker to me on occasion. I am certainly the subject of their dialogue, though I haven't the faintest why that may be. It is a disconcerting feeling, and I must lock my knees in place to prevent myself shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

When M. Debienne joins their discussion, my disquiet grows to an extent that I wonder if I've swallowed a fish whole. The repellant quivering in my belly feels much like the death throes of a poor aquatic creature.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," M. Debienne addresses me directly.

I step forward quietly. "Yes, Monsieur Debienne?"

"We have been informed that you would be a suitable candidate to replace Madame Carlotta. It is said that you've been studying under a great master these many years. Is this true?"

My eyes flit to M. Giry hesitantly. I did not know she was aware of my lessons with the Angel. She nods, urging me to answer.

"It is true, Monsieur."

"Sing for us then, Mademoiselle. Habanera, act one, if you please," he instructs. "Come now, child. Don't be shy," he reassures kindly when I hesitate, dipping my head shyly.

"Some accompaniment for her if you will, Monsieur Bruyere."

I clear my throat softly as M. Bruyere settles himself at the pianoforte. When he reaches the appropriate measure of the song, I join in, hesitantly at first. Then, when no one interrupts, I let the music take me just as my Angel has taught me.

I am unaware that my singing has ceased until the voice of M. Debienne startles me. "Superb! You'll do splendidly, my dear," he trills. "Report to the dresser at once so she may see to your wardrobe. Carlotta's former dressing room shall be cleared forthwith and you may install yourself there shortly."

Overcome with astonishment, I blink vacantly and mumble my thanks. Suddenly, I have become the new prima donna for the Opéra de Paris.