Silver -chp 6-

-Chapter 6-
Sitting high above the auditorium in the railing that encircled the chandelier was the deathly muse.  The opium pipe was once more balanced in his hands.  His cloak and dress coat and starched collar had been shed, leaving him in his dress pants and shirt.  The black ribbon still fastened his hair back at the nape of his neck, but a few strands had come lose.  Despite the seemingly relaxed appearance of the Opera Ghost, there was still a foreboding demeanor radiating from him.      
Why had he done it?  Why had he preformed such an act of mercy?  Why not let the girl learn what it was like to be caught in the middle of a pointless brawl?  After all, she had come to this place of her own free will.  She had to learn of the positive and negative aspects of working in a dramatic and artistic landscape such as the Opera House.
Silently, Erik contemplated these questions to himself as he dragged at his opium pipe.  The thoughts did not worry him, but he was curious.  Why had he aided her?
"Because she was noble…" he muttered to himself as trails of blue smoke were freed from his thin lips.
-
Rosette awoke the next morning, quite refreshed to her surprise.  The night had passed by quickly.  She recalled pacing the floors for what seemed like hours before surrendering herself to sleep.
Wrestling her way out of the tangle of covers, she managed to free herself and examine her reflection.  Her short, curly hair sprouted in every direction now.  Rosette could not help but laugh.
The merry sound died quickly, however, when she remembered how she had come upon this room.  After leading that monster off of Andrea's trail, a fight had started.  Then a tall stranger had, in short, carried off Rosette.  Rosette blushed.  Such a statement sounded as if it belonged inside of a cheep novella, or at least a child's fantasy!  It had been so strange, the whole ordeal, and his voice seemed to calm and frighten her all at once.  The entire evening seemed like some sort of dream!
Wiping away the last bits of smudged paint from around her eyes, the young woman opened the door and stepped lightly into the passageway, locking the door behind her.  She tried to remember the path she and her "ghost" had taken.  It did not take her long to realize that all she need do was walk north, up a flight of stairs, continue on the same path, then enter a door into the corridor that she usually took to find the ballerinas' dormitories.  How odd that a room so close was so easily forgotten.  Then again, Rosette was learning that nothing at the Opera House should strike her as odd.
Upon entering the dormitories of the ballerinas, Rosette was assaulted by the smell of cologne and alcohol.  Most of the girls were passed out in their beds.  One girl was curled against the chest of her lover.  
Hiding the key in her trunk, Rosette changed into her trousers and one of her shirts as quietly as possible, then quitted the room.  Having had the sense not to partake in too much of the merry-making of the previous night, Rosette's head was for the most part clear.  She twisted her way through the backstage passageways, stepping over the bottles, costumes, and actors that littered the place.
Finally locating one of the stage doors, she walked outside and was greeted with the crisp morning air.  Breathing in deeply, she relished the clean feeling that filled her lungs.  The atmosphere outside gave her a more positive perception, and she made her way down the streets until she came to a small café.  There she purchased two croissants, a fresh loaf of sweet bread, and two éclairs, then continued her way towards Cyril's.  As mentioned before, it was not a large distance between his shop and the Opera House.
Rosette walked in through the front door as she had so often before, and her musical voice filled the room as she called for her brother.  It was Cyril, however, who answered her.
"Good morning," he said as Rosette walked into the workshop.
"Good morning, Cyril.  I come bearing gifts.  The éclairs are for Aubert and Henri, mind you," she said, winking at him as she set the small package in front of him, then made her way up the stairs.
"Rosette!" Cyril called quickly to her.  She paused on the step and looked down at him.  "Rosette, if it is your brother you are looking for, go no further.  He will see no one."
The woman stood, frozen on the step, somewhat stunned.  
"He will…. See no one?  Ah, I see.  He has taken on the mannerisms of a first class diva.  I have told him too much of my work.  My apologies.  Let me got talk some sense into him."
"No, Rosette," the older man called once more.  "That is not necessary.  I believe the boy is merely feeling poorly.  He wishes to see no one.  Emily already brought him some breakfast, and he hardly touched it.  The boy is a hard worker and has been cheerful the entire time he has been here.  Thus, Emily is quite worried about him.  As well, he requested that you not see him today."  He paused.  "The boy seems very troubled about something, though he will not say what."
As Cyril spoke, Rosette slowly made her way back down the stairs.  She nodded when he finished his short speech.  
"I see… well then, nothing will change his mind once it is made up.  I will come first thing in the morning.  Thank you for taking such good care of him," she said to the man.  He nodded and gave her a reassuring smile, then bade her farewell.  Rosette departed, and returned to the Opera House, heart heavy.  
Once more inside the chest of the imposing structure, Rosette did not pay attention to where her steps led her.  Soon realizing she was on the stage, she sighed and sat down.  Her thoughts gave her no rest.  Had she known what was to happen after the performance, she would have insisted Andrea return home.  She felt ashamed for allowing Andrea to be exposed to and go through something such as that.
With a sigh sliding from her lips, Rosette wandered aimlessly through the Opera House.  No one was up, save for a few of the cleaning ladies who had spent the previous night in their own homes.  It was lonely, but the peace and quite was much appreciated by the young woman, who was struggling through the thoughts of what her brother had seen and gone through.  
Soon, she found herself on the stage.  She had not intended to walk there, but she had nevertheless arrived there.  Looking out from the stage, her eyes swept across the long rows of scarlet velvet seats, the looming golden structures of angels and gods, the massive, sparkling chandelier.  Above the chandelier was a mural, painted in vibrant colors by skilful artists, depicting angels and creatures of mythology.  For a moment, Rosette thought she saw something in the railing surrounding the chandelier, but disregarded it as nothing more than a shadow.       
She turned and noticed a broken doll on the floor.  It was a prop from the toy scene of 'Hoffman.'  Its face was broken in half, and the cheap ball-joint used to attach its arm to its socket was chipping, causing the arm to hang limply at its side.  Picking it up, she brushed the course hair away from the cracked face.  She smiled sadly.
"A pretty little thing… used and forgotten," she said to herself quietly.  She looked at the doll, then at the auditorium once more.  As her eyes returned to gaze at the doll, her thoughts far away, a gentle tune sounded softly from her voice.  She hummed the love song "Je Croise Etendre Encore," from Bizet's "The Pearl Fishers."  It was one of the girl's favorite songs.
The sound floated high above the stage as she hummed it, curling its way through the auditorium and scaling the gold-painted and red velvet walls of the theater.  The song drifted to the ears of the man who reclined amidst the railings, hoping that the drugs he partook of would drown out everything around him.  Setting down the pipe, the golden eyes behind the black mask searched for the source of the soft noise.  Despite the effects that the drug had already had on him, the notes of the song rang true in his mind.  He could not help but find himself smiling at the gentle sound.  
At last, he could no longer contain himself.  From the high perch where he sat, above where the girl could see, he opened his mouth.  The notes that Rosette hummed were echoed by the melodic, masculine voice that came from Erik's lips.  It bore every note of longing and devotion that the author had originally written into the song.
"Je croise etendre encore.  Cache sous les palmiers.  Sa voix tendre et sonore.  Comme un chant de remiers," his voice sang the pleading notes of the first few lines.  He continued the entire song, using his skills in ventriloquism to make the voice sound as if it came from every corner of the auditorium.  As well, rather than the sound be overpowering, it was sweet and soft.  Rosette started.
Whirling, she searched in vain for the source of the angelic sound.  It was not one of the chorus members or opera stars… none of the stars of the stage had voices such as this.  None of them had this power to inspire and terrify.  Rosette looked to the boxes and the ropes and curtains, looking for anyone who might possibly be capable of what this voice was doing.  
When she saw there was no one, her heart jumped inside her chest.  
"Hello?" she called out.  "Hello!?  Where are you?  Who are you?!  Please tell me!  Please tell me whose voice that is!"  
The song paused for a moment, and Erik chuckled lightly to himself.  The drug had made him careless, lightheaded and light hearted.  His smiled at the girl's questions.  
"You have stopped humming!  Now why is that?" the wonderful voice whispered.  "Sing, please do.  It is so infrequent that a sweet voice is heard on this stage.  It is always the voices of those boastful, frightful, shrieking divas."  
Rosette started once more.  That voice…. It was familiar.  She gasped softly as she realized it was the voice of the man who rescued her the night before.  She raced backstage and once more onto the stage, searching in vain for the man who was speaking to her.  There was no one.  No one at all.  This filled her with an inexpressible fear.  Was she going mad?  Was she hearing ghosts?  Was this some cruel trick?  However, all the while, with these possibilities racing through her head, a sheer joy filled her when she heard the voice speak up again.
"Have no fear, Mademoiselle," the voice whispered.  "I am not here to harm you.  How can a ghost harm anyone?"  There was a cynical note to the last phrase.      
A strange sort of calm came of Rosette.  She found herself standing center-stage, looking out into the auditorium a she was about to address this "ghost."
"Is that what you are, then?  You are a ghost?"  She paused, then smiled.  Arms akimbo, she stepped towards the edge of the stage.  Somehow, the entire situation had gone from being frightening to being a sort of guessing game.  "You wouldn't happen to be THE Opera Ghost?  Was it the Opera Ghost who saved me last night?" she asked.  A scoffing laugh vibrated through the auditorium.
"Ah, you believe me to be some sort of hero, or some sort of monster.  Your rescuer?  No.  A ghost?  You believe the fantasies of the ballerinas?" the voice cooed.  Rosette shrugged.  There was another laugh.  "I fear I will let you down.  I am nothing as glamorous or meaningful as the Opera Ghost or Angel of Music that had, for so long 'plagued' the Opera House.  I am merely a ghost that haunts and languishes within the walls, to forever remain in his misery."  His voice, quiet to begin with, faded to nothing more than a whisper.
Rosette was silent.  His voice had entranced her.  It was gentle, fierce, sad, and furious all at once.  There was bitterness and regret intermingled, twisting together to constitute the gentle tones of his voice.  
"A ghost would not be capable of such sounds as you make…" she answered quietly.  "I fear perhaps you are a cruel stage hand or chorus member who is trying to make a laughing stock of me," she answered, awaiting his response.  Who was this man?  Surely he was no ghost…
One final mocking call echoed from the ghost.  
"You think I am merely a man?  I assure you, I am something far less than a man.  Stop asking questions.  Sing."
Rosette was silent.  
"Shall you not?" he sighed, puffing at his pipe once more.  His usual, dignified and cautious manner had been thrown to the wind due to the affects of the drug.  
"Who are you, truly?" questioned the girl again, softly.  "Please, do not be cruel to me…. I want to know who you are.  Your voice is marvelous, and I wish to thank you properly for what you did for me last night."  She could hear, from all around her, a sigh.
"Mademoiselle, you are an innocent.  And so, in order to keep you as such, you shall know nothing of me other than that I am a fragment… a relic.  Disgraced and forgotten, very much like the doll you hold in your hand.  In all truth, I am a ghost: a ghost of what I was."
Rosette looked at the doll as the voice answered her, then back at the auditorium, looking for any trace of him who was addressing her.  Her brows knit together.  His voice was sorrowful and broken, but there was a strange strength to it that startled her.  There was a power.
"Shall I then simply call you 'Ghost?'  Is that how I am to address you?" she asked at last.  There was no answer.  "Hello?" she called.  There was still no answer.  As before, there was no trace of him who had been with her but moments before, but that was no way of judging if he was there or not.  "Hello?" she called one last time.  There was no reply.
Very much disturbed, she made her way off the stage.  She would not tell anyone of this.  The ballerinas would think her mad.  Andrea would worry if she told him.  Perhaps she was tired from the night before.  Her mind was spinning.   
But it was his voice.  She was sure of it.  That was the voice of the man… the MAN, who had helped her.  Though she had questioned his motives, she had come to no harm.  He had helped her.
Who was he?