"OH!" The voice catches her off-guard and she spins to face the corner where she thinks he's standing. Trembling fingers clutch at her skirts as she bobs a quick curtsey. "Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur. I was simply..."
Merde! How foolish it sounds to say that she had been about to leave a box of chocolates for him! And to be caught in the midst of said delivery is too embarrassing for words. However, she knows that she's in the wrong for invading such an intimate space, and she immediately assumes a more demure and downcast posture.
"Oui, Monsieur." Her voice is soft and contrite. "You won't tell her, will you? I promise. It shan't happen again."
The cold wrath of Madame Giry is something Meg tries to avoid at all costs, and yet, she seems to find herself the target more often than not. It isn't that she goads her mother on purpose; she's simply far too impulsive for her own good. Rarely does she look before she leaps, as evidenced by her current predicament. Never had she considered she would be caught. Well, perhaps that's somewhat untrue. However, the reality isn't quite the same as her all-too-vivid imagination.
Behind the marble pillar, he scoffs under his breath and furrows what passes for his brow, for it sounds almost as if this girl is more frightened of Mme. Giry than she is of the opera ghost. As if she presumes that were the O.G. sufficiently miffed, he'd run along and tattle to her mother as opposed to taking things into his own perfectly capable hands. Does she think that he owes her mother so much as to exercise that sort of discretion?
If so, perhaps she's right. But that's irrelevant.
The voice hovers low in the darkest corner of the room, as though its speaker were crouched there, ready to jump out and take what little Giry offered as well as anything else it pleased: "She's a wise woman, your mother. She knows that if you seek too earnestly after an audience with Death, there's a chance It will oblige you ..."
But she doesn't believe for a single moment that he's a ghost or anything other than corporeal. So, his allusion to being made of anything other than flesh and blood puzzles her to say the least.
"Death...? Je ne comprends pas bien. Whatever do you mean?" Her tone is curious, but still respectful, and she continues to address the corner where she believes him to be standing.
Of course, Meg has heard the rumours, the stories, and may even have told one or two herself from time to time. However, it was only to keep the younger ballerinas from misbehaving too badly. As for Mme. Giry, a smart smack from her cane to Meg's derriere was enough to keep her in line. The punishment never lasted as long as Mme. Giry had hoped, for sooner or later Meg would be back to causing mischief or simply not paying the least amount of attention in rehearsals.
Corporeality is all the better for dealing with insolent little girls who refuse to uphold your otherworldly pretensions, is what he means, and for a second he almost spells it out plainly enough for her to grasp. But then he thinks of the red ink, and of the volume of Byron's she'd left -- a fine, lucky touch, as Erik is a bit of a collector of disreputable texts, from the blasphemously philosophical to the profane. And long ago, Byron's Don Juan made him laugh.
Maybe he's been holed up underground for so long he's muddled his communicative skills with undue reliance upon metaphor and pseudonyms. More likely, little Giry is simply daft. Either way, there's no use wasting any fury on it.
The voice sighs, rises a bit from the chilly whisper to a silvery tenor. "I mean this had better be the last time you step into my box without my explicit permission, girl. And it's a good thing you've brought me tribute, considering your discourtesy.
Why anyone would want to think of themselves as Death is simply beyond her. It isn't that she's daft or a simpleton; her view of the world is simply livelier. She finds joy in the perfect grande jette, the piercing high note of a flute, the thunderous applause of the audience, the thrill of performing. Death simply isn't in her purview, unless it involves the dramatic demise of a character. Even then, to her, Death isn't a permanent state of being.
But his disapproval carries more of a sting than her mother's cane or hand ever could. Her tokens, her gifts, are more akin to offerings, but not to appease an angry spirit. No. They are more her way of showing him that there is at least one person in l'Opéra Garnier who has an interest in his well-being. Even if it is perhaps an unwanted interest.
"Oh! I..." Meg's voice trails off as she picks up the small parcel wrapped in gold paper. "I had thought- That is... I couldn't be certain..." She huffs a quick breath and pulls her impulsive thoughts together. "They're chocolates. For your birthday. Only I have no idea when that is."
!! sorry, didn't get a notif on this one until way late.akindofdonjuanSeptember 1 2012, 14:34:10 UTC
Death is a useful tool; likewise, superstition, and thus artifice or affectation implying he's a personification of death. Necessity has brought him to this view on things and necessity has made him incapable of seeing any less strategic or more sentimental a take as anything other than daft, overly simplistic, ignorant. It's a charming sort of ignorance, perhaps -- one he both resents and admires. But it's nonetheless ignorance, and it gets people into the sort of unwieldy circumstances ignorance is wont to. After all, if a young lady is too caught up in her lively purview to catch a veiled threat from the maniacal hermit who's set up shop in her basement to extort money from her bosses and escape from the hardships of topside life, well -- she's dependent upon the magnanimity of that obviously unscrupulous hermit, which is hardly a favorable position in which to be, generally speaking. Little Giry's is a bit of a special case; there's a failsafe or two encouraging her safety, but he doubts she had the foresight to consider things in that light. So, it still gets on his nerves.
He went below ground to avoid extraneous contact with human beings; now there is a little girl leaving nice things lying around for him in Box Five, and earlier today he was compelled to give a singing lesson and a gentle, metaphor-laced pep talk to a young lady with sad eyes and an unassuming sort of vocal potential he's sure could blossom into soul-leeching, thrall-holding genius if properly encouraged. It's bittersweet, but Erik's natural inclination is toward the 'bitter'. He just wants to head to the fifth cellar and skulk for a while.
Earlier, musing over the things that'd been left for him, he'd hardly considered that whoever was doing the leaving might be doing so sans some sort of ulterior motive, however banal. So the voice is rather quiet for a few long seconds after the girl stutters out her reply. It's absurd, and a large part of him is wondering 'what are you up to, little Giry? and why? have you some wit up your sleeve that I'm not seeing?' A smaller part is taken aback by the gesture, and certain that it's worse if she's genuine; much worse. "Truth be told," he says, " ... neither do I. Nor do I particularly care. Chocolates will suffice, however." Voice darkening a shade or two, "Leave them and go. And remember, ... mother knows best."
And the weekend ate my brainbelle_danseurSeptember 3 2012, 16:06:39 UTC
"Absolument, Monsieur." Again, she curtsies out of respect before moving to leave the confines of Box Five.
In truth, the chocolates aren't wholly a misguided birthday present. They are also something of a 'thank you'. Little Giry is quickly learning that she isn't quite so little anymore and that the men of l'Opéra Garnier have started looking at her differently, especially Joseph Buquet. Out of everyone involved in the opera house, M. le Fantôme included, Joseph Buquet is the only one Meg is truly frightened of. He had recently begun to corner her whenever she happened to be alone. Thankfully, something always distracts him before he can harm Meg in any way. Even if M. le Fantôme had only been responsible for one distraction, Meg still feels that she owes him a debt of gratitude.
She pauses just before ducking beyond the curtain into the hall beyond. It's as though she wants to say more, but decides against speaking. Instead, she glances around, hoping to catch a glimpse of l'Opéra Garnier's more elusive resident.
drowned~ my brain, so it's cooakindofdonjuanSeptember 3 2012, 18:05:08 UTC
Most elusive resident, thank you; he doesn't so easily allow glimpses. He is, however, adept of distracting idiots, considering his current employ as l'Opéra Garnier's live-in thieving ghost. Furthermore, the fail-safes ensuring the younger Giry's safety also happen to be arranged so as to guarantee the preservation of her virtue. So, it's entirely possible M. le Fantôme has had a hand in a distraction or two.
Not that he presumes she knows this, or wants her to. His stake in those actions is self-serving enough to negate any incurrence of debt, regardless.
Mindful of her continued presence and feeling an urge to thoughtfully loiter for a moment, he just sticks silently where he is and stares at the little golden box glinting in the dim light. She'll flutter off to bed soon enough; then he can swoop in and take the thing. Or perhaps he should leave the package for the cleaning crew to pick up. Possible - plausible - benevolence considered, the sweets might just leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
Merde! How foolish it sounds to say that she had been about to leave a box of chocolates for him! And to be caught in the midst of said delivery is too embarrassing for words. However, she knows that she's in the wrong for invading such an intimate space, and she immediately assumes a more demure and downcast posture.
"Oui, Monsieur." Her voice is soft and contrite. "You won't tell her, will you? I promise. It shan't happen again."
The cold wrath of Madame Giry is something Meg tries to avoid at all costs, and yet, she seems to find herself the target more often than not. It isn't that she goads her mother on purpose; she's simply far too impulsive for her own good. Rarely does she look before she leaps, as evidenced by her current predicament. Never had she considered she would be caught. Well, perhaps that's somewhat untrue. However, the reality isn't quite the same as her all-too-vivid imagination.
Reply
If so, perhaps she's right. But that's irrelevant.
The voice hovers low in the darkest corner of the room, as though its speaker were crouched there, ready to jump out and take what little Giry offered as well as anything else it pleased: "She's a wise woman, your mother. She knows that if you seek too earnestly after an audience with Death, there's a chance It will oblige you ..."
Reply
"Death...? Je ne comprends pas bien. Whatever do you mean?" Her tone is curious, but still respectful, and she continues to address the corner where she believes him to be standing.
Of course, Meg has heard the rumours, the stories, and may even have told one or two herself from time to time. However, it was only to keep the younger ballerinas from misbehaving too badly. As for Mme. Giry, a smart smack from her cane to Meg's derriere was enough to keep her in line. The punishment never lasted as long as Mme. Giry had hoped, for sooner or later Meg would be back to causing mischief or simply not paying the least amount of attention in rehearsals.
Reply
Maybe he's been holed up underground for so long he's muddled his communicative skills with undue reliance upon metaphor and pseudonyms. More likely, little Giry is simply daft. Either way, there's no use wasting any fury on it.
The voice sighs, rises a bit from the chilly whisper to a silvery tenor. "I mean this had better be the last time you step into my box without my explicit permission, girl. And it's a good thing you've brought me tribute, considering your discourtesy.
What have you, there, in that little box?"
Reply
But his disapproval carries more of a sting than her mother's cane or hand ever could. Her tokens, her gifts, are more akin to offerings, but not to appease an angry spirit. No. They are more her way of showing him that there is at least one person in l'Opéra Garnier who has an interest in his well-being. Even if it is perhaps an unwanted interest.
"Oh! I..." Meg's voice trails off as she picks up the small parcel wrapped in gold paper. "I had thought- That is... I couldn't be certain..." She huffs a quick breath and pulls her impulsive thoughts together. "They're chocolates. For your birthday. Only I have no idea when that is."
Reply
He went below ground to avoid extraneous contact with human beings; now there is a little girl leaving nice things lying around for him in Box Five, and earlier today he was compelled to give a singing lesson and a gentle, metaphor-laced pep talk to a young lady with sad eyes and an unassuming sort of vocal potential he's sure could blossom into soul-leeching, thrall-holding genius if properly encouraged. It's bittersweet, but Erik's natural inclination is toward the 'bitter'. He just wants to head to the fifth cellar and skulk for a while.
Earlier, musing over the things that'd been left for him, he'd hardly considered that whoever was doing the leaving might be doing so sans some sort of ulterior motive, however banal. So the voice is rather quiet for a few long seconds after the girl stutters out her reply. It's absurd, and a large part of him is wondering 'what are you up to, little Giry? and why? have you some wit up your sleeve that I'm not seeing?' A smaller part is taken aback by the gesture, and certain that it's worse if she's genuine; much worse. "Truth be told," he says, " ... neither do I. Nor do I particularly care. Chocolates will suffice, however." Voice darkening a shade or two, "Leave them and go. And remember, ... mother knows best."
Reply
In truth, the chocolates aren't wholly a misguided birthday present. They are also something of a 'thank you'. Little Giry is quickly learning that she isn't quite so little anymore and that the men of l'Opéra Garnier have started looking at her differently, especially Joseph Buquet. Out of everyone involved in the opera house, M. le Fantôme included, Joseph Buquet is the only one Meg is truly frightened of. He had recently begun to corner her whenever she happened to be alone. Thankfully, something always distracts him before he can harm Meg in any way. Even if M. le Fantôme had only been responsible for one distraction, Meg still feels that she owes him a debt of gratitude.
She pauses just before ducking beyond the curtain into the hall beyond. It's as though she wants to say more, but decides against speaking. Instead, she glances around, hoping to catch a glimpse of l'Opéra Garnier's more elusive resident.
Reply
Not that he presumes she knows this, or wants her to. His stake in those actions is self-serving enough to negate any incurrence of debt, regardless.
Mindful of her continued presence and feeling an urge to thoughtfully loiter for a moment, he just sticks silently where he is and stares at the little golden box glinting in the dim light. She'll flutter off to bed soon enough; then he can swoop in and take the thing. Or perhaps he should leave the package for the cleaning crew to pick up. Possible - plausible - benevolence considered, the sweets might just leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
Reply
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