Chapter Text
Paris had grown cold. It was far too early for winter to be setting in fully, with its sharp winds and biting chill. Yet, it was reminding everyone of its coming with the slightest bit of bone-chilling cold on the tails of a late autumn storm. The air was even colder still around le Operá Populaire, the winds stronger and swooping around the square and making the public auction banner snap where it hung between the columns over the old theater’s entrance.
Still, children played in Place de l’Operá without a care, and people walked along the sidewalks to the shops. Paris never did let a little cold slow it down. There were only a few times in its history that the city had been brought to a standstill.
A gust of wind blew some late fallen leaves across the cobbled street just as a car pulled up to the wooden ramp that extended down from the old steps leading into the opera house. A blonde man hopped out as a nurse guided a wheelchair to the rear door. With a steady arm, he guided his elderly companion into the chair. The older man’s hands, once so steady and skilled, shook slightly as he gripped the arm rests to adjust his position. He gave his young attendant’s arm a squeeze, and the blonde smiled warmly.
“Would you like me to push the chair today, Monsieur Grice?” the nurse asked, and the blonde shook his head.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind being my father-in-law’s guide,” he said. He bent down and leaned in so he was in the sights of the elder’s good eye, grey-blue focusing on warm brown. “Do you mind if she accompanies us today, Papa?”
The elderly man glanced over to the nurse, looking up at her under his top hat and grey bangs. He shook his head and squeezed his son-in-law’s arm.
“Alright.”
The trio made their way up the ramp and into the old opera house. In the entrance hall, they could hear the auctioneer’s voice coming from the theater proper. Cobwebs and dust stirred as the wind moved in from the open door and was disturbed by their movements.
“Monsieur Grice, I—“
“Please. Call me Falco. I think I’ve asked this before, yes?”
“My apologies,” the nurse said. “I’m not sure this place is good for Monsieur Ackerman’s health. The dust in here is a bit extreme.”
“My papa’s business here today is more important than the risk of some dust inhalation,” Falco explained. “Many do not know, but this place was of great importance to him in his youth. This auction is far more precious to him than his lungs, I assure you.”
“If you insist.”
Falco pushed the chair near the stage as they entered. There weren’t many other patrons, most of them older like his father-in-law. He noticed him look across the room, in the direction of a man and woman that weren’t much younger than him judging by the lines on their faces. The woman’s were a black dress, her red scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. The man was in a tailored suit, his gaze locked on Falco’s father-in-law. They nodded at each other once, and the man looked way again.
“Lot 664, a wooden gun and three skulls from the 1831 production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer,” the auctioneer said from his podium on the stage. His assistant showed the items up front. “We’ll start at ten francs. Ten francs, thank you sir. Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen—thank you sir, fifteen francs. Going for fifteen francs. Is there twenty? Twenty francs?”
Falco knelt beside his father-in-law, touching his arm. The elder man simply shook his head. They’d pass.
“Going for fifteen francs.”
The gavel hit the podium and the items were taken off to be switched for the next lot. The assistant was only gone a moment before he returned as the auctioneer began to speak again.
“Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “A papier-mâché music box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, a figure of a monkey wearing Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, ladies and gentlemen, was found in the vaults of the theater, and is still in working order.”
“Showing here.”
The attendant wound the handle and the soft chimes of music filled the space. The monkey’s hands came together with soft clangs, matching the beat of the song it played. A waltz, if Falco knew his music correctly. He glanced up at his father-in-law, watching as his face softened. His lines and wrinkles nearly faded, making him look younger than he was. Falco remembered seeing that wistful look on his face when he was first introduced to Gabi’s family.
They would be bidding on this piece.
“We’ll start the bidding at fifteen francs,” the auctioneer said. “Do I have fifteen?”
The man from across the room raised his hand, blue eyes fixed on the music box.
“Fifteen. Going at fifteen. Do I hear twenty? Twenty francs?”
Falco lifted his hand as his father-in-law squeezed his hand. He felt the eyes of the man and the woman in the red scarf on him, but he ignored them. If his papa wanted to bid, he would bid.
“Thank you, sir. Going for twenty. Twenty five? Twenty five?”
The other man raised his hand again, and the auctioneer nodded at him.
“Thank you, Monsieur Arlert. Going for twenty five. Do I have thirty?”
There was another squeeze to Falco’s arm and he lifted his hand again. Thirty francs was a high price for a papier-mâché music box. There must be some value in it that his father-in-law saw that he didn’t.
“Thirty. Do I have thirty-five?”
Falco turned his eyes on the other couple. They exchanged a glance, and the man shook his head at the auctioneer.
“Very well. Sold, for thirty francs, to the Vicomte de Chagney. Thank you, sir.”
The attendant brought the music box over and passed it to Falco. He thanked the man quietly before placing the music box in his father-in-law’s lap.
“Here you go, Papa,” he murmured. He watched as the hard lines and scars along his face softened. His fingers, shaky as they were, came up to caress the monkey’s face and trace down its body. It made Falco curious what kind of significance this had for him, but this wasn’t the place to ask. Did it have something to do with Père? He only ever saw the Vicomte this emotional when his late husband was mentioned.
“Now,” the auctioneer continued, drawing Falco’s attention once again. “If I may direct your attention to lot 666, a chandelier in pieces.”
The auctioneer gestures to a large tarp off-stage. Falco stared with wide-eyes as he wheeled the Vicomte closer to the item in question. The other patrons, including Monsieur Arlert and his companion, all turned to see the next lot.
“Now, some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera,” the auctioneer continued. “A mystery that was never fully explained.”
Falco was too young to remember, but he did recall the stories from Papa and Père. It was rare and the mentions were fleeting, but he had heard them. He was never sure if they were real or not. When he asked Gabi about it, she said it was best to take her fathers’ words as truth on the matter, and not to pry. Apparently, it was a sensitive topic. He had to shake his head slightly to bring himself back to the moment.
“Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts with electric light. Perhaps, we can frighten away the ghosts of the past with a little illumination.” The auctioneer stepped from behind the podium, hands behind his back. “Gentlemen.”
The tarp was whisked away and the chandelier exploded into light with a sharp pop of electricity. Falco had to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness the light provided in the dim theater. A gust of wind rushed through the space, tugging at his coat and the red scarf the woman with Monsieur Arlert wore.
As they watched in stunned silence, the chandelier began to rise.