He flung the door open and trapped me in a corner of the small room. His whole body was leant over me, my head at about his shoulders' height. We looked into each others' eyes.
It was then that he recognized me. He recoiled in bewilderment. It was clear, even though he had a mask covering his face, that he had no idea of what to do. And neither did I.
I finally muttered, my eyes closed, "Please don't kill me. Not yet."
I could feel his unsure look, still on me, disconcerted. This gave me a bit of courage.
"I did no harm! I didn't mean to spy you."
He said with a surprising irony, "Ah, you didn't, did you?"
"I'll explain!"
Pointing the door, he roared, "Get inside at once!"
I ran inside, without thinking twice.
He entered behind me, clearly disturbed by my invasion. Slamming the door, he said evilly, "I take it you had a pretty good explanation for coming here."
I tried to think of one, but my mind was blank.
"I don't have any good explanation. In fact, Monsieur, I don't have any explanation at all."
I was silently begging for some sort of benevolence. I could feel him examining me from head to foot, as he was deciding what to do. It worried me what might be going through his head. The conclusion he came to at that point would be decisive.
With a little touch of sarcasm, he said, "Make yourself comfortable."
I looked around and decided to sit on the farthest corner of his sofa. He fetched the stool by the organ and sat on it. I couldn't help noticing his catlike movements as he placed himself in front of me and leaned slightly in my direction.
"So, Little Meg, I hope you will enlighten me on this..." His ironic request ended with an explosion. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
As surprised as I was that he knew my name, I knew it was a warning that he knew where to find me if he had to. I just couldn't decide whether I feared it or antecipated it.
We spent a moment in silence.
"Well, since you don't answer me, I take you are searching for something...special...in these cellars."
He widened his eyes, giving me a sharp look, and came even closer.
"Could it be that I'm right?"
He was very close now, and his mask was bright in the electric light. I could tell by its texture it was made of some sort of porcelain, carefully designed to his face's shape. The white mask had stylized features in it, giving him an emotionless expression.
The mask always bothered me some. It supplied me with a good deal of unsureness, for being with someone that knew me, but hid himself so efficiently. And besides, if he did so, he certainly had a reason for that. As much as I respected his motivations, I longed to know what layed underneath the deceiving, and the question floated in the air, waiting for being asked. It was hard to know where I was standing when all I had in front of me was the barrier of a mask.
His eyes were deep in it. They were extremely, almost unnaturally, light blue, faintly cloudy, making me wonder if his vision was not hindered. His pupils were nearly nonexistent, as if very uncomfortable in the light.
I went in his direction and answered at once, "Could it be there is something special here to be searched?", giving a significant, almost impertinent, intonation to the question. He stood up and walked away. With his back turned to me, he said after some thought, "What do you want from me?"
And under his threatening attitude, I could swear he was almost...frightened. I could understand the reason for his hidden fear, or at least part of it: it was obvious nobody knew of his presence down there, and I was intruding upon not only his privacy, but his security. I'm sure no one would care for having a man living secretly in a corner of his property, even if he was apparently harmless. And to hide himself like that, he could easily be some kind of criminous. That was my first idea to explain the use of the mask.
Not being able to bring myself to tell him I was there after him, I stuttered, "I first came here...out of curiosity... I was going to...check the costumes for...the Faust production. I...I've lived here since I was this tall...and my mom..."
He interrupted me in a fit of impatience, "I know all that..."
I was looking at him, perplexed, when he finally added, calmer, "I've lived here for some years myself."
Glad he said something about himself, I inquired, "So...are you related to the Opera?"
"No, I am not." He sound rather bitter.
Glancing at his pipe organ, I insisted, "But you are a musician, aren't you?"
Turning around in an outburst, he yelled, "Why does it matter what I am?"
His defensive attitude took me by surprise, and I didn't know what to say. Again, I felt guilty for imposing my presence like that. The fact was, I had no right to invade someone's home, least of all, his; though I didn't know yet how special that man was.
I bent my head and said, almost in a whisper, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude your privacy..."
He was silent for a while, then asked dryly, "How is your leg feeling?"
At that comment, I remembered what he did for me, and my regret for following him down there disappeared. I switch moods quickly and answered him, "It is a lot better. You see, I still have to wear a bandage, but it's not sore anymore."
I noticed, as I raised my dress to show him my ankle, that he didn't turn away as the Count had. Instead, he looked at it in the same natural way a physician would.
"The doctor said I was lucky I managed to immobilize it so well," I smiled, " it avoided further complications."
I glanced around as if looking for words. Not succeeding, I looked deeply in his eyes and said plainly, "Thank you."
He didn't answer, but his look didn't leave me.
Feeling somewhat abashed under his stare, I began, "I'm sorry for..."
"No. It's me who is sorry." He was back to his gallant way. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, I'm just not used to receiving... visitors down here." A little touch of sarcasm seemed to be inherent in most of his words.
Feeling a certain relief, I said, "Oh, but you should! You have an exquisitive place down here!" I was being sincere; the whole room was decorated with beautifully carved wood, while a bunch of candles were burning around his organ. It was fascinating! I looked at the coffin and grinned, "Somewhat eccentric, I must say. But very neat indeed..."
"Thank you."
"So, are you a musician?"
From that point on, we were in an unspoken agreement that we could trust each other... at least for that moment. He was always gentle, though sometimes secretive and bitter. I savored his few words as samples of an intangible personality, who was greeting me with one of the first conversations he'd had in years, as he would tell me later.
I believe he only trusted me with this dialogue because he was scared. He wouldn't want someone missing in the Opera, especially if people knew I had been visiting the cellars -- Joseph Bouquet's death brought a lot of attention to that area already. And frightening me might bring people down there, too.
I wondered many things about him by that time: if he could have killed the stage shifter, if the person who did could kill him, or if he had something to do with the apparitions of the Phantom of the Opera... But I would wait for him to tell me what he wanted. And until he did so, I promised myself I wouldn't build any truths.
When he finally took me back upstairs, he didn't take any sort of light with us, as if he could actually see in that darkness. I was wearing a long warm dress in that day, and afraid of tangling my legs and stumbling again, I asked for his hand.
I knew how they would feel ungloved, for I had caught a glance of them during our conversation, and so I understood his hesitation at my request. But I couldn't tell his reaction when I grabbed it, for the tunnel was already dark.
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