“Well, we have here something that proves the Phantom was not just a myth.” The Count started, turning to stare eagerly at the silk handkerchief. “Now, you all know of the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, do you not?” A soft murmur of assent rippled through the small gathering. He paused and cleared his throat, leaning on the podium before him purposefully. “We have now come to the last item in our auction, ladies and gentlemen!” he said loudly. “Ten once-ten twice-sold! Thank you, Madame Stone.” The man carried away the platter before the strike of the gavel had stopped echoing, and another came forward carrying something covered by a silk handkerchief. He hid his disappointment and lifted his gavel. “Madame Stone, thank you! Am I bid fifteen francs?” He cast his eyes about, but only found shaking heads. “May we start the bidding at, say, ten francs?” the auctioneer asked. The woman nodded to the Count, and he gracefully returned it. Their eyes met, and they did not start in surprise despite the fact that they recognized each other. The Count was one of these two, and the other was an elderly black woman. The confirmation that the white skulls were not plaster made all but two of the small crowd wince. “From a production of Robert le Diable, three polished human skulls and a wooden pistol.” “Good, good! Now, item number six-sixty-four in our auction today.” A hired hand brought forward a laden platter. “Ah, le Comte de Wayne! Here for the auction, I hope?” The man nodded, and the auctioneer’s smile grew.
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA PROLOGUE PATCH
“Thank you, Monsieur de Morcerf.” He looked up at the sound of the man’s walking stick tapping sharply on the stage, instantly recognizing the patch on his coat. Hired hands took away a plaster carving, the most recent of the items sold to the small crowd gathered on the stage. The only thing that hinted of the Opera House very quietly acquiring new owners after years of emptiness was the auction itself. Everything was immaculate, without a hint of dirt or decay anywhere. The strike of the auctioneer’s gavel echoed from the stage as the man strode into the theater. The man read the words on the banner, translating the French with an ease that belied his years away in America: “Public Auction Today.” He walked up the steps, relying more strongly on his walking stick than ever. Those who bothered to look at the man with long white hair saw the embroidered patch upon the left side of his coat, and hastened to move out his way that much faster.Ī banner strung across the two pillars at the entrance to the Opera House fluttered in a faint breeze.
His imposing stature spoke of the bearing of nobility, and he never had to dodge about or stop suddenly. Swallowing forcefully, he started down the avenue. His chest tightened painfully, both at the sight of the building and from his age. The Paris Opera House-that great building known the world over-stood at the end of the avenue. He rounded a corner and stepped onto the broad avenue, his eyes turning before his body. He strode down the street with purpose, the walking stick he carried clicking sharply against the cobblestones. The man was elderly, but not at all touched by the crippling effects so often seen by the old.
0 kommentar(er)
