My new fanfic: The Minstrel's son

Ok tell me what you think. I got the idea after watching an expose on the brother grimm son.


Mme. Giry sat in her apartment in the shadow of the Opera Garnier on her bed, hugging her pillow to her chest her eyes full of tears. The sun had set long ago but the ballet mistress had just returned from the Opera house to find the note on her bed from the mysterious Persian. Erik had died in the night after visiting the Persian who, in his usual fashion had followed him back to his lair.

The Phantom though had welcomed his friend and offered him drinks and a bed for the night. A three thirty three in the morning the Persian who had tried in vain to remain awake felt a cold gust of air hurtle through his room. This was not uncommon as Erik had designed air vents that opened out onto the street and also used them as exits, which often caught the odd gust of wind. The Persian, a man not easily spooked felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and leapt up to investigate and found his friend seemingly asleep in his bed, with a serene smile on his paper thin lips and a small book clutched to his chest. On checking his pulse the Persian smiled, his friend had finally gone to rest.

He removed the book and opened it, the last page of what appeared to be a diary of sorts which had been marked with one of Erik’s many charcoal sketches of Christine, as Marguerite in last performance of Faust. The Persian felt puzzled that he chose to mark the diary with this picture as it was by no means the best of Erik’s works and it had to be folded in half to fit in the diary which meant it smudged the picture in places. The diary itself had a leather cover and had strings to bind the diary shut. The front had the faded name of Marguerite in gold embossing.

After exiting the lair he returned to his own apartment and promptly wrote to Christine and Mme. Giry to inform them of the death. He thought about writing to inform the Managers but that, he concluded would spoil the fun. Let them believe they still had a spectre running amok. Rumour had it they had it they had asked for the services of the very well known Sherlock Holmes to aid in solving the mystery. The Persian made a note to see how they were faring and perhaps cause a little havoc of his own.

Mme. Giry picked up the diary herself that The Persian had left in her care and examined the well worn leather. She opened it and found the picture of Christine and smiled to herself. Her blonde curls tumbled against her well sculpted face and even in the charcoal, Erik had captured the innocence in her bright blue eyes, as if she could hardly believe all these people had come to watch her. Faust had been Erik’s favourite play and he attended every night.

Mme. Giry flicked back to the first page and began to read fully expecting that it was Erik’s diary as she knew he had kept one for a number of years.

May 16^th 1854

Start of Diary.

I, Marguerite Von Trapp , on my 17^th birthday have been given his diary by the grace of my Aunty Annie. I promise to only write the truth and good in the pages and God punish me if I fail to do so.
Mme. Giry snorted to herself. The keeping of a diary had only recently become accepted. Even 60 years ago, the keepers of diaries were viewed as conspirators and could face severe punishment. Even today a diary needed the blessing of a priest to ’sanctify’ the diary. Not that Mme. Giry ever did, her priest would be horrified at the sordid details in her diary and would need a lot more than holy water to purify hers, particularly the one from her teenage years.

But the Ballet Mistress puzzled at who this Marguerite Von Trapp was and why would the Phantom who claimed to have no living relatives have her diary? Perhaps the further pages would provide evidence.

June 12^th

Today was a momentous day. Papa, a well respected Army general invited a number of esteemed familles for our annual Summer ball held in the courtyard of roses. Since Annabelle sadly died in childbirth four months ago, may God rest her soul, Mama permitted me to wear the dress she left for me. It had been the single consolation to loosing my beloved sister her most favourite dress. Papa had brought it back from one of his campaigns in Spain when he heard of her approaching marriage to the Mayor of Paris’s son. Due to its bare shoulders and low neckline and my 17^th birthday last month which now classifies me as a lady eligible for marriage she permitted me to wear it. I caught sight of my reflection and could scarcely believe it was me I was gazing at. The corset had brought my waist in to 10 inches and pushed my usually modest bosoms up making them appear more prominent. The dress itself had been fashioned from red and black silk and hung off my shoulders and remained up without the aid of straps, something I had been fretting over as no self-respecting lady wants to expose herself, even if the French are more permitting than the Austrians. It looked like a flamenco dress with the alternating black and red bands and the crystals encrusted to the bodice gave it extra shimmer.

Mme. Giry paused there, thinking that she remembered that dress. Of course that style had been copied many times but that precises description made Mme. Giry examine the picture of Christine and felt a wave of disbelief. Of course! It had been the precise same dress Christine had worn in Faust although the crystals had never made it in time which Mme. Giry remembered had caused the Phantom to go off on a temper tantrum. What was this diary telling her though? The ballet mistress continued reading.

The party was gay and lively and I danced with numerus partners although the young Monsieur Derik De Changy seemed entranced by me as Mama stated or was it my cleavage he seemed so enrapt by? I also had a few flutes of Champagne although I felt a touch disappointed as the wine was bitter and I simply drank it so as not to be left out. After all I had heard from my French friends I expected the ambrosia of the God’s and instead was met with bitter grapes. By Midnight I begun to field tired when one of Papa’s Army friends introduced his minstrel he had brought along for the entertainment.

The Minstrel was only my age, perhaps a few years older with sharp, cat green eyes and dark blonde straight hair with a handsome face with a prominent nose. He was tall, easily a head taller than myself and I am by no means short. He stood dressed in a hunter green cape and brightly coloured minstrel’s clothes. I remember the tale of the Pied Piper of Hamlin and grinned that most in the inebriated guests would need little to lead them astray. It was then his music cut my thoughts off, causing them to run dry like the ink on this paper.

He played such sweet music that I could visualise the birds pausing to listen at this tune so much more superior to their own. I shut my eyes and listened, visualising the images that came with the music. I could seen a mountain brook dancing down its rocky bed, the birds twittering in the trees, the deer cropping at the green grass in the meadow, squirrels in the trees storing nuts and rabbits hopping about. I, never in all my life have heard such sweet music. He ended and took a bow before the guests applauded enthusiastically.

It was then Papa got up. “I think we would all like to hear my beautiful young daughter sing.”

I blushed crimson and shook my head to no avail. As I got ushered to the front the Minstrel watched me with his green eyes making my heart flutter more than all the young gentlemen in the crowd. I smiled bashfully before taking my place and began to sing. I sung a hymn based on the book of Job and let my crisp voice echo through the courtyard, rising and falling fluidly with the changes of tempo. The crowd stood entranced as I sung and Mama and Papa looked very proud. The corset though made it a little difficult but I managed well I like to think.

As I paused before beginning the second verse when the flute began behind me. I glanced at him as he motioned to keep singing and together we melted my voice with the flute. He kept up flawlessly and I sung stronger despite taking deep breaths for certain long notes was a chore. We ended with the longest note and ended in time as if we had practiced it a million times. The crowd broke it ecstatic cheers and I grasped the Minstrel’s long bony fingers and together we took a bow.

A little later I sat in a quiet part of the courtyard in the small hours as the party raged on when I noticed the Minstrel approaching. He grasped my hand and kissed it with soft lips. I blushed and smiled.

“Mademoiselle I have never heard such sublime singing you must be congratulated,” he said seating himself beside me.

I smiled. “Thank you your playing was quite exquisite I must add,” I said.
He nodded. “It is still Mademoiselle is it not?”

I nodded before glancing at the young Count De Changy chatting amiably with my father. “Though I fear for not much longer.”

He followed my gaze and smiled. “Handsome young man. He will be very lucky.”

I sighed before asking him of his travels. The Minstrel eagerly told me of his early life learning the flute from a master in Vienna then travelling about Europe earning his keep playing in town squares. He met my father’s friend earlier in the year and promised to appear at the party a preform, for a lot higher salary than he was accustomed to. I chuckled and assured him that my Father’s friend was highly trustworthy so he wouldn’t have to seek revenge by leading off the towns folk’s children. He roared with laughter when I noticed the young Count striding over and looking a little perturbed at the Minstrel’s presence. He noted this and bid me farewell before disappearing through the topiary and into the night.

I danced some more with the young Count who insisted on giving me a detailed accounts report of his family’s fortune which I found tedious. Admittedly as I smiled cordially to the young Count, in my mind I danced with the Minstrel who could dance much better than the lead footed Count. I snapped to attention when the Count asked me what colour roses I preferred. I replied blood red which he looked at me puzzled.

“Red roses? Romantic I must say but white is more becoming of a lady,” he replied.

I smiled and continued dancing. What would he know? The party ended at dawn and after being extracted from my gown I fell into a deep sleep filled with the sounds of the Minstrel’s flute.

Mme. Giry let out a shuddering breath. Marguerite Von Trapp could only be Erik’s mother. She noted to with surprise the De Changy’s fitted into the story an, odd coincidence indeed. But the Minstrel was who Mme. Giry found most intriguing. Could this be Erik’s father or was it the young Count who the ballet Mistress knew for a fact was Raoul and Philippe’s father who had died a few years back. Only time would tell.

I hope you don't mind me adding spaces between your paragraphs. It's a good idea to look at your post before walking away from it. This forum tends to not post text the way you paste it. It makes it easier to read.

Very good beginning. Thank you for a creative and fresh idea! You established the scene in the beginning very well. Looks like you've taken a mix of the novel and the 2004 film.

I'm curious about the Minstral's son and this Marguerite von Trapp. Well done. Please continue.

Brava, brava, bravissimi!

Cool. Ok thanks I didnt notice the paragraph thing.
Add more soon.

Marguerite's aunt has the best name ever.
Good work, I love diaries. I hope this is going where I think it is, keep up the good work!

Wow, this looks like it is going to be a very good story!!

I sure hope you continue soon, coz you've got me very curious now...

Cool. I'm glad you guys like it. Heres the next chapter.
Cant wait to hear what you think?

**************
Mme. Giry slammed her parasol onto the chaise in the sitting room and wrenched her hat of and threw it down forcefully. She stomped, something she avoided as if affected her dancing, to the sideboard and snatched the decanter of whisky and drunk straight from the crystal decanter. After a few long gulps she put it down feeling a bit woozy but nonetheless better.

Mme. Giry had become accustomed to the ballet girls running off never to be seen again or announcing that they were pregnant, thus the end of their dancing careers. But never had five girls asked for their final pay at once! And explaining it to the Managers produced looks of discomfort as if both were suffering severe stomach pains. They produced the money but when Mme. Giry checked it she was puzzled to find each were receiving double when it dawned on her. The Managers looked at one another, then out the window then Andre produced some story about accounts reports and paperwork leaving no doubt in the ballet mistress’s mind as to who were at fault. Both married with children and respected in the community, it made Mme. Giry sick.

In her boudoir the ballet mistress pulled on her long silk night dress and began to remove her hair from its constricting braid. Her ankles ached and she felt tired and frustrated. The 40-something year old smiled that she might only be able to keep this caper up for another year, if that. But not to fear her daughter would fill her shoes, if the Managers didn’t get in the road or her silly daughter run off and marry some gutter rat.

Mme. Giry spied the diary on the dresser and smiled. Marguerite Von Trapp had been singing in the back of her mind all day and Mme. Giry picked it up and continued reading.

June 14^th
My close friend Michelle told me of a market that was to be held this morning in the square today. With Mama’s permission I pulled on my green velvet dress and together Michelle and I rode in the family carriage into the town’s square.
The market exceeded my expectations as I had expected a small and unexciting market, unlike the ones we had in Austria which were always grand events. There was much fine cloth, silk, gold linen, cloth encrusted with pearls and many exotic patterns. Travellers from the orient had brought monkeys that I watched for a great deal of time. I thought of asking Papa to bring me one from his travels as they were ever so delightful. Along the way I lost Michelle who I believe I saw with the fortune teller. I don’t believe in that rot, it is to God alone that the power to foresee the future belongs.

At the end of the row I heard the haunting melody of the flute and as I ducked under a banner of silk and ignored the sellers urges for me to buy it I smiled as the Minstrel played his flute while balanced precariously on the edge of the town fountain. A few paused to listen but most walked past without so much as a glance, a crime I must say to ignore such fine music. But then it would be the precise same ones who would hear the song of a nightingale and respond that it were simply a song of a bird.
He finished his song and spotted me and I felt my heart pulsate at the smile he gave me.

“Mademoiselle we meet again,” he said grasping my hand and kissing it. ‘Charming French boys,’ I thought.

I smiled. “How are you fairing?”

“Average. I could do with the help of a nightingale like you though,” he grinned.

“Is it that bad?” I asked.

His laugh was so carefree, of one who was glad to make a few coins to buy bread then continue on to the next town or city and try his luck there. “I understand Marguerite. I, believe it or not was born into a upper class family but could not bear the constricting lifestyle that accompanied it.”
I widened my eyes. “I thought your speech was not that of a commoner.”

He nodded looking away distantly before smiling. “Are you familiar with the Hymn of Solomon?”

I nodded. ‘He must visit church to know the same hymns I do’, I mused. “Would you accompany me?”

I nearly balked but then as I stared into those hypnotic green eyes I suddenly lost my nervousness and accepted his hand and stepped up onto the edge of the fountain. The Hymn of Solomon, sung of his love of the fair Shulamite maiden, was a love song most defiantly. Instead of the crowd striding past, many stopped and watched as I sung and he played, our instruments blending and the song rising through the warm sunshine. I glanced at him and he smiled as we continued when I heard my name being said in surprise from the crowd. I looked down rapidly to see the young Count and Michelle pushing through the crowd. Looking down so rapidly caused me to loose balance and I began to fall backwards with my arms flaying like a windmill. The Minstrel saw this and tried to save me but instead I pulled him on top of me with a splash into the fountain.

The crowd erupted with laughter and some cheers and claps. I never felt so embarrassed as I sat up then I looked into the Minstrel’s laughing green eyes and burst into giggles myself. The Count though wasn’t laughing.

“Mon Cherie! What were you doing!” he exclaimed.

With the help of the Minstrel and the Count I extracted myself from the fountain, dripping wet, my dress all waterlogged and heavy and no doubt ruined and looked at the Count his blue eyes wide. “I was singing.”

The Count seemed unable to grasp this as I knew for a fact he was very un-musical. I noticed Michelle looked very red and flustered but thought it was due to the heat or stress from trying to find me. The Count ripped his coat off and wrapped it around my shoulders before escorting me away. As I left I looked over my shoulder at the Minstrel who waved unceremoniously his green eyes following my every movement.

In my heart I know I love him. I may be only 17 but my heart lies with the carefree Minstrel.

Lol, very good... I liked the bit of comedy you brought in. And the two story lines, with Mme Giry and the diary is also very nicely done. Please do continue soon, I can't wait to see what happens....

Glad you enjoyed it. More will be up soon.

Here is the next post. Its a bit shortie

*********
Mme. Giry suddenly became aware that it was almost dark outside and that her eyes were beginning to ache. After lighting a gas powered lamp Mme. Giry settled into her favourite arm chair with the diary and continued reading. The ballet Mistress had become hooked to the story and felt a burning desire to find out where Erik came into the story.
July 2^nd

The sound of hooves clip-clopping down the gravel driveway made me look up from my book I was reading from the comfort of the garden bench in the rose garden. Jane Austin has always enchanted me and I had gone out to read Pride and Prejudice for the third time. I craned my neck to peer over the roses to see who the visitor then immediately ducked my head down. It was the Count, again.
The Minstrel had suddenly moved on without so much as a goodbye and this it seemed had left the door wide and swinging for the young Count who on average visited me twice a week. I put up with his bland poetry and tales of his many hunting exploits with a smile but really inside I felt bored to tears. He also disapproved of my Jane Austin collection, denouncing it as feminist rubbish. Although he did get my taste of jewellery right although I suspect he asked Mama about that….

I looked up again and to my surprise he had headed towards the house. I’m fairly certain he knew where I would be as this is my favourite place but instead I watched him hand over his top hat and riding gloves before striding up the hallway and out of site. In the direction of Papa’s study…

I leapt up leaving Mr. Darcy and his icy manner at the ball and dashed to the house and ran inside. The doorman confirmed my fears as I ran, light-footed on towards Papa’s study. Outside his door I paused and listened, straining my ears to listen to the conversation before realising Mama was in there too. Not a good sign. When I heard the word ‘proposal’ I had begun to sneak away t hide in the attic or somewhere else but to my horror the door opened behind me. I whirled around and tried to smile but its ever so heard when ones heart is threatening to leap from ones chest.

“Marguerite!” Papa exclaimed, likely realizing I had been listening at the door. “Derrick has something he would like to ask you.”

The Count’s blue eyes shifted nervously as he shakily got on one knee before me. At that moment I think I forgave him for being such a bore as his nerves told me he did genuinely care for my answer as an arrogant person would ask knowing that my father had already given my answer and simply ask me for the record. Derrick looked u at me with his wide blue eyes and gulped before asking me shakily. “Marguerite will you honour me by becoming my wife?”

“Yes,” I replied shakily before swooning onto the floor.


Mme. Giry chuckled slightly. Raoul must have inherited his vivacity from Marguerite as Philippe had all the charm of a brick, just like his father. She felt a little sorry for the girl having to marry the now dead Count, she had met him at the annual Bal Masque at the Opera house before he had died and he certainly left much to be desired in the field of stimulating conversation. Mme. Giry paused before realising that the Countess De Changy, if her memory served her correctly had not been Marguerite but a tall, rather buxom woman from the Dijon region. The Countess that died four years after her husband had been named Sabine and very much a French girl unlike Austrian Marguerite.

Mme. Giry frowned. The Vicompt had turned 33 recently and she felt fairly certain Sabine, the Countess had married the Count 35 years ago as she remembered a celebration that’s was held at the family home, which made Mme. Giry feel old. The ballet Mistress checked the diary. Yes, that must mean that Erik must have been 38 years old, something she had never been certain of as he never accurately disclosed his age although he occasionally mentioned past events that gave her a rough idea. That made Mme. Giry six years his senior and he, 19 years Christine’s senior the girl only turning 20 recently. Which meant, the ballet Mistress concluded to her surprise that Marguerite had only been married to the Count for less than 5 years.

So that meant that Erik and the Vicompt were only half brothers as opposed to full as she first assumed. She felt strange relief at this, she wouldn’t have wanted Erik to be full brother to that fop, half related was bad enough. But she also felt curiosity. Why had he only been married to her for less than 5 years? Certainly bringing a child as disfigured as Erik had been could have had an impact, but Erik had always been of the understanding that he had been basically chucked out onto the streets as soon as he could walk and talk.
The Ballet Mistress continued reading.

I saw you posted more and made a noise. You have me obsessed!

Very very good, you've now got me very curious indeed...

I would like to see what happens next, please post again soon...

This is quite good! I enjoyed reading this. Very well written and unique. Only one small error I noticed. In the beginning, you spell De Chagny's name Derik. Later you spell it Derrick.

Please continue soon!

Oh rats.......I......damm its supposed to be Derik, part of the story but I will shut up.....
Heres the next post to distract you
*******

July 25^th
I woke this morning before dawn the butterflies springing up my stomach and into my throat. In the pale darkness I could see my dress, virgin white with lace, pearls and white silk hanging from the wardrobe. As I roll over I can see the veil on the dresser beside my bed and I reach out and touch the lace feeling it between my fingers, the final barrier of my virginity. When he lifts this up he officially controls my body, my actions and essentially my life. I feel nervous.

Mama gave me a rather stilted conversation late last night about fulfilling my husbands desires, whatever he wishes I am to provide. I think I may have disappointed her by trying to make sense of what she was saying by asking if that included breakfast in bed. She looked at me awkwardly and ummed and aahed before saying that I would pick it up quickly and to ‘grasp the nettle’ whatever that’s is supposed to mean.

Judging by the lack of light coming through the curtains and lack of birdsong it must be pre-dawn. I roll over to attempt to return to sleep when I hear a faint knock on the glass of my balcony doors. This is odd as I am on the second storey so I get up. Perhaps it is one of the cats attempting to get in.

I open the door to see the Minstrel there with an expectant gaze in his eyes. I open my mouth to gasp but he hurriedly, but gently nonetheless puts a gloved hand over my mouth and smiles. “I had to see you before you got married. Come with me,” he tells me in that hypnotic voice and I nod slowly as he leads me in a daze to the balcony where he has tied a rope ladder to where a horse is waiting below.

Soon we are off cantering through the forest where the Autumn leaves are falling, the yellow, red, orange and gold leaves vivid even in the semi darkness. They fly out behind us and the Minstrel clutches me to his chest with one hand and guides the horse with the other. I hold myself to him, glad to feel his warmth and sheer presence after nothing seeing him for so long. The forest becomes denser and darker as we slow to a fast trot through the mossy rocks. Strange rock formations rise up around us, covered in moss and lichen. We ride up and into a big cave. I shiver from fear, cold and excitement. He helps me off the horse in the pitch darkness, I feel his bony hands about my hips.

He holds my hand and whispers. “Marguerite listen I composed this for you.”
He pulls out his flute and the melody begins, playing in the pure darkness. I close my eyes, wrapped up, surrounded completely by the sheer ecstasy of his music. I never felt myself be lowered by those hands onto the cool, stony floor of the cave or anything beyond that but pure, un-earthy ecstasy.

Mme. Giry let out a pent up breath. So the Minstrel had his wicked way with her after all. The ballet Mistress could hardly contain her surprise at the similarity of Marguerite’s account and when Christine confided in her about Erik leading her astray. Once Mme. Giry found out she confronted the Phantom who both acted like a sheepish kid and the Cheshire cat who had got the cream. No doubt the Minstrel, his father had been the same. Mme. Giry had heard stories of Minstrels doing the same, travelling from town to town, seducing girls with their music. Shady character, she thought before smiling, like father like son.

*************

Ooh, I like, I like!

I certainly wouldn't mind being seduced by music, but I'm afraid the men from my part of the world don't do things that way... *sigh*


Please continue soon, I can't wait to see what happens next...

Oooooo! I must agree, that was phantabulous!!! Hehehe, how Erik-like, I loved the comparison between the Minstrel and him! Wonderfully done!