marlowemuses | Heir of the Palais Garnier

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Heir of the Palais Garnier

One of the wealthy patrons of the opera was in the mirror room.

Laurent stood just outside, watching him through a pane of glass. His lair was dark, and the mirror room was bright, blindingly bright, and getting brighter by the minute. It made it very easy to watch without being seen, as did all the clever inventions of the phantom.

It was the handsome, nosy patron of the opera. This did not surprise Laurent. He was, after all, remarkably nosy, and remarkably persistent. If any of the opera patrons was going to end up in one of the phantom's traps, it could reasonably have been predicted that it would be this one.

He knew, not from experience, but from explanation, that the interior of the mirror room would be getting uncomfortably warm now. Enough to make a man squirm, or shed clothing.

Laurent had been watching for several minutes, ever since one of the alarms had rung to inform him that one of the pressure plates had been activated in one of the traps. There were many traps, and each one had a wire connected to a bell that would ring if it were activated. The pressure plate activated the trap and began a constant ringing of the respective bell. Laurent reached up and disconnected the wire.

This wealthy patron of the opera was a ghost hunter. Laurent had encountered them before. Most of them he simply ignored as not worth his time. This one intrigued Laurent, though he knew it was only because the patron was young, and handsome, with a healthy, well-formed body that looked more suited to a stage hand than a young heir. Most of the patrons Laurent had seen were fat, pale, cosseted things. This one was golden.

It would be getting hot now, inside the mirror room. Dizzyingly hot. Dry heat, despite the watery subterranean lair. The phantom had been most pleased about that, when he'd shown Laurent how it worked. Dry heat, wicking the moisture from the air, meant that the glass would never fog. He could watch every moment.

Laurent laid his palm against the outside wall of the room. It was pleasantly warm against his hand.

He'd encountered this patron more than once. He thought, though he was not certain, that this patron had seen him more than once. Each time, Laurent had been masked, and they'd been at a distance.

Once, Laurent had been in his box. He'd been in the shadows, impossible to see from the lower seats and difficult to see from the stage. There were the other boxes, but they never really paid attention. They were all glitter and gold, dressed to draw attention, and interested in others like them. But once, Laurent had looked out across to the far side of the boxes, and he had seen a young man, this young man, staring at him. Or, at least, staring at the shadows of his box. Laurent wasn't sure whether he could be seen, dressed in dark red with a death's head mask. He had slipped through his secret door, and away.

He'd seen the young man frequently after that. He was often at the opera house. He seemed to have open access to the place at any hour of the day or night.

Once, Laurent had been watching the rehearsal. He'd seen the young man on the stage. That had intrigued him, and he'd slipped closer, wanting to know if he was audience or performer, or merely being given a tour of the workings. Laurent had been as silent as ever up in the riggings, but this young man had looked up. Laurent had been all in white, with a beautiful, androgynous white mask with gold-painted features. The sailcloth then hung from the riggings ought to have hidden him in folds of white and ivory, and the young man could only have been gazing thoughtfully into space, but Laurent felt as though the young man saw him and saw through him.

There had been more than one close call in a corridor. Laurent had made note of the trap doors and secret passages that the young man had found and solved. It was deeply perplexing. It was concerning.

It would end here.

The glass walls and floor of the mirror room would be scalding to the touch now, though Laurent expected the young man would have better sense than to touch them. At least until he collapsed. The outside wall was uncomfortably warm against Laurent's palm.

The air inside the room, he had been told, would now be gaspingly hot. The young man would likely be feeling some degree of dizziness now, perhaps severe. He might soon lose balance or consciousness. Or he might stay conscious as the room became an oven, as it began to cook him, then to sear and burn, and eventually to char the skin and bones until nothing was left but ash.

The phantom had informed him that he would likely have to replace a few of the panes, after the room was activated. A few of them were always damaged in the process. He had said it with a touch of glee that made Laurent's skin crawl.

The young man would be in agony now. He would understand, now, that this room was meant to kill him. He would understand that all his stubbornness and folly and pride had led him to this.

He would be gone.

Laurent yanked the lever that deactivated the room. All of the traps could be deactivated or solved, if you were fast enough and could spot how the puzzle worked. But they also usually had failsafes on the outside. Christine, the phantom had explained, once got trapped inside this one.

The room went dark. It would still be hot inside, as the trapped air spilled out to warm Laurent's cold lair, but it had stopped heating.

Laurent stared into the dark cell, though he could see nothing. He realized, belatedly, that the mirror room was now darker than his lair, and therefore he was the one who could be seen through the viewing pane. He stepped quickly to one side, though the young man inside could not possibly have seen anything but a mask and a cloak.

It occurred to Laurent that he now had a logistical problem. A scorch mark was easy to tidy away. A young man was not. The mirror room had two doors. One of them opened, one-way, from an underground passageway that branched into the Parisian catacombs. Laurent came through there, occasionally, if he was in a hurry. The other door opened into the heart of Laurent's lair, for his own ease of access, or for the entry of those few allies the phantom might ever have been willing to spare.

It wasn't too late. He could still reactivate the room and dispose of the intruder. But something in Laurent balked at that. He was not certain whether the problem was that the young man was innocent--and he was, as far as Laurent knew, as far as he had heard from the rumors and gossip around the opera house--or that the young man was appealing.

And Laurent was so terribly lonely.

Loneliness had never been a problem before. It was a permanent state. It was a fact of his existence.

And yet, as he began to realize that the young man could not be saved without him being able to catch a glimpse, at least, of Laurent's domain, Laurent began to wonder whether he might just keep this intruder.

The young man had, after all, been very determined to find his way here. He could just stay.

Laurent paced, considering how to handle the situation. The young man was larger, physically. Significantly more muscular. Laurent had wiry strength, but he expected that if it were to come to a physical altercation, he would lose.

There was a firearm buried in a cabinet drawer. Laurent could fetch it, and hold it upon the young man, to make sure that his commands were followed. But there was something distinctly vulnerable about that. It betrayed fear. And, if the young man were to get a hold of it, the situation would quickly reverse. Laurent wouldn't be able to operate doors or traps while keeping a gun trained on the young man. It was too inconvenient an advantage.

Which was why Laurent was bare-handed when he opened the door to the mirror room. There was a knife in his boot that he was accustomed to using. If the young man attacked, Laurent could kill him with it.

Standing outside of the mirror room, Laurent waited. He was dressed severely, in a dark blue tunic, a black cloak, and black trousers and boots. His hood was up, and his face was covered by a plain golden mask. Of Laurent himself, nothing was visible but his mask-shadowed blue eyes, some stray strands of blond hair, and the pale, sunless skin of his throat and hands.

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"Of course I came alone," he said, sounding surprised at the question. "I promised. And... I would not want anyone to harm you." The legends of the Opera Ghost were filled with blood and horror. Even today, what happened years ago still frightened those who visited. Gansey had no doubt that if he so much as mentioned a fleeting glance of a man beneath the theater that there would be a witch hunt.

But before he could say anything else, the Phantom murmured, and Gansey stared. Had he just said what he thought he said?

"You..."

The Phantom ... had told him his name. Laurent. Gansey's guesses hadn't even been close. Cheeks coloring though the dimness of the lair did nothing to advertise it, Gansey continued to stare, surprise breaking into a delighted smile.

"Laurent," he breathed, "is a lovely name."

Laurent studied him, utterly flustered by Gansey's words and sincerity. He didn't want anyone to harm him? He thought Laurent was a lovely name?

Laurent's own cheeks were flaming, though the mask hid it entirely. He wanted to kiss Gansey, and was grateful for the mask, which prevented such a wild, reckless urge.

"You must never say it outside of this sanctuary," Laurent said, fervent with fear at the possibility. "I am... hunted."

Gansey nodded, though he misunderstood the reason. Of course the Phantom was hunted. He had not planned to mention the Phantom outside of the lair whatsoever. They would want to hurt him. Find him. Gansey wanted none of that.

"I will never tell," he said, eyes bright with sincerity. "I promise, Laurent." The name tingled on his lips each time he said it.

Shyly, he glanced away and down at his journals. "Ah... would you like to... have a cup of tea together? I'd... love to show you these, if you're not otherwise occupied. I'm sorry if I disturbed you." The Phantom never really said when he could and couldn't return, if he had other things to do that he needed privacy for.

"You could never disturb me," Laurent assured him, studying Gansey's eyes. "You are the light in my loneliness.

He tugged at Gansey's hand, drawing him toward the kitchen and then settling in to walk at his side. He didn't yet want to let go of the warmth of Gansey's hand, rubbing his thumb idly along the back of it until he remembered the ring. "Oh!"

Pausing, Laurent released his hand, reaching tentatively for the ring on his own finger. He didn't want to take it off, though he knew that it should fairly be returned to Gansey. "Shall I return this to you now? I have kept it safe."

Gansey had no desire to let the Phantom's—Laurent's—hand go. So when Laurent released his hand Gansey frowned, a small crease folding into his brow. What..? The ring. Blinking, Gansey looked down at its glint and then pressed his hands on top of Laurent's. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No. Please, will you continue keeping it safe for me? Until... one day, when the time is right." He didn't quite know when that would be, didn't have any plan for it, but he thought it might be too much to ask the Phantom (Laurent) to keep it as a gift.

"If you wouldn't mind terribly."

Laurent nodded. He smiled shyly, though Gansey could not see it, and kept on along the corridor, keeping hold of Gansey's hand. When they got to the kitchen, he let go, starting to make tea for them both and getting out a box of chocolates that he had purchased several days ago but hadn't yet opened. "What is in the books that you brought?" he asked, curious about what it was that Gansey wished to show him.

Gansey brightened at the chocolate and tea.

Sitting, he laid the books to rest on the table, looking up at the Phantom with delight. "I've done a lot of collecting," he admitted, "and I thought you'd might like to see." Opening one of the journals, he showed Laurent what he meant. In the pages were notes, drawings, and pressed items from places he'd been. Leaves pressed into pages, flowers dried, long lean letters and drawings explaining the things he'd seen and the people he'd met.

"I've travelled quite a bit. There's so much to see, it's fascinating. Like old stones and ruins, beautiful theaters and churches. I... wasn't sure if you'd ever seen much."

"I haven't," Laurent said. He sat down close by Gansey's side, leaning his elbows upon the table as he regarded the journals. He inspected each page with reverent care, not letting himself touch anything but the very edges of the pages. "I know this place seems like a cage, but to me it is a wondrous sanctuary. Before... was a prison."

His evident youth and the indication of having spent at least a few years here was enough to disabuse most of the idea of a literal prison, in addition to the distinct air of refinement in Laurent's carriage and behavior. And yet he studied each image, each souvenir, with utter fascination.

It was all so beautiful, and the eclectic rapture of Gansey's attention was entrancing. Laurent nibbled at a chocolate and sipped at his tea distractedly as he pored over the pages, wanting to swallow every drop of Gansey's adventures.

No, the Phantom did not strike him as a criminal. Not the sort of man he saw behind bars or lined up for a hanging. He had a cultured air about him, not unlike the sons of wealthy nobleman he knew from various social circles. Too well-spoken and gentle for a peasant. Though, that was a thought Gansey instantly chided himself for, because he was better than judging if someone was noble or peasant based on how they behaved. There were many brazen, oafish nobles, and many noble peasants.

Still. There were certain things that were learned from a young age. As the Phantom skimmed through his journals Gansey watched him like a hawk, studying what he could of the man's face—which wasn't much, with the mask.

"Why do you wear that?" Gansey asked without thinking. Instantly he regretted it. What if it was a sensitive subject? He didn't want the Phantom to send him away.

Laurent glanced over, initially uncomprehending. His eyes flicked over Gansey's face, then he returned his attention to the pages. "My appearance is unnatural," he confessed, saying it without emotion. He'd accepted his face, his fate, his existence down here. "It brings out the worst in men. Cruelty, revulsion, greed."

Laurent trembled once, tormented by memory, and tried to re-focus his attention on the page in front of him. His vision swam.

"It's better if I wear the mask," he said, as if he was still trying to convince himself.

Gansey remained quiet, watching the Phantom. A face that could inspire cruelty, revulsion, and greed? He couldn't even begin to imagine. The urge to claim that he would never fall to those was strong, but he paused, giving the thought proper consideration. Wasn't that vain of him? To think that he was better than so many others? To ask the Phantom to risk what he so clearly feared?

"I see," he said, finally glancing down at his cup of tea. "I... It's selfish of me, but I want to see your face." Pressing the mug to his lips, he sighed.

"But I won't ask that of you. There's a reason why you're here, isn't there? It's safe for you. I want to be... well. I'd like to be safe for you too."

"You just have asked," Laurent said, finding the suggestion and the desire to be synonymous with a request.

He pushed the book away, rising to his feet and leaving the room in search of air. He dreaded that Gansey would be like the rest. As much as he wanted to believe the world of his kind, precious Gansey, experience had taught him that men were not to be trusted. Not even the beautiful, soft-spoken ones.

Deciding that he wanted a bath, Laurent headed for the bathroom, walking quickly to try and outpace his anxious heart.

Mentally, Gansey cursed himself. The desire was the same as a request, wasn't it? Merely a more subtle one. And with less guilt.

"I'm sorry," he said, though the Phantom had probably wandered too far to hear it. Biting his lip, Gansey stood, knocking his knuckles on the table but leaving the books. At first he went to follow the Phantom to properly apologize and then realized where the man was headed. It would be... impolite to follow him into his bath. So Gansey stepped away and turned toward the exit that his ghost had shown him.

"I... I'll return in an hour," he called, loud enough for his voice to carry. "I'd like it if we had dinner together." They could better get to know one another.

Gaze lingering, Gansey turned and left.

Once he was topside he meant to get a bottle of fine wine to share with the Phantom. Only, as he made his way behind the sets, one Barrington Whelk crept up behind him and struck him in the head with a stage prop. Then, when he was knocked out, dragged him off to his dank little room and tied him up.

When Laurent emerged from his bath, feeling much restored by the warmth of the water and the time to think, he found his lair empty.

Pacing through the rooms in search of Gansey, he found him missing, gone. He'd heard neither declaration, having been too far for the first one and the second having been drowned out by the sound of the water filling the basin.

Alarmed and heartbroken, Laurent searched the place repeatedly, finding nothing, not even in the traps. After an hour, he was distraught, and curled up in the library to sob with loneliness and betrayal. He'd refused to show his face and Gansey had gone. For whatever reason, whether to fetch a mob, to sell him for the bounty, or merely to give up on his company. He was gone.

Gansey awoke in Whelk's room with a throbbing headache. He wasn't bound by rope but he found the door locked; confused, he tried several ways to exit, and found it impossible. What had happened? A stray prop falling from a set? But then how had he gotten here?

Had the Phantom...? But this didn't make sense. The Phantom was nowhere in sight. Knocking his knuckles on the walls, he opened his mouth to call, but then remembered that he was topside and was keen on keeping the Phantom a secret. Never would he call the Phantom's true name, and calling for a phantom... what if someone was passing?

"Angel?" Gansey called, knocking where he thought the sounds may carry. Though he didn't know how far the Phantom was. "Are you there...? Angel?" Because truly, Laurent was like an angel, and Gansey couldn't think of anything better. He called again and again, and stopped only when the door opened. Whelk came inside, and Gansey stared at him.

"Praying?" Whelk's voice was without inflection, which Gansey found especially unappealing, and was holding a pistol casually.

"Yes," Gansey answered, taking a step back and suppressing a long-suffering sigh. Was it his destiny to be a damsel? Probably. Whelk closed the door behind him and stared. Gansey stared back. What did this man want? The Phantom? Unacceptable. He'd never give up the Phantom's whereabouts—

"I used to be like you," Whelk said, sounding depressed instead of apathetic. "Pretty. Rich. Beloved. Now I'm this."

Gansey looked around. It was... a less than stellar existence, sleeping on a scrap of fabric in a smelly little room down where no one else wanted one. "So...? You'd like money, then?" Gansey answered, frowning.

"No," Whelk said, looking at the gun, "I think I'd like to kill you."

"Oh," Gansey said, also looking at the gun. "I think I'd like not to die."

"A conundrum," Whelk agreed.

Laurent wept for hours or days, mourning the loss of his companion. He didn't know where to begin searching for Gansey, and there was no sign that he'd left by anything other than his own will. His own impatience and displeasure with Laurent.

When he finally rose from the couch, his stomach ached with hunger and his head spun. He drank two glasses of water and leaned weakly against a doorway, trying to recover. What now? Return to his ordinary life?

He needed food, but didn't want to eat. Sinking to the floor, he stared into space and lost track of time again.

A tiny bell drew him from his misery.

He leapt to his feet, heart soaring with hope. Gansey.

Taking two steps into the hall, he forced himself to pause. No. Something was wrong. Gansey wouldn't have left like that if all was well. Perhaps, merely, he'd left in a fit of frustration, and now he returned to beg forgiveness.

Wary by nature, Laurent put on his cloak, slipping into the hallway and hiding himself in a shadow. The black mask helped to conceal him, but he also drew his cloak up over his face to conceal the distinctly human ridges of the mask. Melting into a rocky alcove, he waited, watching and listening to be certain of who was entering his lair.

It took Gansey a long time to convince Whelk not to shoot him where he stood.

And even now, Whelk was still not convinced, but the promise of the secret riches that the wandering Persians and Gypsies through the underground secret tunnels and had to leave behind due to widespread famine was too tempting to ignore. All lies, of course, but Gansey sounded quite sure about what he was waxing poetic about and Whelk was intrigued by riches beyond his imagination that could restore his former wealth and status.

Plus, Whelk still had the gun. Shooting Gansey in some underground tunnels was even less work than shooting him in his room. Which Gansey was painfully aware of.

He chose the ways that he imagined were along the outermost edges of the Phantom's lair. He didn't want Whelk anywhere near the Phantom, and didn't want to put the Phantom in any danger. There had been trust in what he'd shown Gansey and Gansey did not want to destroy that. Besides—Whelk knew nothing of the Phantom. For whatever reason, he despised Gansey for being what he once was and no longer had. Bringing the Phantom into this seemed unfair. Yet he could think of nothing else but of leading Whelk into a trap; hopefully one that would merely disable him, as Gansey would feel guilt for... probably forever, if he were the cause of another man's death. Even if that man kept staring at him eerily with the desire to murder him.

"It's, ah... not much farther, I promise," Gansey said as Whelk made a comment about how far they had gone down. "The Persians loved being as underground as possible. It was written in their scriptures during 200 BC that—"

"I don't give a damn," Whelk said, "about your history lessons. Keep it up and I'll shoot you right now." The gun clicked.

Even at gunpoint, Gansey was offended. "Honestly, some people... all right, keep your temper. This way." He wandered a bit aimlessly, wondering when they'd spring a trap. Even if it ended up killing him as well.... at least Whelk would be stopped. Hand along the wall, he chewed on his lip, trying to decide which way would lead him away from where the Phantom dwelled. It was difficult, navigating, even when the Phantom had shown him. The darkness didn't help. So he was never one hundred percent sure as to where he was going. Not really.

"You're lying," Whelk finally decided, and Gansey stilled. "There's no mummy or Persian rugs, is there? Trying to buy time? Haha... so pretty, loved, and clever... aren't you?" Whelk held the gun up, and Gansey took a few more steps back in the door, desperately searching for some sort of switch to trigger—something. Anything.

Voices. Two voices. Gansey and... someone else.

Laurent's heart lurched painfully. Gansey had betrayed him, and was leading someone to his sanctuary. He trembled where he stood, forcing himself to stay still and quiet despite the rage and despair pouring through him.

They passed by him in the corridor, going the wrong way. Laurent couldn't make sense of it. Gansey was lost? The fool.

Moving silently and at a safe distance, Laurent trailed after them as they moved downward, listening. Persians? Mummies?

All at once, Laurent understood. Gansey wasn't leading this man to the lair, he was attempting to lead him astray.

Pulling a blade from his boot, Laurent stepped forward, pressing the icy edge of it to the stranger's throat. "If you hurt him, you die," he said, a soft rasp in this intruder's ear.

Whelk stilled instantly, going cold with dread.

Gansey, from where he was, could barely see. All he could tell was that Whelk was being suspiciously quiet; there was the sharp inhale of breath, but it didn't seem like they had successfully set off any traps.

Utterly silent aside from breathing, the drip of water from somewhere far off, and finally those low words like a breeze in the desert.

"Phantom?" Gansey asked, grasping the wall still, heart thudding in his chest. Whelk made a grunt but otherwise remained still; against gentle rich boys he had a chance. A phantom? Not so much.

"Go on, then," Laurent said, using the blade to tip up the intruder's throat, letting him know that he was a mouse being toyed with by a much more dangerous predator. "Hand the gun back to me. Carefully, now."

He kept the blade where it was, just heedless enough with the sharp edge that he could feel the intruder struggling to suppress his tremors. Laurent knew his part, and he didn't have much interest as to whether or not this stranger got out alive. He hadn't behaved with honor. Not like Gansey. Once Laurent had the gun, he pulled back the hammer on the heavy, coarse weapon, lifting the barrel of the gun to Whelk's temple. "Here seems as good a place as any to leave your body," he commented. "The rats will take care of it for me."

Whelk cursed, calling the Phantom a demon from hell. Gansey's heart lurched in his chest.

"Phantom—" he gasped, eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, but only enough to see the outlines of two men. But he didn't know quite what to say. No, he didn't want the Phantom to kill Whelk, but Whelk was a risk knowing the Phantom was here. Cursing himself again, Gansey bit his lip, hating that he'd so extraordinarily fucked up.

"I'm sorry," Gansey finally rasped out, dropping to his knees from exhaustion.

"I've put you in a difficult position again."

"Yes," Laurent agreed. "You did."

He pulled the trigger. The resulting blast was deafening, echoing as it did in the enclosed space. Whelk fell, body twitching.

Laurent stepped around him, tucking the blade back into his boot and picking up the lantern. He handed it to Gansey.

His own pause had surprised him. He'd paused for just a moment, giving Gansey a chance to react. To object. As though Gansey's opinion mattered to him, even after this.

"We're going this way," Laurent said, starting further down the tunnel and expecting Gansey to follow. They'd have to go out of their way no matter which direction they went. Down further, then across, and up, until they reached a high, circular chamber walled entirely with interlocking piles of human bones. A branch of Paris catacombs, from when the cemetaries of Paris had overflowed.

"You left," Laurent commented, half turned away from Gansey, but still very attentive to everything he said and did. He kept hold of the gun.

Instantly, Gansey regretted not asking the Phantom to spare the man, even if he'd been intending to kill him.

The feeling of nausea washed over him after the feeling of regret. Painfully numb, he followed without a word, hardly knowing where they were going and blinking dully when the finally got there. He didn't react in the least to the Phantom keeping the gun.

His response was delayed when the Phantom spoke. Throat thick and eyes red, he rubbed his hand across his mouth, like he couldn't quite digest what the words were. Left? Oh.

"Yes," Gansey said, voice thick with emotions unshed, "I did." Why had he left? "To get something," he recalled, looking away, at the wall, like it might have some sort of answer to a question that hadn't even been asked. "Then... something hit me. I don't know. I guess it'd been him, not a prop." That hadn't even really struck him until now.

"I... suppose I did something he didn't like." It was a faint comment, airy, like he still couldn't quite comprehend it all. Whelk's motives were still largely a mystery to him; wanting to kill someone merely out of envy? He couldn't understand that at all.

Gansey was dazed, distant, and Laurent had no patience for it. How dared Gansey need soothing and comforting, when this was all his fault? He'd left, he'd upset and abandoned Laurent, and then he'd returned with a threat and had needed to be rescued. Or was he in league with that stranger, that foul-mouthed brute? Was he upset because his partner had been killed?

Irritable, Laurent glared at him. He felt prickly with nerves and fears. Paranoia lapped at his fingertips. "Did you leave him?" Laurent asked, and then started walking again, pace fast with fear and anger.

He led the way to another chamber, with a vast staircase amidst the bones that led upward. "You can get out that way," he informed Gansey, still too infatuated with him to be satisfied with merely leaving him to die. "Don't come back."

"Did I... excuse me?"

That accusation brought him back down, staring at the Phantom with some disbelief and upset. He had made many, many mistakes—that he would freely admit—but did the Phantom think he'd done any of this on purpose? Gansey's lips tightened into a line.

"Do you mean that? Truly?" His voice had gone quite soft, dangerously so, pained in a way that made his throat ache. Don't come back. An utter fool, he was devastated because his captor didn't want to see him anymore. A fool for wanting to stay, a fool for hurting when told to go. Was there anything he could do right? It didn't seem so, anymore.

"If you say yes now, I will do as you wish. You'll never see me again. I promise."

His fingers curled inward, knuckles white, "But I won't have you think that I left Whelk. I cry, Phantom, for you." With that he wiped his sleeve across his eyes, blinking away the wet. "I'll take my journals. They're still in your kitchen."

Heir of the Palais Garnier

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