1. Fugitives
She was running down the beautiful street full of lords, countesses and their servants. Nobody turned to see her as it was quite often that a low life would creep out from the shadows and show its face on the streets. The definition of low life, or let's call them "social outcasts" was quite severe and perhaps overdone at that tie. Social Outcasts were usually entertainers, in fact – meaningless lives whose sole purpose in life was to bring joy and happiness for a short while into the life of a lord… countess…kings…
The year was 1886. France was, by reputation, one of the most beautful countries with most beautiful people and a society whose behavior was somewhat godly. The end of summer was rather special, however. And just like now, most inhabitants were in a hurry to prepare their homes and families for autumn time.
Angeline Rousseau was a rather savage young woman from a broken home. Her family was less than admirable. Her father was once a great architect, yet through time his adoration towards liquer had gotten the best of him. Her mother, unlike her father was a caring mother at first. Though, as years begun to clinge to her widening body, her motherly instincts were lost in-between bitterness and lies.
She moved to Paris when she was around eighteen, where she lived with a group of entertainers from whom she had learnt how to use her voice properly. So here and ther she would jump when some of them was sick. She had no ambitions, as she wasn't much of a student. Her passion had always been music and art. Unfortunatelly, for a young woman at her age and at that time, it was impossible to break through in those categories of business without having extra help.
The child she was carrying in her arms was clinging to her neck while she let her feet take flight across the street. She wasn't sure if anyone was following them, as she had no time to turn her head. She would most probably end up in prison for kidnapping a five-year-old child.
Angeline passed by a very known building that was often mentioned in the newspapers and famous novels of that time – The Opera Populaire. Of course, as it was common for all things and creatures when they are not being taken care of, the building was slowly withering before the eyes of all men. Its once beautiful, bright walls were now starting to turn dirty gray, as its door were falling to pieces.
Bearing in mind many stories about the opera house, Angeline still barged in. She looked around in a hurry, trying to spot a good hiding place.
She put down the child she was carrying. The boy was quiet the whole time, presumably intimidated by the haste in which Angeline had snatched him from his home.
"There!" He yelled, pointing his finger at wooden stairs that seemed quite unstable, considering the fact that their surface was nibbled by the greedy teeth of the past five years – the time that the opera house was untouched by a human hand. It was obvious that the stairs were just a small part of the final play that had taken place before the grand catastrophe.
Angeline had no time to waste. The police or Monsieur Bouvier's – the child's father – underlings were right at her tail.
"Henri…" Her voice filled the empty space when she turned to the boy, "I need you to climb to my back and hold tight. I will climb up those stairs." Suddenly, she grabbed the boy, whose young limbs wiggled their way up her body until he was fixed on his back, "Don't let go, no matter what!" She was saying while running toward the stairs. She felt the boy's uneasiness as soon as she grabbed the rickety pole, as his tiny arms seized her neck as if his body wished to blend in with hers.
She begun to take small, but hasty steps, while switching the balance from one foot to another with great forethought. She was not too worried about the stairs not being able to hold her weight and the weight of the child, as her short and thin figure carried not more than forty-seven kilos. There was also her acrobatic abilities that she had gained from practicing with the dancers up until now.
She reached the top soon. The stairs were connected to a one-by-one meter long board that was shaking every time one of them would inhale and exhale. The good thing was that the top was three meters away from the ground, it was cloaked with thick, dusty curtains and devoured by shadows.
"Don't move, Henri. No motions at all!" She whispered nervously and crouched. Henri moved slowly to her front, where he sat face towards her. She wrapped her long, perfect, feminine arms around him and listened to the sounds of the old opera house.
At first all they could hear was the numb sound of the wooden stairs swinging until they settled upon their weight. Right in that moment, the door of the opera opened explosivelly and footsteps of nervous individuals announced great caution to the fugitives.
Henri's small, shivering body bounced slightly when the door were opened in such a violent and sudden manner. She squeezed him tighter, hoping to withhold any motions he would make and that would distort the stillness of their, currently, only enemy – the old stairs.
Angeline listened to the motions. Here and there, the sound of glass breaking gave her a better heads-up as to where their pursuers were in that moment. She could almost hear her heartbeats. She was forcing her breaths to be more silenter and less intense than they all ready were.
There was someone under them… Looking up…
A policeman?
That somebody pushed the stairs and they begun to swing once again. Angeline's heart jumped into her throat even though she had predicted this might happen. The child let out a soft cry that she barely heard.
"Shh, Henri… No sounds…" She whispered to the child and leaned her hot palm against his nape. The rush of blood through her body was so instense, like a troop of soldiers charging at their enemy. She closed her eyes, repeating a prayer inside her head over and over again. She wasn't much of a religious person, actually. In fact, she had no knowledge of any prayer whatsoever. Still, the entertainers she had lived with had their own way of praying – songs. Songs about God and salvation. Songs about hope and power of endurance. The lyrics were circling around her mind until she heard the door of the Opera shutting.
Her eyes opened wide on the mark of the door shutting. She stayed motionless, however. Listening… Listening if her ears played tricks on her. Only the sound of hers and Henri's heart beating was winding around the dim silence.
Twenty seconds must have passed until she turned her head in the direction of the door.
"Are they gone yet?" Henri whispered into her ear. Angeline's and his eyes met.
"I'll take a peek. Don't make a sound." She whispered back and slowly pushed him away.
The stairs creeked when she stopped crawling. She supported herself against her elbows as she knelt down and looked from under the curtain. The odor of the curtain, mixed with dust particles provoked a sweet frown on her face.
There was no one…
"Coast is clear." She said and slowly begun to descend. Henri was right behind her.
She dusted off her own clothes and then Henri's. Then she took a deep breath that gathered all the tension and worry in her lungs and exhaled them out of her body.
"That was close…" Henri stated and looked up at Angeline. She was worried… What was she, a mere twenty-one year old supposed to do with a five-year old child? A Boy, even? She knew little about boys and working as Henri's nanny was supposed to "broaden her horizons" as Michele, her dancer friend that she shared a room, told her.
"Henry…" She said, going down on her knees to level with the boy's head, "I hope you understand that I've taken away because you were mistreated at home. Don't see me as a bad person." She explained mildly.
"Angelique…" Henri uttered the nickname he had given her out of love.
"We have nowhere to go, Henri. I can't take you to "Aurore". Even I can't return to "Aurore". We're fugitives now…" She continued.
"We can stay here!" Henri shouted with a childish smile on his face. This brought a mild smile to Angeline's countenance.
In fact, when Angeline looked at the big picture… They could stay in Opera Populaire. Nobody dared to enter as some still believed that the ghosts of the past lingered in its corners. However… the police shall be back. Her vast criminal experience had shown to be useful afterall.