Don't Speak of the Night
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)
by
Lady Trueword
Chapter 2: Old Friends and Acquaintances
Erik wandered south through the streets of Paris, hoping to meet his new family soon. He was unaccustomed to being under the sun for so long, and he found the noise around him to be intolerable. Carriage wheels and horses' hooves on the stone pavement, merchants yelling as they sold their wares, babies crying for their mothers – he much preferred an orchestra to this cacophony.
He longed for something to eat but his pockets contained nothing except for Christine's ring. It was the only valuable that he had kept with him. How he wished he could climb up to the roof of the opera house again! He had enjoyed quiet meals there in the cool breeze. From his perch he used to look down upon the Parisians, flouncing about in their finery. They looked like bejeweled insects to him. Erik relished the thought of crushing them. And why not? They had cast him out into the night without pity.
But now their greetings sounded alien to his ears. Whenever a gentleman tipped his hat, Erik forced himself to return the courtesy. The darker nature within him detested such civilities, but the small flame that the angel had lit was growing. All his secret dreams – for beauty, for light and for life – desires he had denied for so long – were becoming difficult to stifle. Oh Christine… He quickened his pace, trying to shut her image out of his mind. Where were the Bonhommes? It had not occurred to him that they might not live in Paris.
Two fashionable young ladies, one plump and the other skinny, giggled when he walked by them.
"Stop staring, Odile!" whispered the slender one.
"Ooh la la, Lisette, il est très beau…" Odile replied as she ogled the tall, dark-haired stranger.
Erik felt the blood rush to his face. Him, a handsome man? The idea was almost incomprehensible! By instinct his palm rose to his right cheek. Odile and Lisette only giggled harder.
"Stop it, Odile! Look, you are embarrassing him!" cried Lisette as she hurried her friend across the street. Odile took one last longing look before she disappeared into the crowd.
When Erik realized he had nothing to hide, he relaxed his arm and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Foolish girls," he muttered.
"Non, non!" the deep voice of a man startled him.
"But Andre, I tell you that it is the best offer we have!" cried another.
Erik froze. Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Giles Andre, the owners of the Opera Populaire, had stepped out of the Banque de l'Indochine. Erik's trepidation increased when Firmin spotted him and raised his ivory and gold-tipped cane.
"Why, Andre, I am certain that even this gentleman would agree with me that we should sell!"
Andre spat.
"Bah! Why should I sell my business to the son of an English aristocrat who never did an honest day's work in his life!"
Erik's green eyes darted about, desperate to find a way of escape. But Firmin stepped forward and tipped his hat.
"May I ask your name, good monsieur?"
"Re… Rene Bonhomme," Erik stammered his new name. He wondered if Firmin could hear his heart beating.
"Monsieur Bonhomme, I shall give you fifty francs if you will answer one question.
"Fifty francs! Are you crazy?" cried Andre.
Firmin continued, unabashed.
"Would you consider it prudent to sell a junk…"
"Scrap metal!"
"Sorry, Andre," replied Firmin. "A good… scrap metal business to a naïve young Englishman who would pay us a small fortune for it?"
Erik took a deep breath, relieved that Firmin did not recognize him.
"Perhaps. May I ask why you are selling it?"
"For the last time, we are not selling!" insisted Andre, who tried to pull his partner away. Firmin extricated his arm and stared at Erik, his hollow eyes having none of the mirth nor gleam of greed that they once had.
"We are nearly bankrupt, monsieur," said the businessman in a low voice.
Erik felt his lip twitch. A just misfortune, he thought. If you had obeyed my orders, none of us would be standing here, penniless.
"If only we had never bought that cursed opera house," lamented Andre.
Firmin straightened his shoulders.
"Brighten up, old chap. Things will get better."
Andre shook his head.
"I am too old, my friend. I do not have the strength to start again."
"Were you speaking about the Opera Populaire? I thought the vicomte was your patron," said Erik with a slight sneer.
"The vicomte has disappeared with our star soprano. Nobody knows where they are."
Any glee in Erik's heart quickly turned sour. The pit in his stomach grew as he watched the old man's head droop.
"Come, let us go, Andre."
Erik suddenly wished that he still possessed the 20,000 francs.
"Monsieurs," he called to them.
Firmin turned back wearily and took some coins out of his coat pocket.
"Ah, yes. Your francs, monsieur."
"No, that was not what I meant... I do not need your money," protested Erik.
Firmin put the money in Erik's hand.
"I keep my promises," he replied proudly.
Erik glanced at his palm. Firmin had probably given him the last of his cash, old fool. The two shriveled old men got into their carriage. Erik ran to them.
"Perhaps the Phantom's hidden money could help you!"
Firmin and Andre turned to him one last time and laughed.
"Hidden money? Don't believe everything you read, young man. The Phantom never had any money," said Andre scornfully.
"That is not true, monsieur! Dig and look on the east side of my, er – the… the lair…!"
Andre shook his head and sighed.
"I believe you have bigger things to be concerned with," replied Firmin. "Good day."
Firmin shut the carriage door.
"Please, gentlemen! You have to believe me!" cried Erik as the carriage sped away.
He suddenly realized that he stood alone in the middle of the street, shouting like a lunatic. When the carriage disappeared from view he reluctantly trudged on, unaware of the wide berth that the Parisians gave him. He did not know what caused his change of heart. Remorse was still a foreign concept to him.
What did you do to me, angel? He wondered. He did not like caring about people who had never cared about him. But nevertheless a revelation came, uninvited.
You were the cause of their ruin.
A heavy stone came to rest on his fledgling conscience. Conscience... Erik started to run as if he could escape from it. Why did you save me, God?
I am merciful.
"You are stupid!" he yelled angrily before he collided with a woman. She screamed as he sent her boxes crashing to the ground.
"My apologies, madame. I did not see you…"
He looked up and gasped. It was none other than Madame Giry who stood before him, flabbergasted. Meg Giry rushed out of a dress shop to her mother's side.
"What is it, maman? Are you all right?"
Erik gathered Madame Giry's things and carefully gave them back to her. Their hands touched for a brief moment.
"Good day to you, madame," he said. He noticed her scrutiny and quickly turned away.
She looked at Erik strangely. That voice! She could recognize it anywhere. But the stranger in front of her did not resemble the Phantom at all, except for something that was vaguely familiar about his eyes...
"Thank you, monsieur," she said. She wished she could say more.
He stopped for a moment before continuing down the road. He did not see Meg Giry's gaping stare or her mother's look of longing. What could he possibly say to them now? He would forever be indebted to her. The angel was right. It was best to leave the past behind. But what if he disobeyed just this once? Would he be punished?
Erik turned around. The Girys were gone, and to his surprise, so was a piece of his heart.
