Chapter 1
[[[Hello again, all. Here is the first chapter. Yay! Plot starts. Update should be in a few days.]]]
Paris, 1846.
It was a cold fall evening. The air was humid and the gray cobblestones were wet with the morning's rain. All the bourgeoisie had already retreated for the night, but the lower class still roamed the streets, drunks wailing about with young women under each arm, thieves and beggars snatching a few coins that clattered to the street, but nobody cared. Nobody ever cared.
In the back alleys of the city of lovers was set up a small display. An exhibit, if you will. Different tents of various earth colors stood against the wall, and in each, faint lightbulbs flickered. Several vardos – Romani wagons – were placed in front of the first tent.
It was a gypsy camp. They were composed of several Romani families, traveling around from city to city, town to town, all across Europe, stealing and pickpocketing their way through life, collecting various oddities they could con children and fools into paying to see. Most of these oddities were objects, a shrunken head, a monkey skull.
But in one of these tents was something different. It was not an object of an oddity, but rather a human of an oddity. There was a flimsy metal cage in the center, on which hung a thin wooden sign with crooked letters that read 'The Devil's Child'.
Inside the cage was the boy. He was unmistakable. The cloth bag still hung over his head and he still wore his flimsy clothes. He was as twig-like as ever, and was even more undernourished than in the forest. The boy was hanging from the top of the cage with pieces of rope. His black eyes were wide in fear, but he made no noise, no scream.
There were whispers and movement from outside the tent, and little white figures moved inside. Those figures were that of young girls – ballerinas in training at the nearest dance studio. They were between the ages of ten and eighteen, the eldest were staggering around, bottles of vodka and rum in hand, their breaths heavy with alcohol. The youngest looked around in wonder, their eyes adjusting to the dim light, taking in the sight before them.
A gypsy man entered from the back of the tent, which caused ripples of half-shrieks half-giggles from the girls that were still sober. A brown whip appeared into his hand, which prompted more screams of laughter.
Whichet, whichet. The whip fell onto the boy's back. Whichet, whichet. It was all the boy heard. He had learned long ago to drown out the cries of amusement his audience gave. Whichet, whichet.
Then the climax of the show came. The gypsy man grinned, a golden tooth gleaming in the lamplight. He pulled the cloth off the boy's head. The ballerinas screamed, this time in true fear, and ran out.
The man spat at his feet, and replaced the mask, and left after the young women, sinful thoughts surely filling his mind.
The boy looked up.
A young girl still stood. She was leaning against the bars. She was staring up at him, at his black eyes that were full of emotion. She sighed, her own full of pity and remorse for the child that was barely a few years her junior.
He was not used to remorse. He was not used to pity. In fact, he'd never experienced it in his life. It was foreign, it was alien, it was unwelcome.
He growled. It was a low, guttural sound. It was that of an attacking wolf, that of a starving animal. It shook his fragile body. It shook the cage.
The ballerina's eyes widened, and she scampered out of the tent, just like all her friends. Just like all the others.
† † † †
Philippe de Chagny was frantic. He ran through the cobblestone streets, his face red, his palms sweating. He had barely left his teenage years, he had barely won his parents' trust in the ways of the adult world, and now! All for naught.
At his side was his younger sister, Marianne. She was a well-behaved child, and Philippe praised her for it. She was the ideal daughter, even at the age of six. She wore pretty floral dresses and her brown hair was always in a neat bun. She did not dirty her shoes or get herself covered in mud. She did not spill her tea. She was polite and courteous.
Their sister, Lucille, otherwise known as Lucy, the youngest of the family, was a different story.
Lucy was five. She ripped apart her dresses and wear her brother's trousers. She climbed trees and ran barefoot through the forest. She despised tea and all the conventions of the modern day: carriages and plush seats meant nothing, and she would often spend her rides attached to the roof of the wagon. The little de Chagny monkey caused more mischief than not.
And it was her, today, who had Philippe in such a frenzy.
Around the corner, he could hear her faint laughter. He ran, his feet pounding on the stones, Marianne still in tow. He could glimpse a little head of blond hair, but as he turned to get a better view, she was gone. He followed her down a deep, dark alleyway, sending chills up his spine and giving him goosebumps all over.
"Lucy, come out this instant," he cried, hardly sounding convincing of authority. "Lucy, this isn't funny!" He only got a giggle in response. "Lucille de Chagny!"
Philippe and Marianne continued after their sister, and soon came to that fateful group of Romani gypsies.
Lucy had disappeared into one of the tents. Philippe felt another shiver down his spine as her giggles and laughter abruptly stopped.
Something's happened to her, something's happened to her, he thought in fear, and quickly entered the tent himself.
Lucy was kneeling by a cage, her little hands wrapped tightly around the bars. She stared at the creature inside, immobile and silent. Her brother squinted, unsure what the being was that was sprawled onto the floor of the cage. It heaved with each breath, and struggled as it exhaled, as if it was in pain.
It looked up, and Philippe could see two little eyes through what he thought was fur, and saw this was in fact cloth. Oh God. The young man gulped. He realized in horror that he was staring at a little boy.
"Lucy, we have to leave," he whispered, kneeling beside her and trying to pry her away from the boy and the cage.
"No!," she cried, grasping only tighter. She began to kick at her brother who let her go.
Philippe glanced at the boy, then back at his sister. She looked up at his with big, brown eyes that pleaded silently. He clenched his fists. He forgot all his fear, all his anger. This was no way to treat any human being, any creature of God. And Philippe, being a devout Christian, was in no position to ignore this injustice.
One of the gypsy men entered behind them, a silver dagger gleaming in his hand. The de Chagny man stood up, his eyes narrowing with a newfound hatred.
Marianne pulled at his pant leg. "Philippe, I'm frightened," she whispered.
"Shh, dear," he answered calmly, then turned to face the Romani man.
"How long has this boy been with you?" he asked, his voice bearing no hint of emotion.
"Why 'ould you care?" the Romani replied.
"If you knew who I was, you would answer," Philippe said sternly. "How long has he been with you?"
The Romani pocketed his dagger, and lost his air of superiority, not wanting to take any chances of being imprisoned by some high and mighty French aristocrat. "A bit less 'han a year."
"How much has he made you, in total?"
"Some-a-t'ing like forty francs," was the answer.
Philippe pulled a bag of coins out of his pocket. "Fifty francs," he bargained.
The Romani raised an eyebrow. "What for?"
The Vicomte nodded towards Lucy and her new companion. "His release."
† † † †
Inside the cage, the boy stirred. He had been staring at the girl in front of him, studying every aspect of her. In contrast to the ballerina that had stared at him earlier, the girl seemed so innocent, so pure, like she actually cared about him, rather than just feeling pity for his horrible self, hidden away from the world. He'd driven him away because she'd feel pity for the Romani just as much as he, who had to live with his horror every day. But this girl, in front of her, she was different. She was special. He felt it deep inside.
He felt it in his heart.
The man who was with her started to talk to the gypsy man. The boy paid no attention to them and lifted his hands to feel the girl's.
The two children stared at each other. The girl tried to smile, but failed. She held onto his hand. "It's going to be okay," she whispered, suddenly becoming mature from the giggling and laughing fit she'd had before entering the tent.
He almost laughed. He was never going to be okay.
His attention went to the strange man, who had dropped a bag of coins into the gypsy's hand. He frowned, unsure of what had gone on between the two. His eyes widened as the man neared his cage again, staring in before resting his hand at the latch, making his intention clear of opening it.
The boy squirmed, retreating to the back, and the girl with the blonde hair stood up. "No, no, stop!" He froze. "We're going to help you! It's going to be okay! It will!"
It was only a few minutes later, when the four of them walked through the streets of Paris, away from the gypsies that he had come to know and hate, that he fully understood the meaning of those words.
"I'm Lucy, and this is Philippe!" said the little girl enthusiastically, skipping on the cobblestones. "You're going to come home with us, and you're going to live with us, and you're going to be my new best friend! Right, Philippe?"
"Well...," her brother said. "We'll have to find his parents first. Then Mother and Father will decide what to do." He turned his attention to his new protégé. "Do you have any parents?"
The boy shook his head.
"What's your name?"
He looked up, his big black eyes staring at the faces of his saviors.
"Erik," he whispered weakly. "My name is Erik."