Chapter Two

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The brougham clattered along the uneven, dusty country road. I'd severed all ties in Pisa, including discharging my servants upon the completion of my packing and leasing the house to a family who deserved and needed it far more than I. The parents were relatively young, with two small children and another on the way. In their youth, their cheeks were rosy and their grins broad. I envied them, being the loathsome old man I was.

"The house is large," the husband had observed merrily. "Perfect for raising a family in." His wife smiled up at him.

I said nothing in response. They knew not why I was selling the house.

I'd piled my numerous trunks and bags into the carriage, hoisted myself into the driver's seat, my final withdrawal from the bank snug in my jacket pocket, took one last look of goodbye at the charming villa, and departed without looking back. Although I'd been comfortable in Italy, what with our annual summer trips to the seashore and the dining selection which had, at last, restored my appetite and brought me to a healthy weight, toward the latter part of my stay there, my heart had begun to long for France. A Frenchman I was born, a Frenchman to the core I remained. I'd already leased a sizable flat on the Rue de Plumet, modest though comfortable, fit for one, two at the very most, not that that would ever be a concern.

I planned to live the rest of my life peacefully. No more danger, no more noise and bother. Simply taking care of my business and composing would suffice. I certainly would waste no more time in my underlying, though never-ending quest for love. Although I never would have admitted it twenty years ago, in spite of all my sin, development of mental prowess, and quest for money, there was only ever one thing I truly searched for: someone to love me. It was always buried deep in my psyche, and I'd always ignore it, not wanting to face the inevitable.

The loss of my wife and son hit me harder than I would have expected, and I was surprised, especially, at how I mourned my wife, not as a lover or spouse, but as a dear friend and long-time companion. Also, somewhere in my subconscious, I realized that Amelie was likely the only woman who would ever even consider sleeping by my side, bearing my child, and now she was gone. Could she really be the only woman who could see beyond my mask? A part of me wished it to be false, but a larger, self-loathing and -pitying part of me wished it, and knew it to be true.

Although I'd prohibited Amelie to ever remove my mask or to see me in such a position, she did not nag or question me, and never did she attempt to remove it. I'd always appreciated this, for it gave me excellent reason to trust for the very first time in my life. I did trust Amelie, and I did care for her, and I cannot deny that late at night, it was a great comfort to be able to drape my arm over her waist as she slept and not have to worry about being rejected. But love? No. Not Amelie.

Not that I desired any other women, even a second wife in the distant future. Despite the lack of true love, passion, I'd been content with my life with my family, for I knew it was the happiest I'd ever be, and I was quite lucky to be allowed them. I almost felt as though if I found a new family, unlikely though it may be, I would be betraying my previous one, who had been so good to me.

My son, of course, hit me with an entirely different type of loss. I'd lost someone I'd lent a large hand in creating. It was somewhat akin, I'd decided, to having any music I'd ever breathed life into destroyed, only much, much worse. I can only think of all the potential our little Georges had. With his handsome, young face he could have gone on to achieve musically as I'd never been able to because of my disfigurement, and I'd have been so proud of him. My only son...only six years old, his life barely begun. The unfairness of it all is sickening.

As with all grievers over a sudden death, I'd formulated a series of haunting, maddening 'what ifs.' If only I'd gone with them, then we'd all be resting peacefully in our graves, no one left behind, but I am left to deal with this unexpectedly intense grief and sudden emptiness. I, the oldest of each of us, lived, while my wife, vivacious and lovely, and my son, gifted and young, did not. The guilt was oppressive.

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Eventually I arrived in France, in Paris. Finally, I was home once more -- I was altered, older, but home once again. I settled into my flat and had a footman transfer my luggage inside. I would unpack later, plenty of time for that. The flat was precisely to my liking, with a small parlor, guest room, and bath stemming from the small receiving area. Beyond there was the kitchen, dining area, and master bedroom and bath. The flooring was cherry hardwood all around, save in the bedrooms, where a soft, ivory-colored carpeting had been lain. I could always redecorate, of course, as money was by no means an issue, but for now it the flat would do just nicely as it was. The view was lovely, too, overlooking the bustling road.

Dusk had fallen over the Parisian streets, the nightlife I'd never before experienced just beginning. The streetlights were ignited, and one set on people on the streets, large families and older people, were exchanged for a younger crowd. I gazed down at the young couples, dressed casually and formally, rich and poor, all obviously deeply in love; women on the arms of men, gazing up at them adoringly. I was a bit ashamed that I could be thinking of such things at this point in my life, but I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever catch even a glimpse of such a love.

Drawing the blinds in the bedroom and going into the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of brandy and pondered just what I was going to do, now that I was home. Would I run the house myself? Yes, I supposed so. I had no desire for some little chit underfoot to serve my food incorrectly and scold me about my nightly scotch or brandy, a relatively new habit I'd developed after the deaths. No, I would at least attempt to run the small flat by myself, for a while. It couldn't be too difficult, really. I was only one person, and of course, I'd been on my own most of my life.