CHAPTER 2: The Quest February 6, 1871 – March 13, 1871
He'd recorded all the memories of his time with the gypsies in journals, and remembered all the places, names and faces that haunted his nightmares. His owner was dead, of that he was sure since he had been the one to dispatch him. Others he'd heard tell of over the years from the Truands, an underground network of criminals in Paris.
After his departure and his owner's death, there had been a dissension among the ranks until another leader had taken control. From there the troupe had fled into the wilds of Eurasia. As the years passed very little information could be found other than small references to tribal disputes. He'd kept record of every nugget of intelligence, and had even been able to formulate a trail of their movements across the continent. That was the course he would travel now.
The phantom could not move by daylight, or openly on the roads used by others. So he passed among the shadows and traversed the wilderness from village to village, sometimes on foot or borrowed horseback. He had committed to memory all the maps he collected over the years and plotted his journey southeast with careful precision. He'd also managed to establish a string of contacts and accounts from Paris to Hungary so that some of his journey would be in relative comfort, but there were several places where he would have to travel incognito.
The opera ghost was definitely skillful enough to keep his hideousness hidden. He carried two masks, but the stark white countenance of the porcelain one was a calling card of the freakish and would definitely draw attention. The other was light, made of soft beige leather in a manner that allowed it to mold and move with his skin to almost make him look normal from a distance or in low light.
Although there had been no direct interaction between him and those who lived in the theater, knowing they were there was comforting for him, and being able at any time to spy upon them gave him a certain kind of solace. The loneliness was almost bearable when he infiltrated their surreal world.
It had become his custom to listen to their conversations and observe their interactions like a play being performed. All their little dramas and comedies would play out for him like they would on stage, and he even had his favorite characters. Every stereotype was present among the rabble of players and he was never bored watching life unfold as a voyeur. Now he felt that lack with aching sharpness and a potent loneliness for not being able to join the performance. Now he was alone again, a pariah of the living world.
Longing for some form of human interaction, he would sometimes dare to enter the more disreputable looking inns, where lighting was very dim and no one would dare bother a solitary cloaked man with an air of menace. It was in one such auberge that he first heard a comment that made his blood boil. He'd been journeying for nearly a month, heading southeast through Europe. In a small town he'd found a small hovel offering respite for weary travelers.
The phantom settled himself nearest the rear door of the dive, which led to what he assumed was the kitchen. If trouble broke out he could retreat quickly out the back and not straight into the muddy street outside. The table at which he sat was no more than a broken plank of wood held aloft by the straightest branches that could be found and cut to be less than 4 feet from the ground.
When the waitress plopped down a mug of ale on the table it wobbled dangerously. He had no intention of drinking the swill, but intended to keep up appearances. Instead, he sipped brandy from a silver flask that was tucked just inside his waist coat. He did however condescend to eat the stew he'd been served, but had to fight the urge to vomit as its putrid flavor hit his tongue.
For someone accustomed to the luxury of dining on Paris fare this meager offering seemed like a means of torture, but such luxuries were now far behind him so for now it had to do. In the morning he would employ one of the street urchins, using both threats and the promise of payment, to collect supplies for his continuing journey.
While he tentatively fed himself, a pair of men entered the inn and loudly approached the man behind the makeshift bar.
"Eck. Every time we enter another chantey such as this, I feel that I need a scalding bath." said the younger man in French to the older who led the way.
The older man chuckled, and responded in a deep cracked voice. "You're just upset you've spent all your coin on whores in every brothel across France, and now that you're broke you have no entertainment."
"Maybe they'll serve me on credit on our journey back?" he shot back mockingly.
Even though partially hidden under their travel cloaks, the phantom recognized the color and style of the uniforms worn by the Paris gendarmes. He moved slowly to pull the hood of his cloak further over his face and mentally began calculating on the best way to exit the small room. When he was trying to decide whether to casually stand up and leave or trying slinking out the back door, he found his attention drawn to the officers and their conversation.
"Here, old man." Called out the youth to the barman "We want to speak to you."
"Ain't nothin' free 'ere monsieur." He replied, but was quickly relieved to hear the clunk of coins on the counter. "Ah, how can I help you gentleman?"
"We are hunting a monster and murderer; a demon with a horribly deformed face, a pale corpse like figure, stringy hair and carrying the stench of death. He may also be hunchbacked and scrambles about with a limp." said the older officer.
The phantom nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of this description. A demon he may be, but from their list of attributes he'd stepped out of a book. Next they'll say he was seen swinging from the pulpits of Notre Dame herself. He kept his eyes averted as he listened intently to the discussion.
"Huh, we 'aven't had anybody like that round 'ere. I'd string him up me self if I saw the likes of that." replied the barkeep. The younger officer sighed heavily.
"As it has been in every town we've been to. Well, at least this will be the last and we don't have to search all of Austria. If he is still alive, it's not our problem anymore. Do you offer lodging monsieur?" The barman nodded and once payment was arranged, he led the two customers up the creaky stairs.
The group passed directly in front of his table as they made their way, and the younger of the officers looked directly at the phantom but didn't recognize him. He almost chuckled at their audacity and ignorance. Soon the gendarmes would be asleep in their pest infested beds. He considered quite seriously slipping into their rooms and using the Punjab lasso he had readily accessible to quiet this threat, but in the end he decided against it. Killing them would certainly alert others to his whereabouts. If he was careful enough he could avoid them and their comrades in the future.
The phantom took this opportunity to quietly exit the inn and disappear into the evening mist. There was a farm just beyond the borders of the village where he planned to spend the rest of the night. It had a large barn with a hayloft that would hide him for the rest of the night and the following day.
As he settled himself into the darkness and closed his eyes, he wondered how many had been sent to hunt him. He believed that although the standard authorities would not pursue him this far, bounty hunters may have been engaged to search farther for him; perhaps hired by the managers or even the Viscount himself. He grimaced inwardly at the thought. That bastard Raoul had already won from him that which he never even possessed, and for her sake he'd even abandoned the only home he'd ever known. He conceded to himself that it didn't really matter, once he'd completed his quest for justice there would be nothing left for anyone to find or persecute.
The next day he left the hayloft during early twilight, collecting a few supplies from the farms storehouse before disappearing into the wilderness once again. He left behind a small stack of French embossed gold coins as payment for what he took, laughing inwardly at how a monster such as himself still held on to such meaningless morality. He continued to travel under the cover of darkness, keeping of the main roads. It made his progress slow, but he didn't deviate from his chosen course.