Bonjour, good readers. Pardon my tardiness, but I was trying to paint the man accurately, and he can be difficult to characterize. But I digress. I greatly appreciate those that review and encourage my writing. Again, I beg your indulgence in the form of an aye or nay in a review. For the sake of your enlightenment, I feel I should share with you a review I received in a rather odd form several days ago.

It arrived with the daily post, in unusually fine paper with a red wax seal. The seal itself had been rendered unidentifiable by the wonders of the postal service, and the smudged address offered only that it was written by something like a fountain pen. Fascinated, as anyone rightly would be, by this mysterious letter, I opened it. It read as follows.

Mademoiselle,

I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my story is to be told. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Your manuscripts have been returned to you, and I am anxious that the story should progress. In the new chapter of "The Chorus Girl", you will therefore recount the events as they actually occurred, not as your inventive desperation for a fine tale should dictate. The roles in this story are exacting, and if you are not up to the challenge, your days writing of Opera Populaire are numbered. Remember there are worse things than a shattered chandelier.

I remain, mademoiselle, your obedient servant.

O.G.

And so I leave you to the tale…

It was late the next day when she finally woke, though in the darkness of l'Opéras catacombs, there was no way of telling what time it was. A single candle burned in the corner, casting a singular light over the bed. She resisted consciousness, but the ache of her side was too much for her frail slumber to ward off. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. She woke up slowly, the whiskey of the night before leaving its drowsiness on her. She sat up, the dull throb in her abdomen causing her to wince. Her cut had been bound and cleaned, but by whom? She thought of the mysterious man who had saved her. He must have done it.

"You must be careful about your movements; you could reopen the wound."

She whipped around to face him, startled by the voice. His eyes widened, and she looked down at herself. Her chest was still bare, the remnants of her dress having been discarded the night before when he had sewn her up. She hastily gathered the sheets around her. "I, wh, I…" she stammered, her face flaming at what had just happened.

He had turned away, his half-hidden face tinted as well. The color seemed strange on his normally pale cheeks, but he controlled it. He must control himself. It was the only way to retain his sanity through such torment.

"You're dress was irreparable. It is in the corner if you should like to keep it for scraps. I'll fetch something to cover you." His voice sounded far more controlled than he felt. It had been so long since he'd had to accommodate anyone but himself, so very long. His mind turned to the more immediate task of finding something suitable for the girl to wear. He sighed. For now it would have to be his clothes; he would get her a dress tonight. He certainly could afford it. After all, what does one do with 20,000 francs a month when you have a comfortable home, eat very little, and can't show your face? Nothing. It sits and waits for the day when a use is presented, and one was most certainly being presented now. He gathered a shirt and trousers for her and started back for her room.

"Here," he said, laying the clothes on the foot of the bed. "These will have to do for now."

"I… Thank you." She bit her lip nervously.

"What is wrong? Does it hurt?" After the care he had taken with this girl, he would not lose her to complications; she was too large of an investment now.

"I was just thinking that I would cause quite a stir in l'Opéra should I walk in dressed in trousers." She laughed, wincing as her side shook.

He shot her a look that stemmed the laughter in a moment. He nearly regretted the look on her face, but the thought that she was an investment for another time returned to him, and he remembered that he needed to keep her very much in his control if things were to go well for him. "You may dress in here." He departed then, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room.

She sat up slowly, his glare and her side making her uneasy. She picked up the shirt and stood slowly. Feeling suddenly interested in her surroundings she turned around curiously. The bed was covered in the finest sheets she had ever felt, or seen for that matter, and the cover was an ornate design of many colored silks. The bed itself was grand in scale and make. Expensive hard woods that had obviously been carved by hand twisted about the base, giving the illusion of feathers. The graceful neck of the statue-like swan bed was made of similar wood, with gold inlaid to provide highlights where they were desired.

She awed for a moment before slipping into the cotton shirt he had given her. It was large for her; the breadth of the shoulders showed it to be a man's, but she had worn such things before. She slid the pants on and tied the ribbon he had left her as a belt tightly around her waist. Her gaze was drawn to the rug that her toes were sinking into. The colors were deep and exotic, like the Persian rug she had once glimpsed in La Carlotta's dressing room when she had snuck in on a bet. She sneered darkly as she remembered the beating she had gotten for that. But she had gotten the 5 francs from each of the impressed ballet rats. Fifty francs each was not a bad profit for a few days of soreness. She knew that the rug was not something easily gotten in Paris, except by the exceedingly wealthy. The manager had had to buy it to appease La Carlotta during one of her Prima Donna tantrums, and pay had been reduced for much of the chorus and ballet for several months for him to afford it.

She turned again. Beside her, the candles ascended in hinged candlesticks on either side of the swan's head. Their flames seemed too steady to be normal candles, prompting her to investigate. After a moment of close scrutiny, she exclaimed in surprised delight, "They're lamps! Tiny gas lamps!" The sound brought him to the door.

"Are you well?"

"I was just amazed by the lamps! They are ingenious! Wherever did you get them?"

"I did not 'get' them. I created them."

She turned, incredulous. "You mean you made these? They're brilliant!" She eyed the lights again. "But aren't they a bit unnecessary? I mean, so much work for something that only takes a moment anyway…"

"They are quite simple to operate, and were very little work once I conceived the idea." The girl was beginning to annoy him with her cockiness, and he had never been one to tolerate a nuisance for very long. He moved to the other side of the door and pulled back a curtain. "They are turned on and off from this valve, which controls the gas flow as well as the sparking apparatus on the lamps. Note." With one smooth movement he turned the knob several clicks, extinguishing all the lights in the already shadowy, leaving the two of them in near blackness. He waited a moment for effect, to hear a gasp of surprise or a whimper of fear, but neither came. Unconsciously disappointed in the apparent ineffectiveness of his theatrics, he reversed the motion, and the lights came on with a loud snap of the flint striking steel.

"They are truly impressive," she murmured, examining the lamps closely.

"I am surprised you recognized them at all." He made sure the disdain in his voice was heavy and barely veiled with a false consideration.

She seemed to ignore his tone, continuing with her inspection of the lamps. "I was intrigued by the unusual steadiness of the flame. Candle flames are more volatile." She ran her finger through one of the flames.

"Stop! What are you doing?" He took a step forward and grabbed her hand away from the flames before it could pass through them again. He gripped her wrist harshly, confused anger contorting his face.

She wrenched her hand from him. "It won't hurt me. I could run my finger through the orange part all day and not even heat my finger. As long as I don't touch the blue part, the hottest part, I'm fine." She turned from him and ran the whole of her hand through the flames as well, making even the steady gas flames flicker for a moment. "Besides, I've always been a curious person. It's in my nature." She laughed grimly. "But it certainly has gotten me into trouble before."

He stepped back from her, realizing that the short distance between them was doing nothing to encourage the fear and awe he meant to instill in her, not to mention the treacheries of his body at the closeness of hers. "Curiosity killed the cat, mademoiselle."

She smiled and wagged a finger at him. "But the cat has nine lives, monsieur."

"The more curious the cat, the more swiftly its lives are taken."

"Touché, monsieur, touché. Any closer to the heart and I fear you may actually wound me." Her grim laugh filled the room again.

He left the room hurriedly. Any more of her insolence and he may well wound her, if you could say that the Punjab lasso wounded its victims. As he seethed at her impudence, he chided himself that not all investments were easy gains. Some required careful tending and patience. As he snapped the familiar rope between his hands, he thought it might need more patience than he possessed.