Once she bade Erik farewell, Ariel ducked out of the basement by a "secret exit," (which was more likely a vent of some sort, but Ariel could not resist her slight flair for the dramatic, and labelled the exit with a mysterious touch). She had enough money on her to purchase a ride in one of the small horse-drawn cabs that filled the streets, but she decided not to, as it was only about a mile to her cousin's, and anyway, she wanted to explore Paris, not just see it passing by through the small frame of a cab's window. In any case, her lack of employment also made the idea of not wasting money on something as fleeting as a cab ride rather attractive.
Delicate snowflakes flew through the air, covering Ariel's red fascinator with a light dusting; catching in her long eyelashes and melting on the tip of her nose, she giggled rather like a child. The sky was the dark cobalt of an early November evening, and the snow came down like white feathers against the dark background. The cold air bit into Ariel's small body, but was somehow refreshing after the slightly dank air of the cellar. Ariel laughed, this time more loudly; she had always loved the snow.
Walking, she noted all the shops, the vendors who might be of interest at some point. A bit further along her path, she saw an old bookshop. Remembering the money that she had, she slipped inside.
The bookstore fit the mould of old bookshops perfectly. Crammed full of books and manuscripts, the shelves were absolutely stuffed; indeed, it looked as if the removal of a single volume could lead to sudden catastrophe by means of an explosion of dusty works of literature. The air smelled of old books and was slightly stale, little particles of dust wafting through the air. Ariel grinned, having always loved books, her companions through everything; indeed, sometimes her only companions.
A voice rang out from the back of the shop, "Bonjour, Mademoiselle!"
"Bonjour Monsieur," Ariel answered back cheerfully. "Comment êtes-vous?" She squinted to see the man standing at a counter in the back of the store, which was deceptively long. Ariel was glad her clothes had dried enough for her to change out of the enormous black gown, as, she was forced to admit, the man looked rather handsome...at least from this distance.
"Bien, merci," he replied, his voice matching hers in cheer. "Are you looking for something in particular?"
"No, Monsieur, just looking."
"Let me know if I can be of service in any way, Mademoiselle."
It suddenly occurred to Ariel that this entire conversation had consisted entirely of shouting across the room. It struck her as funny, and she fought to contain her decidedly-unladyike laughter. Apparently the man had found the situation to be equally amusing, as she heard him stifle a guffaw.
Browsing through the shop, Ariel found countless volumes that she would love to add to her sparse collection. She finally forced herself to on only two books, an almost heart-rending decision. The first was a collection of old French folktales, the other a history of Tudor England written by Eustache Chapuys; she proceeded to the back to pay.
"I'm glad to see you found something," said the man at the counter, his eyes dancing. Ariel's initial assessment of his attractiveness was proved very much correct; he was tall with dark hair and eyes the colour of coal dust, providing a noticeable contrast his pale colouring. He wore a plain ivory-coloured linen shirt and simple brown pants. Ariel noted that the shirt was peppered with ink stains, and couldn't help but contrast this with Erik's consistently immaculate garb.
"Found something?" Ariel replied with a gentle laugh. "Monsieur, I found more books than I could ever possibly read, but these shall have to suffice for now." Her charm and ease was effortless. Counting out change from her battered bag, she placed it on the counter. She probably should have walked past the shop, but she had never been one to resist a book. She just really, really hoped that she could find work, soon.
The man smiled back at her, and said "You have no idea how rare it is to find a Mademoiselle who enjoys reading; Indeed, I simply don't know what to charge one. I suppose, to be fair, that the price must be nothing."
Ariel only protested for a moment before she allowed him to take the books under the counter to be wrapped, free of charge.
She wished him good day and turned to leave, when he said abruptly, "Mademoiselle, Où habitez-vous?"
"Er...about a half-mile south of here. Why, Monsieur?"
"It's closing time, Mademoiselle, and I am headed that way. May I humbly beg for the pleasure of escorting you to your home?"
Ariel barely hesitated, replying, "Merci, Monsieur. That would be lovely." She might have said no, but she would like to get to know this sweet man. More practically, she was not sure of most of the Parisian roads, and she would hate to get lost – a guide would most definitely be a good idea.
With a shy grin, the man said, "Mon nom est Jacques Bedeau."
In reply, Ariel gave her own name, "Ariel D'Aubigne." As always, the tiniest accent revealed that French was not her first language, a piece of knowledge that intrigued Jacques. She smiled at him, and he busied himself locking up his shop –it was a half-hour before he usually closed, but there was no need for Ariel to be aware of this fact – while she looked longingly at many of the different volumes on his shelves.
Jacques made an exaggerated bow, sending Ariel into giggles, and winked at her. Taking her arm in one hand and her package in the other, he escorted her out.
The walk to Chantal's seemed shorter than ever, though they walked slowly, the walk of two people getting to know each other. The pair discussed books, a safe topic, but one rife with opportunities to learn about one another. They were arguing over who was a better writer, Ariel taking the side of Dumas, while Jacques preferred Flaubert, when they at last arrived in front of Chantal's flat.
Jacques led her to the door and handed Ariel her package of books, and a small but heavy bag that she had failed to notice. Gently disentangling his arm from hers, he kissed her cheek and, most reluctant, turned to go.
"Au revoir Jacques."
"Au revoir Ariel."
Entering Chantal's flat, Ariel's face managed to betray her happiness. Chantal noticed the colour in her cousin's cheeks with almost-motherly approval, and saw true happiness in her chocolate-coloured eyes for the first time since her arrival in Paris.
"Where were you, cousin?" Chantal asked, trying, but not succeeding, to not sound nosy.
Ariel grinned cheekily at her only relative. Chantal was fair, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and skin so white that it was comparable only to snow. She was voluptuous, but the extra curves suited her well. Needless to say, Ariel and her cousin had come from distinctly different mothers. The only trait that they shared was the thick curl in their hair, inherited from their fathers. Chantal was Ariel's father's younger brother's only surviving child, and was 25. She was engaged to be married to the rare man who met with Ariel's approval. His name was Pierre, and he was a handsome young tailor. Ariel tried not to be envious of the love that her cousin obviously had for this sweet-faced man.
Returning to the moment, Ariel paused, and then said, "I was at the opera house. I...met an old friend there and arranged for lessons to get my voice back into shape. Hopefully, I will be able to acquire work at the Ange somehow. Then, walking home, I saw a bookstore, and the owner was kind enough to escort me home." At Chantal's raised eyebrow, "That's it. Nothing else happened. I'm sorry to bore you."
Chantal could not wipe the knowing smirk off of her face, so Ariel simply gave her an equally eloquent expression and adjourned to her tiny room behind the kitchen.
Unwrapping the package, she sighed happily at the books she had chosen, running her hands over them, caressing them almost as a lover. Opening the small bag that Jacques had handed her upon his departure, she saw an extremely old book, still in exquisite condition, of classical poetry. Letting out a small squeal at her unexpected prize, she quickly turned around to ensure that the door was firmly closed, as she certainly did not want to make Chantal more curious, or suspicious, – Ariel couldn't tell – than she already was.
Sliding against the wall on her small bed, Ariel wrapped a quilt around her and began to read, her face in a sad smile.
Two days later, Ariel entered the basement of the Ange through the small vent that she had exited through on her previous encounter, feeling delightfully covert as she glanced around to ensure that she was, indeed, alone.
Once inside, she called out, "Erik, Où vous êtes?" he appeared suddenly next to her. "You have got to teach me that trick," she said, smiling, as he helped her into the boat.
It was a short trip to his chambers, and they spent it in contemplative silence. Ariel, who had been looking forward to this lesson for the past forty-eight hours, was now rather nervous about the quality of her voice, so long unused, and Erik wondering how best to approach this lesson; she was not a little girl anymore. The silence, however, was free of tension, and so it was a fairly easy ride.
Settling himself not at the organ, but at a beautiful ebony piano, he dug around for a moment and handed her a pile of music. Before she had a chance to look at it however, he quietly bade her to sing scales. He played the first and last note of each scale for her; she was forced to rely on her ear for the rest. For the most part, however, she was able to judge her pitches accurately, and sang the scales well. He started her on an A just below the treble clef, and worked her up so that her last scale started on the C on the third space of the staff.
Erik listened to her scales carefully, noting what she remembered of his teaching and what she seemed to have discarded, testing her range. Her voice did not thin at the top, which greatly pleased him, and he made a note to push her farther next time. He began thinking, looking at her, and listening to her voice over and over. She was able to make the simplest scales sound like concert pieces, her voice rippling like a warm pond. He was mildly amused with the emotion that he heard injected into every pitch, but it was a problem that was easily solved – it is far easier to make a voice less dramatic than it is to infuse feeling into a voice. He did notice, however, a thick throatiness that pervaded each note. It was subtle, but he heard it. No one else may notice it, it was so faint, but it was important to him to make her the best she could be. He felt he owed it to her. The over-use of emotion, however, he wanted to simply tone down. Sighing, he remembered Christine, her voice completely devoid of emotion, empty tones filling the air, albeit with an overwhelmingly simple beauty. He didn't want another Christine.
He didn't have to worry. Indeed, Ariel was almost the anti-Christine. Ariel's colouring was dark and exotic, while Christine possessed a much more fragile looking beauty. Christine sang with a beautiful clear tone, while Ariel's voice was warm and rich. Ariel was bursting with vibrancy, where Christine was almost an empty page, just waiting to be written upon, almost sad in her incredible, naïve sweetness. Erik smiled. No, he didn't have to worry about Ariel becoming another Christine.
When she was finished running up and down the octaves, Erik gave her a glass of water. Gratefully, Ariel drank and looked at her first piece, an aria by Strauss. Reading the line of music carefully, she hummed the main tune as she scanned through the other music in the sheaf that Erik had given her. There were many, many arias by almost as many composers, and even a few duets mixed in. There were at least forty pieces in the stack, and when Ariel looked at the massive cabinet that Erik had grabbed her music from, she smiled at the thought of how many pieces he had that she may get to work on; Ariel truly loved music.
Starting with the Strauss aria, a piece from "The Bat," they worked for at least another hour, maybe two or even three. They both lost track of any concept of time in their mutual rapture in the music. Ariel loved to sing, and Erik was happy to teach an apt, bright, willing pupil. Like before, he spoke rarely, allowing her to find her own mistakes. He was the guide, not the master, a philosophy that worked much better with Ariel, who was bold enough to point out her errors than it had with Christine, who wished only to be validated and loved. Indeed, it was a testament to Erik's teaching skills that he could successfully instruct such different pupils.
Finally, he called it a close after they had worked through one aria – he did not want to overtire her voice, so long unaccustomed to any sort of work –, and she was instructed to practice. He took her in his boat back to the vent, and when he stood to lead her out, Ariel gently kissed him on his naked cheek. Smiling cryptically, Erik held her tight for a moment that lasted for both an instant and forever, then silently bade her farewell with only his eyes.