An eternally grateful shout-out to the lovely EspoirDio for her insightful reviews! I think I needed those in order to keep going.
Chapter 4: The Morning After
Josephine woke, with a start, to darkness and several sharp knocks on her door. Everything about her felt unfamiliar: the delicate silk clothing her skin; the soft, lush bedding enveloping her limbs; and, most disconcertingly, the soreness that seemed to pervade every muscle and bone in her body.
"Josephine!" bellowed a male voice on the opposite side of the door. "You need to be at work today, I presume?"
She let out a small groan, overwhelmed by exhaustion and pain and, as the events of the previous twelve hours flooded her memory, regret. This was not the first time that a rash decision of hers had backfired spectacularly, but then, each impulsivity of hers had seemed to outdo the previous one since...well, since things had happened to make her stop caring so much about consequences.
She could not understand why Erik was waking her at such small hours until she remembered that she was underground. She had no idea, in fact, what time it was. "I'm up," she called out, her voice still thick with sleep, "but I cannot see a thing."
She was met with momentary silence, and then she heard the door creak open. Erik's arm slipped in, bearing the now-illuminated lamp she had left on the tea table the night before, and set it on the floor before he pulled the door shut again. The room and its contents came into focus.
She climbed out of bed at a geriatric pace, her movements punctuated by pained whimpers. In time, she recounted that she had slipped repeatedly in the cellars, fallen off a ladder, run through thigh-deep water only to be tackled and thrown into a boat, and been slammed against a metal gate. She touched the side of her head that had collided with the portcullis and winced; indeed, there was a bump there.
She had not initially intended to escape. She could have handled what she had presumed to be their intended arrangement: a period of time as roommates of sorts, keeping a respectable distance, with one isolated night of passion that she planned to see through with copious amounts of alcohol. But this cat-and-mouse game that he seemed intent on playing? Intolerable. So instead of going to bed, she had sat fuming and fighting sleep until long after she heard Erik close the door to his room.
Even now, she shuddered at how terrifying it had been to be caught. Her terror began giving way to irritation, though; how had he known? It might have even been admirable had it not been to her direct disadvantage.
She washed her face at a gilt and porcelain washstand before collecting the lamp, which she positioned on the dressing table as she sat and frowned at her reflection. She had forgotten to unpin her hair before bed, and the coffee-colored tresses so resembled a bird's nest that she would not have been surprised to see a pigeon taking up residence. She removed the pins to tame the mess with a hairbrush, after which it went back into a bun.
She could not help but run her fingers over the various contents of the dressing table: fancy hair pins, nail file, hand mirror. She toyed with a glass perfume bottle that smelled of sweet rosewater and jasmine, turning the vessel over in her fingers a few times before returning it to its place on the dressing-table.
Christine. The entire room was an homage to the leading lady of the stage...the leading lady of Erik's very existence.
A pang of envy that wracked her chest as she surveyed the boudoir. Was this what it was like to be unconditionally loved and adored? To be provided for? How easily you overlook his possessiveness and violence, she chastised herself, but the traces of envy remained. And in that moment of weakness, she decided to open the wardrobe.
"Oh!" she cried softly, taking in the sheer number and luxury of items contained therein: skirts and bodices, jackets and capes, nightgowns and stockings, bustles and corsets. Her fingers grazed silk, satin, wool, velvet, cashmere, lace—everything nicer than anything she had ever worn. She lingered in particular on a breathtaking peignoir made of translucent rose silk and trimmed with gold lace and ribbon, until she became dissuaded by how little she knew of its history. Had Christine worn any of the garments that had been so obviously culled for her particular use? Or had they remained untouched since their installment, serving as an unsettling memorial to a love that could never be?
She did not intend to wear the clothes. They were too luxurious for her, and it would not do to revive the spirit of a past love. But when she went to change out of her nightgown, she realized that her own garments were in the sitting room, likely still damp and malodorous. She sighed and resigned herself to wearing the midnight blue skirt and bodice that Erik had selected, as they seemed to be the least ostentatious of the available options.
"It suits you," he said appraisingly when she found him in the sitting room. He was enjoying a cup of coffee and a newspaper—where did these things even come from? she resolved to ask later—and he looked as resplendent as ever in his finely cut tailcoat and slacks.
"Coffee?" he asked. He gestured to the blue-and-gold porcelain serving set laid out on the tea table. She nodded, watching him spring from his chair to pour the beverage. He was practically thrumming with energy, and she eyed him with suspicion as she accepted the proffered cup.
"How are you so awake?" she grumbled, topping off the brew with a generous pour of milk. "By all accounts, you seem like a night owl. You cannot be both a night owl and a morning person."
He refilled his own cup and held it up for illustration. "I can, however, be an ardent worshiper of coffee, that most exemplary of beverages, and it would not do to relegate such a fine specimen to a single time of day."
"Touché, and cheers." She clinked her coffee mug against his before raising it to her lips. She could not be sure, but she thought that she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Their remaining interactions that morning were perfunctory; Josephine had just enough time to inhale her coffee and some bread with preserves before demanding that they rush off to work. The portcullis was already open for the day, so she could not hope for any clues as to the whereabouts of the padlock key. She remained obedient in the boat as Erik rowed it through the underground canals, and she waited patiently for him to ascend the ladder before she followed. There would be no water-related escapes in her near future, she had decided.
When it came time to part ways, he directed her to a staircase that would take her to a janitorial closet a few doors down from the atelier. "I will be here to collect you at the end of the work day," he said. "I have eyes and ears throughout this building; do not make me remind you of that fact."
She began to climb the stairs, her back to him as she replied, "Right. You will lurk and stalk me, and I will carry on with my employment as though I am not being stalked. As one does. Just a normal Wednesday."
When she turned her head for his reply, he was gone. She let out a small cry of exasperation and let herself into the closet, where she barreled through housekeeping supplies and exited on the opposite side so quickly that she crashed into a man's torso.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried out. It was only when she stepped back a few paces that she realized who he was, and she felt compelled to apologize again. "Please forgive me, monsieur le vicomte. I fear my brain is addled with sleeplessness today."
Vicomte Raoul de Chagny gave her a wan smile. "And would that also explain why you were in a janitor's closet?"
She felt her cheeks flush. Up close, he was handsomer and more imposing than she had realized, and she instantly understood his appeal. He felt safe—not necessarily in a warm, gentle sort of way, but in the sense that he would refuse to tolerate a threat. Tell him, she thought. Tell him, and this could all be over. The Phantom of the Opera is here inside this building. But therein lay the problem with that plan of action.
"Shortcut to wardrobe," she explained. "There's a staircase in there."
His smile faltered. He peered around her to look in the closet, but she was already shutting the door behind her. "Funny," he said. "I thought I knew all of the ins and outs of this building."
She forced herself to smile. "Well, I can't imagine what occasion a vicomte and patron might have to visit a janitor's closet. Now if you'll excuse me, monsieur le vicomte, I must get to work."
"Of course. I hope you have a better day and a good night's rest, Mademoiselle—"
"Arnaud. Josephine Arnaud."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, allow me to escort you to your destination." He offered her his arm, and she felt compelled to take it despite the fact that said destination was a mere ten yards away. One did not turn down a patron.
Her self-appointed escort walked her to the doorway of the atelier, whereupon they exchanged polite farewells and he took his leave. She felt all eyes on her as she entered the room, but she paid heed only to those of the wardrobe supervisor, Mademoiselle Perotte, who occupied the work table closest to the door and seemed entirely unimpressed by the vicomte's appearance.
"Mademoiselle Arnaud," she said, stopping the beadwork on a bodice to stand and address the younger woman. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence."
Josephine glanced at the clock across the room; she was a mere two minutes late. "I apologize, Mademoiselle. I was slightly detained by the vicomte and did not think it wise to be dismissive of our largest patron."
Her supervisor frowned, emphasizing the wrinkles between and above her eyebrows that had begun lengthening and multiplying with age. Aside from the errant gray hair in her otherwise raven-black locks, her tight bun and simple black dress mirrored Josephine's typical appearance, and the latter often felt, in conversations with her superior, as though she were looking at herself twenty years into the future-an observation not wholly inaccurate. Josie was in a prime spot to take over the position someday, her knowledge of which felt both comforting and isolating.
Mlle. Perotte knew it, too, and was as accommodating of Josephine as a woman of her fastidiousness could be when her actions went unnoticed. She would not, however, make large concessions when the whole of the atelier was watching. "Perhaps you ought to consider arriving early for once," she said, "and you might not be impacted by such delays."
"Yes, Mademoiselle." Never mind that Josephine stayed later most days than the others. They erupted into murmured chatter—likely about her—and she crossed the room to take up her usual position at the work table in the far back corner, where she could see the workshop goings-on at all times. "Good morning," she crooned affectionately to the naked dress form at her station.
"She's looking dapper this morning," said Claudette, who sat at the opposite corner of the work table that they shared.
"Yes, I tacked on a brand-new layer of linen yesterday," Josephine replied, giving the mannequin a tender rub. "Well, new to her, anyway. Now her papier-maché isn't showing through the tears. Alas, if I only had something for her to wear besides this seafoam green tulle." She gestured toward the half-finished skirt on the table in front of her.
"I would give my right arm to never see tulle again. At least the ballet is only two weeks away."
"But then we have the costumes for the new production of Orpheus and Eurydice. And where there's an opera, there's a ballet. And where there's a ballet, there's—"
"—tulle," Claudette finished with a sigh. "Yes, I know. But at least there will be other fabrics to break up the monotony."
"One can only hope."
The morning was a productive one in the atelier, alive with sewing machines whirring, clouds of starchy tulle being unfurled and manipulated, scissors snipping. Idle chatter was kept to a rare minimum until near lunchtime, when Mlle. Perotte was asked to step out into the hall for a consultation. Almost immediately, the work tables next to Josephine's came to life.
Blonde, small-faced Agnes leaned toward her, speaking just loudly enough to be heard across the room. "How in heaven's name did you come by such a dress, Josie?" she asked, her syrupy tone belied by its own implicit accusations. "What a fine thing for a seamstress to have."
Josephine was peripherally aware of several others craning their necks around mannequins and sewing machines to regard her. "My brother sent it," she said, keeping her eyes on her work.
"Your brother? The one working the docks in Marseille?" Agnes snorted. "I doubt that any self-respecting purveyor of such garments would allow a man reeking of fish within ten yards of that dress."
"Yes, do tell us the real source," chimed in Agnes' companion, Louise. "It would be awfully convenient to know which of the gentlemen here at the Opera Populaire are so easily swayed by physical gratitude these days. Is the vicomte your latest conquest? Or has the set designer come back into the picture?" A contingent of the room erupted into nervous giggles, which dissolved swiftly when Mlle. Perotte stepped back into the workshop.
Josephine kept her eyes trained on her work, but her cheeks burned, and she hated herself for letting the teasing affect her as it still did. It was not the first time she had been shamed thus, nor would it be the last, and she understood why the girls lashed out at her. That did not, however, make it any easier to bear. She forced herself to daydream of the Jardin des Tuileries in the spring, inserting herself and her little box of watercolors among the tulips and lemonade stands and puppet shows. The fantasy helped her forge ahead until lunchtime, when she was relieved to see the others breaking up and disseminating with little to no regard for her or her new frock.
"Smoke break?" Claudette asked.
"No cigarettes," she answered regretfully. It was true; she could not afford them.
"We'll share. Come on; you look like you need it." Claudette grabbed her by the elbow, and before Josephine could concoct a reasonable excuse not to go outside, she found herself being swept out into the small outdoor courtyard where the two of them often retreated for fresh air.
Claudette took a few drags of a cigarette and handed it over. "The dress is lovely," she said. "I had planned to ask you about it in confidence. Is it really from your brother?"
"Yes, and I only wore it today out of desperation. In fact, I ought to send it back."
"Oh no, don't do that! And what on earth happened to your black dresses? No, don't tell me; we have precious few minutes out here, and I must make my case for your inviting your brother to visit. He sounds deliciously generous."
They spent the next few minutes passing the cigarette back and forth, Josephine dodging questions as she maintained constant surveillance of the perimeter. There was no sign of her masked captor. It was broad daylight, with throngs of passersby, and she knew that there was a police station about seven blocks away; perhaps she could actually make it? No, she had to make it, she determined, because a failed effort would likely be her last effort.
Claudette took one last drag and crushed the cigarette butt beneath the heel of her boot. "Back to fight with the tulle," she announced.
"Go on without me," Josephine replied. "I need to stretch my legs for a bit, and perhaps get some lunch."
The moment they parted, she erupted into as brisk a stride as possible, not wanting to call attention to herself by running. She had traveled five blocks down the busy Boulevard Haussmann and turned onto Rue Chauchat, where she could just make out the police station two blocks north, when a hand gripped her arm from behind with such force that she gasped—or would have, had another hand not clamped over her mouth.
"Do not even think about calling for help," Erik hissed into her ear. "I could dispatch you and vanish before anyone had a chance to react."
She considered calling his bluff, but her mind flashed back to the swift murder of Joseph Buquet during a sold-out performance. She nodded her assent. He uncovered her mouth, moving his hand to her shoulder to steer her away from the station. She snorted when he proffered his arm like a gentleman, but she took it anyway. "This is folly," she chastised as he led her down the street. "You'll be spotted."
"You left me no choice. The alternative is a manhunt."
"That would be your fault, not mine."
He pulled her down a narrow alley and around to the back of a building, where he spun her to face him. "I have spent the last nine months making an effort to cause no offense," he spat, jabbing a finger into her face. "You are the one who disturbed that peace, and you were not only spared your life, but also given free and comfortable accommodations. I am no saint, but give me some credit." He bent down to open the manhole at their feet. "Get in. We're going to address these infractions of yours once and for all."