Master of Illusion — Book One

Anne Rouen

Chapter 3

Mardi Gras, 1870

Today I found Angel.

The sights and sounds of the street fair were tantalising but not nearly as absorbing as the entrancing tricks of a sweet-looking monkey in a red jacket and fez. His big, dark eyes and beguiling chatter kept Elise's attention long after the others had moved on.

Coming to herself, she looked around to find she was alone in a crowd of strangers. She flicked a plait over her shoulder. The others would come back for her when they realised. Gabby would scold, but she wouldn't mean it. Besides, the gendarmes were just up the street interrogating some gypsies about something or other.

Then she heard banging, rattling, shouting, 'Satan's spawn! Devil's child! Accursed rat!'

Running to the street corner, she peered around the edge of a building at a boy crouching in the gutter. Dressed in ragged and filthy gypsy clothing, he was curled up, trying to protect himself from the missiles pelted by a jeering crowd.

'Oh-h-h, what are you doing, you great bullies?' An immense anger flamed in her heart, overpowering her fear. Without knowing how she got there, she stood beside him; his unkempt aggressors lowering their arms but creeping closer in an evil-smelling tide.

She stood her ground, a child herself, a small virago, her voice ringing out, convicting them. 'How dare you torment this boy! Go away, all of you, before I call the gendarmes. They are coming anyway, just around the corner,' she added, accurately reading the expression of a mean-looking man bearing down upon her.

It was enough. He stopped and turned away. One after another, the rest dropped their eyes before her clear gaze and shuffled after him.

Then, reaching down to take his hand, her heart stopped as the boy raised startlingly blue eyes to hers. The grime could not disguise the fearful scarring.

Oh, your face! Your poor, poor face! 'Quickly, Child. The gendarmes are arresting your gypsy friends. Follow me.'

And he did.

'They are no friends of mine, Mademoiselle. They have abandoned me.'

'How long were you with them, my dear?'

'I do not know, Mademoiselle. Some months, perhaps. Not such a long time, I think.'

She barely noticed the uncertainty in his voice as, fleet-footed, they traversed streets and alleys, keeping well away from the crowd.

Diving into the alley beside the opera house, she brought him through the stormwater outlet and up through the grating into the basement. Safe, at last.

Stumbling over to the inner wall, she cupped her hands under the mouth of a bronze fish, out of which water trickled into a small stone basin and away down a pipe to the drain.

'Come, have a drink.' She stood aside, sipping the cool water from her hands while he thrust his face into the basin, splashing water over his head.

For a few minutes, they refreshed themselves, the only sound the trickle of water. Then, shaking the excess droplets off his hair like a dog, he pushed back his black locks and looked around.

'Where have you brought me, Mademoiselle?'

'This is the basement of the Opéra Français. We are a little different to other opera houses. We specialise in opera ballet.'

'That is your chapel, over there?' He pointed to a large arched doorway about halfway along the corridor. 'What if someone comes?'

She shook her head. 'No, no-one will be about today. You will be quite safe here. It is Mardi Gras. The opera house is on holiday.'

'Mardi Gras? Oh.' He laughed.

'What is funny about it?'

'Nothing, Mademoiselle. It is just that I have not eaten yet, today.'

'Oh, poor boy—not Fat Tuesday for you, alors. But we can soon fix that. Here.' She took a croissant from a little drawstring sack in her pocket. 'Luckily, I did not eat my lunch. I had pancakes instead.'

'Merci, Mademoiselle.'

She noticed that though he must be ravenously hungry, he ate with manners and restraint, not speaking until he finished.

'That,' he said, 'is the best croissant I have ever eaten.'

'Is it enough?' she asked anxiously. 'I don't think I can get you anything more until suppertime.'

'It is enough. I will drink some more water.' He cupped his hands under the fish. Emerging, he asked, 'But where do you live, Mademoiselle? Here?'

'Yes, here in the opera house. In the dormitory with the other girls.'

'Oh. You do not stay at home with your parents?'

'I have no parents.'

'Nor me—at least, I do not think so ...'

'I think you must be right, mon cher. No parents would abandon you like that if they were alive.'

'What happened to you when yours died?'

'My grown-up sister took me to live with her when I was little. I don't remember them.'

'Like me.' He nodded. 'May I stay here, Mademoiselle?' He looked around apprehensively at the damp walls. 'Somewhere?'

She was touched by his vulnerability. 'Of course, Child. I will look after you.'

'Thank you, Mademoiselle. But why do you call me child? You are not very old, yourself.'

'I am twelve. You are younger than that.'

'You are smaller,' he pointed out, standing up to his full height.

'Perhaps. I am small for my age,' she admitted. 'How old are you?'

He shrugged. 'They say perhaps nine or ten, most likely nine. I am big for my age.'

'They say?'

'Yes. You see, Mademoiselle ...?'

'Elise. My name is Elise. What is yours?'

He rubbed his scarred forehead. 'That is what I am trying to tell you, Mademoiselle Elise. I do ... not know. I ... cannot remember.'

'You cannot remember your name?' She was stunned. He doesn't look like an idiot. 'Why? Why cannot you remember?'

He smiled a little ruefully. She saw that it touched only one corner of his mouth, the other paralysed by the dreadful scarring.

'I cannot remember that, either,' he told her.

Then she saw the deep scar on his hairline, overlaying the older, broader, curiously patterned puckering of the skin that disfigured his brow and more than half of one side of his face and neck, veering outwards around his eyebrow, back across his eyelid, continuing to zigzag down his cheek and jaw into his collar.

'I understand, my dear. At some time, you have received a serious blow to the head.'

'Yes, they told me that, the gypsies—that they found me like that. In a forest somewhere, starving and frozen. I don't remember it.'

'When?'

He shrugged.

'Do you know where? Because if you knew where it was, perhaps we could send somebody to find out your name.'

'The gypsies did not say which forest it was, Mademoiselle. I am sorry.'

'Oh well, that is of no moment. But you cannot go without a name. We shall have to call you something.'

He hunched a shoulder. 'Nobody has cared until now. They just say, "You, devil-spawn".'

No! Unspeakable! Her heart was too full to answer.

Glancing at her keenly, he said, 'Perhaps I can be like le Spectre.'

'Le Spectre? Who is le Spectre?'

'Have you not heard of him, Mademoiselle? Since I have been in Paris, many people have told me his story. It is because of my face, you see. They say I am like him.' He brooded darkly for a moment, then his expression lightening, he added, 'Though many say he is much, much uglier than I am. At least I have a nose, which they say, he does not.'

'Yes, and a very nice one it is, too, my dear,' she interrupted, admiring the high-bridged, carven lines.

'Thank you, Mademoiselle.' He bowed. 'I don't know when it was, not long ago, I think, he lived at the Opéra Paris—the Paris Grand Opera House. He made them all think he was a ghost. He even made them pay him a monthly salary. I admire him—he does not let anyone stand in his way. He kills with the rope—like so.' He made deft moves in the air with an imaginary noose.

Seeing her expression, he grinned shyly. 'Do not worry, Mademoiselle, I shall not do it to you. I am not like le Spectre. I shall only kill those who deserve it.' He added grimly, 'I have killed, Mademoiselle. I am, what would you say—contaminated.'

She was horrified. 'But, you are a child.' Then, after a disbelieving silence, 'Who?'

'It was a gypsy. He was wicked and mad—fou. Everyone hated him, wished him dead. He was beating the children, stealing their toys, burning them with little sticks from the fire, laughing when they screamed. When I saw that, I just—like I showed you. I could not stand it any longer. I could not let him go on hurting the children, Mademoiselle.' His eyes pleaded for understanding.

'Of course, you could not, mon cher.' When he put it like that, somehow it seemed acceptable. Even: justice. It would also explain why the gypsies had abandoned him.

'And another thing ...' Having made his confession, he changed the subject with lightning speed. 'I shall be of use to this opera house, Mademoiselle, for I can sing.' He backed up his claim by launching into Va Pensiero from Nabucco in the pure sweet tones of the boy soprano. Not even in the cathedral on the holiest of days had she ever heard such a beautiful soloist.

She gasped, 'Mon Dieu, but you sing like an angel.'

He bent a serious gaze upon her. 'You think so?'

'Like an angel, mon cher,' she confirmed. 'I have never heard anything as good.'

'Of a truth?' His upper lip just quirked. 'Then, there is a name for me. You can call me Angel. I shall be the angel of the Opéra Français.'

'Very well, Monsieur Angel. We had better find a good hiding place for you. Unfortunately, it cannot be on high, as your name suggests.'

He interrupted, 'The people who talked about le Spectre told me he lived beneath the opera house—in a palace,' he added reverently.

She thought a minute. Yes, that might do. 'There is an old palanquin in the bottom cellar. It is not a palace, far from it, but you will be safe and dry. Nobody goes there now; they only use the top cellars. I will get you some blankets, and you can sleep in there. The palanquin is quite large enough for a bed. You should be comfortable, and if you draw the curtains, no-one will know you are there. Wait here while I get some candles from the chapel.'

When she returned, he was smiling. 'While you have been away, I have had an idea. You know how I have been telling you of le Spectre?'

Le Spectre, again. She nodded, resolving to find out a little more about this strange character.

'He had a lady, Madame Somebody—the assistant who looked after him. That was my idea, Mademoiselle. You can be my Madame, er ... assistant.'

'But what are you saying, mon cher? Surely, you do not wish me to call you le Spectre? And I am not an assistant, but a ballerina.'

'No, Mademoiselle, of course I do not wish to be known by such a name. And I am not a ghost but an angel—you remember?'

'Of course.' A dimple appeared in either cheek. 'And I shall be happy to look after such a talented angel—as long as you sing to me.'

He bowed. 'It will be my greatest pleasure, Mademoiselle. I shall sing to you often. In truth ...' He hesitated, turning his head so that she saw only the unblemished side of his face: sensitive, vulnerable, even beautiful, with its child's bloom. 'I have to sing, Mademoiselle. I cannot explain. It is here.' He thumped his fist against his chest. 'I feel it here. If I do not sing—I do not live.'

'I understand, my dear,' she replied. But she didn't—not then. 'You have come to the right place if that is the way you feel. But tell me more about this le Spectre: he is still at the Opéra Paris?'

'Non, Mademoiselle. Well—perhaps. But not as far as I know.'

'Oh? Why is this? Explain yourself, s'il vous plaît, my dear Angel.'

'It is hard to know. There is much unrest on the streets. There is even talk of war. It may be that that is the reason.' He put a hand on her arm. 'You must not go out on the streets again, unless I am with you.'

She turned to him, laughing. 'But what is this? It is not above an hour since I find you, and now, you think to become my guardian angel?'

The sensitive profile set in serious lines. 'Perhaps, Mademoiselle. Who can say? It is dangerous out there. I am already very strong and I will grow stronger.' After a second or two, he added, 'But to return to your question, are you sure you have not heard of him?'

'Le Spectre? No. Oh―wait a moment―you mean the Phantom of the Opera? Of course, I have heard of him. But it is a legend, mon cher, a hoary old legend. Every opera house in the world has its ghost.'

'No, no, Mademoiselle, it has only just happened—I swear it! It was—how do you call it—a trihedron.'

'A tri? Oh, a triangle?'

'Yes, a triangle, that is it: a love triangle. The ghost fell in love with a young soprano. A young nobleman was also enamoured of her. Le Spectre kidnapped her. He was very daring, Mademoiselle.' The blue orbs glowed with luminous intensity. 'He caused an accident with the chandelier and took her—pouf!—from the stage, in front of the entire audience, under the noses of a hundred gendarmes.' Ignoring her shocked exclamation, he continued, 'He took her to his underground palace. The young man went after her. Then his brother went after them and was murdered.'

'Oh, horrid.' She shivered. 'So wh-what happened?'

'Nobody knows. They were never seen again.'

'Oh, là, là!' she cried. 'You have such a monster as your hero? Do you mean he killed them?'

'Some say so, Mademoiselle. But me, I do not think so—no. Not if he loved her.'

She shook her head. 'This is a very dark story you are telling me, mon ami. It sounds like a terrible affliction for an opera house.'

'Have no fear, Mademoiselle; I shall not follow le Spectre to such extents as that. And I shall not demand salaries and payments. I shall pay my own way,' he declared. 'I have been learning magic from the gypsies, and I draw and design. And I have been composing music, oh—depuis longtemps. So you see, Mademoiselle, I shall be an asset, not a liability—unlike le Spectre.'

Oh, the sweet boy. He was so earnest.

'Here we are,' she said, arriving at the bottom cellar. 'Here is your palace, my dear Angel.'

He looked around in the soft candlelight, nodding approval. The cellar was a repository for all kinds of bits and pieces, old or broken furniture, musical instruments, discarded scenery, stage props and backdrops. There was plenty of scope for his talents, here. Setting down his candle on a small table, he somersaulted onto the palanquin, causing it to groan and shudder alarmingly.

'Careful, mon cher. It is very old.'

'It will be strong enough, I think,' he said, bouncing experimentally. 'This will be good, very comfortable.' He jumped up. 'What is behind that door in the wall over there?'

'It is a secret passage,' she whispered. 'Nobody knows about it but me.'

'And me, now. But you cannot be the only one. How did you find it?'

'Who told me about it, you mean?'

'Yes. Someone else must know.'

'They do,' she admitted. 'But they don't know where it goes.'

'Quoi?'

'You see, everyone knows that the door opens onto a secret passage, but nobody is brave enough to go into it and see where it goes because everybody believes it is haunted.'

'And you? You do not believe it is haunted?'

'I don't think so.'

'And you know where it goes?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Then, show me.'

'Very well. We will need some more of these candles.'

'And another holder,' he said, picking up a branched candlestick from the bureau. 'This should do. You take mine. But wait, how did you find it out?'

'Where it goes, you mean? Oh, well, it was on my eleventh birthday, and Edith and some of the other girls played a joke on me. They said I was so up in the air that they were going to bring me down to earth, so they locked me in here, telling me I could stay here and miss my supper or try my luck in the haunted passage with the ghost. Luckily, I found some candles in that old bureau over there, for they shut me in with only a stub.'

'So what did you do?'

'I prayed to le bon Dieu for his angels to keep me safe, took two candles as a precaution, and went out into the passage.'

'And this worked?'

'I saw no ghost—and nothing happened to me.'

'Come, then,' he said, lighting the candles from the one on the table before handing it to her. 'Show me where it goes.'

They started along the rough-hewn passage.

'Take care,' she warned. 'There are rocks all over the floor, and we must be careful not to trip over and let the candles go out.'

After what seemed an age of walking up a steep slope, avoiding the worst of the rubble, and climbing a seemingly endless number of crude steps, they halted, puffing, in front of a dark wall.

'There does not seem to be any ghost, Mademoiselle. Perhaps it is because you still have an angel with you?'

'Very funny. Hush, do you hear that?'

'A horse?'

'Yes. Through there is the coach-house and the stables. The door is over here in the corner. See this latch? But I dare not open it; the coachman must be back from the festival. That is something you must be very careful of, mon cher—only open the door when it is dark. And blow your candle out first. Oh, and if you come in from the other side, the latch is part of the harness hook, the one closest to the corner. Come on, we must go back.'

'But you came out here? When they locked you in?'

'Yes, no-one saw me. The coachman was at dinner. They all almost died of fright when I came in and sat down with them at the supper table.' She chuckled. 'They were very nice to me for simply ages—afraid that I would tell Monsieur Dupont.'

'And did you?'

She glanced at him mischievously. 'What do you think?'

'I think only you and I know about the secret passage, Mademoiselle.'

'Oh, call me Elise,' she begged.

'Very well.' He halted about midway, after the long run of steps. 'You know, Elise, here would be a good place to build a wall across the passage with a hidden door. Then it truly would be our secret passage, would it not?' he said, patting the wall and moving along so that she had to run to keep up.

'Oh, indeed. What a clever idea. But could you do it? A little boy like you?'

He grasped her arm cruelly. 'I am not a little boy.'

'Ouch, you are hurting me.' She pulled away. 'Boys are so rough.'

'I did not mean to hurt you,' he muttered, head down.

'Very well, then: let us start again. Can you build a wall with a secret door?'

'I think so, Mademoiselle—Elise. I know how to cut rock. I just need the tools, that's all. There are plenty of loose rocks here to build it out of, perhaps without cutting, if I select carefully. I am not so little, you know.'

'I am sorry. I didn't mean it unkindly. Just—I don't know how you could do it.'

'You will see, Mademoiselle. I will make you unsay those words.'

'But where could you have learnt it?'

'I don't know.'

'And that's another thing. You don't speak like a gypsy—or a nine-year-old. You speak like someone older, educated. I wonder why?'

'I find it very fatiguing when you ask me questions I cannot answer,' he replied, with a flash of temper. 'You should be careful that I do not strangle you—like le Spectre.'

'You would not.'

'I might—if you make me angry enough.'

'Did le Spectre strangle Madame Whatsername?'

'No.'

'Well, then—there's your answer. I am safe.'

'You'd better hope so,' he muttered.

'You are tired, mon cher,' she replied sympathetically, excusing his ill humour.

By this time, they had reached the cellar. 'Will you be all right here, while I find you some food and blankets?' she asked.

'Mmm. Do you have an instrument in the chapel?'

'Yes, a pipe organ—very big and beautiful.'

'Bien. If you can hear it when you return, do not be afraid that it is a ghost.'