A/N : I need help to translate this from french to proper english. And I need beta-reading! Thank you!
The house of his childhood was emptied, little by little. The solicitor, good friend of Mr. Strauss, had succeeded in the transaction in no time at all. The hotel had been sold at an interesting price and a townhouse in the Upper East Side, in New York was to be ready for them, at their arrival. The solicitor had shown them pictures from the outside. They had to leave in two weeks. Then he went away. Some of the furniture had been put up for sale and those that remained, too old, had been covered with sheets.
It looked like the hotel was full of ghosts. The strangest of them was the white form of his mother, draped in her silk nightgown and her shawl, walking with dreamy steps into the corridors, caressing the walls which had seen her grow too, Gently singing the lyrics of her next role. Émile could not remember hearing his mother sing for a long time. Hidden at the corner of the corridors, he listened, his heart pounding. The low notes rose and climbed to heavenly heights with an ease that was not human. He remembered the weird music sheet, crumpled, beneath his door. Its impossible notes passed from one extreme to another. Mr. Strauss was right. Her mother had an inhuman voice and her place was not here, hidden in this gloomy hotel.
His mother had at first refused Mr. Strauss's proposal. She had thrown the leather satchel through the dining-room as if throwing a bouquet of roses on which she had just cut her finger. Then his father had patiently picked up each of the contract's sheets, one by one. He had put them in order and had placed them in front of Christine, moving the inkwell in front of her. He had insisted. Then he had asked Emile to shut himself up in his room. Emile had heard his parents quarrelling. He realized that his mother was terrified. Terrified with all her being to go back on stage. He realized that his mother was hiding. In the depths of her bed she was hiding something terrible. She was running away from someone. But his father begged. Emile heard them speak in a low voice, without understanding. The next day his mother had signed the contract.
He met her in the Hall. She spoke in a low voice. A whisper. It looked like she was talking to someone. Someone who was no longer there. Then she stopped and they stared at each other in silence. She looked at him as if it was the first time she saw him. Émile was afraid that she would make another seizure. He saw again the foam on her chin, her reversed eyes and her spasms. He suddenly wanted to make himself invisible. He lie against the wall, lowered his head and closed his eyes shamefully, to let quietly pass this dreamy ghost. He heard the rustle of his mother's nightgown stopping in front of him and her cool hand taking hold of his chin and gently lifting his head. She smiled at him and held out her hand.
''Oh my darling. Come on and show me how you play on the piano, Émile.''
Hesitantly, the boy took her hand and she took him into the corridors of the hotel, down to the boudoir. There remained only the piano, which sat alone in the deserted room. The boy pulled back, but his mother gently guided him to the bench. She sat down at the piano and invited the boy to sit beside her. Faust's score had already been placed on the lectern. His mother turned the first page and turned to him. Emile looked down at the keyboard. He did not like the piano. He hated the sound of Faust on a piano. He sighed. He missed his violin. He missed so much. He push the first note like a stake in a coffin. The following notes felt similar. Then his mother began to sing, according to to the child's rhythm. Gently, patiently, her voice vibrated with his music. Emile had the impression that the entire Universe had stopped to hear his mother's song. The boy finally no longer looked at the score, carried away by the voice of his mother and began to hum, gently, the replies, then to answer them, freely.
His mother stopped for a moment, looking at the room entrance and put a finger on her lips. Emile heard vaguely footsteps coming out of the building behind him, but he was too obsessed with the score. They chained another page, as if nothing had happened. She stroked his head and kissed him, her eyes wet.
Then she turned the page of the score. She was about to resume her voluptuous song when she stopped. He looked up at her and saw her livid face, her mouth open, staring at the lectern. He recognized the yellow pages, almost illegible. He remained for a moment, stunned, staring at the handwriting in red faded ink. It was the page he had brought back from upstairs. It had been unfolded and placed there on the piano. He bent over the piano and turned the following pages frenetically. All filled with this strange, childish writing. The red dots, harmoniously disordered, filled the pages. Someone had put them in order. Emile looked at her mother. She stared at him, her eyes widened with horror. Suddenly, she got up from the bench and nearly knocked it down. She walked a few steps away from the piano, panting, her hands in her hair as if to tear them away.
''Émile ... Why ? Why do you do that?''
The boy curled up and stared at the lectern with incomprehension. The name of his mother, in a red and trembling handwriting, had been written all over the margin. The ink, unlike the rest, was fresh. He did not understand what this score was doing there. He had left it up there, in a messy circle, on the barricaded top floor. Her mother had set herself up in a corner of the room, her knees bent against her body, her hand on her mouth, as if to hold a cry. She was staring at him with widen eyes, as if he wanted to hurt her. Émile shrudded, he did not want to see her make another seizure. He wanted to protest but the words, as usual, remained stuck in his throat. He felt the air get scarce and his head dizzy. He would have liked to run to Victoire's room but remained petrified on the bench. Then he heard her stand up and he felt his mother's trembling hand rest on his shoulder. She was still trembling and weeping. Big tears ran down her cheeks but her eyes, tried to be reassuring. She wiped her tears and sniffed, before bending over and sticking her forehead to his, trying to soothe her sobs and trembling.
She closed her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. She took the child's face in her hands and planted her gray eyes in her own.
''You ... you're right. It's ... a interesting... music. It was written for me, you know. Just for me. But there are ... things that must be forgotten. There are things that must remain where they are. We must never play this music again, you understand? Never again.''
She put a moist kiss on her forehead and pressed it hard against hers. Emile dared not breathe. His whole body was on the alert. He felt the tears of his mother against his cheek and her sobs shake him. He understood that there would be no seizure. Not this time.
''This ... it does not matter, darling ... I do not take care of you enough and ... you need me. You need your maman. That's what you're trying to tell us, isn't it? I will pay more attention to you and I will be there now. I will be there.''
She got up and drove him off the bench. The boy, still in shock, let himself be led outside the room. Emile cast a last look at the piano and the pages on the lectern. His mother closed the door cautiously, as if she were locking out a monster.
He had spent the afternoon hidden in his father's office, who had gone to settle the final arrangements. The office, even with all its empty bottles, even with the thin traces of white powder that stained the carpet from here and there, was more quiet than the rest of the hotel. The cold tobacco smell was awful but all Émile wanted was to be alone. No one would dare enter this room and the white sheets ghosts were not yet invading it. His father had, however, begun to empty his drawers. He read a few pages, here and there, and found a ljournal. He noticed the note which his father had left on the front page. Africa, 1876-78. He was about to flip through the journal when an old cliché fell. He picked it up and frowned. He vaguely recognized the man, in the picture. A former partner of his father. He was naked, embracing his father and smiled at the lens. Emile felt the heat rise to his cheeks. What was his father doing with such a cliché? Nervously, he replaced the picture in the notebook and replaced it exactly where he had found it. He studied for a long time the map of New York, which his father had placed on the desk and observed the photographs at length. Something was wrong. This trip made him uncomfortable. He left the room before his father surprised him. Shame already overwhelming enough.
He went up straight to his nanny's room. He glanced at the barricaded staircase. A plank had been torn off and dragged along the corridor. Plaster pieces were piled up on the floor and on the stairs. Emile swallowed. The embrasure was just big enough for him. He took his head in both hands and stood for a moment looking at the gaping hole. He had not done that. He ... He was not certain, suddenly. The corridor began to turn. He rushed to Victoire.
Victoire walked up and down his mother's room. She was already stacking clothes in a small suitcase and had a dirty laundry packed next to her. It was a bit early to pack up but she could not stand there doing nothing. She stopped for a moment and made a grimace, her hand clasped on the left side. It still happened to her to have vertiges but they disappeared, little by little. She saw Emile rose and made a pale smile to him inviting him to join her. But her smile disappeared when she saw the tearful eyes of the boy. He sat in shock. She had heard hesitant notes on the piano earlier in the day but Emile now looked devastated. The boy entered and rush himself into the warm arms of his nanny. He heard Victoire stifle a groan of pain but she put her head on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. The child clung to her dress and hid his face in the woman's shoulder.
''There, P'tit Monsieur, what is all this sorrow? We're leaving soon. You should be happy?''
She raised the boy's head and crushed a tear with a finger, with a worried look, she brought her head to his and whispered as low as possible, gently, examining his face and shirt, looking for bruises.
''What happened ? Did he hurt you again?''
The boy raised his head and stared at her. Victoire shrudded, seeing the boy's despair. He blinked. His inferior lip was shaking. His throat was burning atrociously and ideas were jostling in his head. It was too much. He finally took his chalkboard and wrote, with a shaken handwriting.
Who is the Phantom of the Opera?
Victoire suddenly ceased to touch him and stared at him in silence. Her eyes widened and an deep expression of relief and amusement lit up her features and a wide smile appeared on her face. She burst out laughing, which hurt her. Cramped in two, she made a grimace to the boy, trying to regain her breath. She mimed fangs, as if she was going to tell a frightening tale again, with a thunderous voice.
''My god! It's even worse than the Royal Street's vampire that kept you from sleeping for a month! You could see it everywhere! Everywhere! Are you sure you want to hear that story?''
She was going to smile again, but the boy's frightened expression alarmed her. She tried to dissuade him, gently.
"Emile. Do not listen to everything your mother tells you. Her angels of music that appear in the mirrors ... These are sfairytales, all that. It's not healthy, come on. "
She sighed, in front of the boy's impassive expression. She resumed her seriousness and knelt in front of him and stroked his cheek.
"I was still in Louisiana, at that time, you know ... All I heard was gossips from the neighbors. It happened just before you were born. Your mother was singing at the Opera Le Pelletier. Before it went on fire. It seems that she sang there that evening. And they told all sorts of wacky stories on this Opera. It was said that the Opera was haunted. That there was a lake, below ... The gossip says that your mother ...''
''VICTOIRE !''
The voice of Raoul de Chagny had roared throughout the hotel. He stood, in the corridor, at the entrance of the staircase, his hands clenched, glancing at the maid. He could scarcely contain himself. Behind him stood Madame Leblanc's husband, with his ragged face and his crooked teeth. He tightened his cap and tried to glare over the Vicomte's shoulder.
"I tell you, Monsieur le Vicomte, Mister Leblanc said. Your son did that. I've heard, Mister Viscount that when they have no brain, like that, they have a inhuman strength when it takes them. I did well, my job, I tell you, those planks are well nailed. See? Besides, I have not received the promised payment ...''
Victoire rose and stared at both men.
''It was already there this morning when I woke up. It's not Émile who did-''
The Vicomte turned to the concierge with a disgusted expression and threw a handful of francs over the railing leading to the ground floor. The workman rushed to collect the money.
The Count stared at the man with disdain before turning to the nurse.
"Since you seem to have recover and do not know what to do with yourself, go and help Madame Legrand in the kitchen, Victoire."
The young Creole bowed her head, bowing obediently, she gently took the bundle of linen she had placed on the bed, which seemed to weigh a ton, and went out without looking at her Master, she cast an anxious glance at Emile and the boy saw her go down, a little too quickly. He raised his head to look at his father. The man stood there, motionless, to gaze at him bitterly. He had the score in his right hand. He seemed so disappointed!
''You've disobey me, Émile. Again.''
He turned round without a word and went down the stairs heavily. Émile wanted to hold him back. To explain that it was not his doing. But it was too late.