Don't Speak of the Night
(Ne Parlez Pas de la Nuit)
By
Lady Trueword
Chapter 7: A Twist of Fate
As summer drew to a close, Erik felt more confident about his place in the world. He could tell jokes and amuse people with his humor, instead of frightening them with terror. His art continued to improve, so much that Sylvie felt he could soon display them in the gallery. One late August day, the Bonhommes set out for the countryside, and Erik fell in love with Aix-en-Provence at first sight. The mild climate and fresh air filled him with renewed vigor. They traveled to the Cézanne country estate, where they were greeted by the housekeeper.
"I am sorry, but Monsieur and Madame Cézanne went to Switzerland. They will be back next month."
Sylvie was disappointed, but gracious nonetheless.
"Merci, madame. Please let them know we came by."
"Sylvie," Grandmaman said later as they sat by the fireplace in their cottage, enjoying a supper of pâtes aux coquillages and brioches. "Why don't you invite them to Marseille?"
"An excellent idea, Maman."
"I am curious," asked Erik. "How did you come to know Monsieur Cézanne?"
Honoré rounded towards his wife. "Should we tell him?"
"Tell him what, dear?" replied Sylvie with feigned ignorance.
"Maman and Monsieur Cézanne are old friends," said Alain as he buttered his bread.
"I was lucky enough to be introduced to him by some influential patrons," said Sylvie.
"Patrons such as the Comte de Soissons?" asked Erik.
Sylvie paled at his mention of the name.
"How did you know about him?" she asked.
"He is the patron of our gallery. Is he not?"
"Oui, he was our patron," replied Sylvie, who looked discomfited.
"Was?"
"He died three years ago."
"Ah, je suis désolée," Erik quickly replied. He sensed that it would be best not to press her for more details. But the conversation intrigued him. Who was the Comte de Soissons and why was Sylvie so uncomfortable discussing him?
Honoré cleared his throat.
"Your uncle and I will go hunting tomorrow. Join us, Rene?"
"I would, but I believe Maman wanted me to experience painting in the countryside."
"We will all rise early in the morning, then," said Honoré as he put an arm around his wife.
The next morning Erik, Sylvie, Adèle, and Grandmaman Marie joined the ranks of artists that had set up their easels by the country road. Some travelers along the road stopped to watch the painters, while others hurried along, never noticing the beauty around them. Occasionally an artist would sell a painting, but Erik harbored no such ambitions when he sat down before his easel. He decided to paint the trees, but halfway through his work he was surprised to see a forest of ballerinas on his canvas instead.
"What a beautiful painting! Can I buy it, Raoul?"
Erik could scarcely believe his ears. With head bowed, he saw a woman's skirt flounce before him.
"Of course, ma cherie," rang the familiar voice. "Sir, would you sell your painting to my wife?"
Erik stared straight at Raoul, who looked back only with friendliness. Raoul did not recognize him. But Christine gazed intently upon the painter's face. There was something about those eyes…
Erik cleared his throat. "It is not finished."
Christine fought to keep her composure. That voice! If the man sitting in front of her had not looked so unlike her angel, she would have sworn that it was he.
"I like it just the way it is," she replied.
Erik watched her as she perused the canvas. She had the same ethereal beauty that had once enthralled him. When their eyes met again, she smiled, hoping that he could not see her trembling.
"It reminds me of a familiar place," she spoke again.
The torture! Erik felt his heart twist inside him. Why now, God? He wondered. He desperately wanted her to know that he was her angel of music. He could see the memories the painting elicited from her, the yearning in her eyes.
Raoul also noticed and put his arm tighter around his wife.
Why, why, did you heal me, only to have me meet her again? I almost wish I had died in that hellish hole! But Erik could not allow himself to keep such thoughts, not after all the good things he had experienced in his new life. He was grateful when Grandmaman came to his aid.
"Are you all right, Rene?" she asked. "Let the gentleman know if you will sell your painting."
"I will pay you two hundred francs," Raoul offered eagerly.
Grandmaman gasped. "How generous of you, sir!"
Two hundred francs? That was a small fortune. Erik glanced at Christine again and saw her relief when at last he nodded. Raoul gave him the money and carefully took the canvas down from its easel. Erik could not bear the sight of them any more and lowered his head. Then he heard her heavenly voice again.
"Did you sign it, monsieur? May I have the pleasure of your name?"
Erik hoped she could not read his signature.
"Rene Bonhomme. It is a name befitting an artist," she said.
"Thank you, madame," he replied gruffly, hoping that she would go away. But she lingered.
"Are you from around here?" she asked.
Why was she so curious? Why couldn't she leave him to his pain?
"Marseille," he croaked.
Her face lit up. "That is where we are moving."
"Pardon me, monsieur," Raoul interrupted. "I have not yet introduced myself. I am Raoul de Chagny, and this is my wife, Christine."
Erik grudgingly obliged.
"A… pleasure, Vis… Monsieur de Chagny."
"Perhaps we will meet again in Marseille," said Raoul warmly.
"Perhaps."
Erik breathed a sigh of relief when they left. He hoped he would never meet them again. He looked up to see Grandmaman beaming at him. Nothing had escaped her attention. Not even his secret.
That night, Erik could not get Raoul and Christine out of his mind. The thought of them sent him into a gloom that he had not experienced in months. Christine had treated him as if he were a complete stranger – and he was the one person whom she would have recognized! He felt as if he were wearing a mask again, except this was one he could not remove.
Why did she have to come here? He had resigned himself to the thought that he would never see her again. Yet she had stood before him, still so beautiful, so serene... He thought he detected a trace of ennui in her eyes. Perhaps she was bored with Raoul? Her husband still seemed as eager to please her as he did before. Erik wondered what she thought of his creation.
Alone in her room at the inn, Christine stared at the painting. As she caressed its edges, she could not help but smile. The artist had captured her former life well. The costumes… the ballet shoes… memories of her teacher haunted her. Madame Giry had not seen nor heard of him since that terrible night.
She glanced at the painting again and drew her breath in sharply. Who was that in the corner? She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. A dark figure hovered over one of the ballet girls. A... a phantom? Upon closer inspection, she found the ballet girl's small face resembled… hers. Chills ran up her spine. Difficult as it was to discern, she thought she could distinguish his features, painted just as she remembered them.
Raoul came in and startled her.
"Admiring your new painting, Christine?"
"Oh, Raoul! Tomorrow we should go back and thank that artist. I want to buy another one of his paintings."
"But we are supposed to be in Marseille tomorrow…" he replied, dismayed.
Christine gazed at him with her dark doe eyes.
"Please, Raoul?" she begged.
He could not refuse, even if his reply was a bit reproachful.
"I thought we were moving to escape all of that," he said, nodding toward the painting.
"It is because we will never be back that I want to preserve my memories of it."
"Very well. Tomorrow we will go back and find this artist. What was his name?"
"Rene... Rene Bonhomme…"
Christine could not sleep. She had not looked closely enough at Rene's face. Although she had begun the conversation with Rene, she ended up letting Raoul do most of the talking as she idly stood by. Why? She watched Raoul breathe in his sleep. As time passed she slowly gave him more and more control. He was not unkind; in fact, he was as amiable as ever. But he was not a musical genius, nor a sensitive, tortured soul. Christine had expected to have a child by now, but months passed and she still had not conceived. She was sure this disappointed Raoul, who badly wanted a son.
When she thought of her angel she felt more pangs of wretched guilt. What if she had married him instead? Poor, sobbing creature of darkness who had told her he was a dog, ready to die for her. But he was just too… too ugly! It was not only his face that had caused her to abhor him. If he had looked even like a plain man, she probably could have accepted him. Then she would have spent her days making music with the lover of her soul. Why did she leave him in the cold darkness, all alone?
Vanity! It was your pride that prevented you, Christine!
But he was a criminal and a murderer…
He was going mad for you…
Christine shut her eyes as her thoughts warred with each other. A sigh escaped her lips, causing her husband to turn in his sleep.
God forgive me, she prayed. She hoped her angel could find happiness and forget her.
Early in the morning, Erik felt restless and went out alone to the country road. He set up his easel to paint a scene he knew well – the Paris skyline at night. He was so immersed in his work that he was oblivious to the commotion surrounding him.
When he finally sensed someone watching him he looked and saw a woman standing behind a tree some metres away. He adjusted the brim of his hat, hoping she would not approach him.
Cautiously, the woman came toward him until he saw that she was none other than Madame de Chagny. Confound it! Why did she have to show up again? Where was her husband? She stopped by his easel and gazed at him, her eyes full of hope.
"Monsieur Bonhomme… I bought one of your paintings yesterday…"
Erik cleared his throat. It is good that I did not paint the roof yet, he thought.
"Oui?"
"I wonder... where did you get the idea for that painting… The ballerina girls?"
"Where does any artist get his ideas?" he replied, annoyed. He wished she would go away of her own accord.
"Monsieur, I find the figures in the painting intriguing… Especially the one known as the… the Phantom of the Opera…"
Erik wanted to curse at that moment. He should not have painted himself, but the notion had been irresistible.
"Are you Parisien?" she continued.
Some day your curiosity will get you in trouble, Christine.
"I used my imagination, is all," he said wearily. He knew she was so curious, so he tilted his head up towards the sun. As he expected, her face fell.
Christine knew it was rude for her to stare so long, but her hopes were dashed the moment she saw his face in full.
He has a good visage, but it is not the marred one of my beloved.
Beloved… Wasn't Raoul her beloved?
"I'm sorry, monsieur… I won't bother you again," she said dejectedly.
She turned away and immediately Erik regretted what he did. He had hurt her. But he sat, not moving a muscle.
"Madame?" he barely managed to speak.
She stopped, her face still downcast.
"You are moving to Marseille?"
"Oui, monsieur."
Erik found a piece of paper and scribbled his address on it.
"Our address," he said as he gave it to her. "You are… welcome to visit, if you want company…"
Her face brightened.
"Thank you, monsieur. You are most kind. It will be good to have friends in a new city... Au revoir."
Erik wanted to say more, but decided it would be unwise. He watched her solitary figure disappear into the woods and felt hope stirring in his heart. Hope? You fool! You were not supposed to see her again!
"What have I done?" he murmured.
"You were being hospitable, son. I am proud of you," a gentle voice replied.
He looked askance at Sylvie, who smiled at him with breakfast in hand.
"Crêpes?"
"Oui, merci, Maman."
In the woods, Christine stopped to read the piece of paper Erik gave her.
"23 Rue de la Fleur."
The lettering looked so familiar she had not given it a second thought. It was a hasty scrawl, but still recognizable. A smile crossed her face as she put it back in her pocket. She hurried back towards the inn, but just then Raoul galloped up to her on his horse.
"Christine, darling! Where did you go? I was worried!"
"I'm sorry, Raoul. I went for a walk."
"Come," he beckoned.
She gave him her hand and he hoisted her up on to his horse. Christine took one last look behind her as they sped away, but she saw nothing except the road and the trees.
You are my angel of music… Come to me, angel of music…
