But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine." Isaiah 43:1

Chapter Seven

Over the next week he managed to hide the mask from the Comte. He felt himself slipping back into duplicity as if he'd burrowed back into the underground caves. Every nerve of his body screamed for him to hide, though he could find no rationale for the urgings. A simple trick of his psyche, he told himself.

Soon, though, he knew the old man would surprise him with his face covered by more than his hand, and he dreaded the encounter. The old man would rage, and then—he could not imagine further. What did a powerful man do when angered and disobeyed? When he had been thwarted, he killed.

He sat again at the pianoforte, his ever-present comfort, and listened to the silent house. Only the Comte refused to knock before entering this room, so why this overwhelming urge to shield his face? None of the household had remarked on his deformity nor threatened him because of it.

And yet, he sat alone with a white leather mask protecting his face once again. Like a guilty addict, he reveled in the feel of the leather against his skin. Sensations of safety warred with an innate sense of wrong. Did he want to become so dependant on the mask, again? Did he want to place his trust in a thing that an enemy could rip away?

To remove it meant he'd once again be vulnerable; meant to open himself to hatred. He'd had enough of that vicious emotion; he'd resolved to forsake it and this place of waiting refuge offered sanctuary in which to wean himself from all that was darkness. And yet. . .and yet. . .he wore the mask. He let it grow warm, like a lover's caress.

Trembling, he reached for the mask's fastenings, and could not untie them.

Dear God, I can't do this.

After several short, terrified breaths, he undid the clasp and let the white leather slip out of place; held its promise of security against his chest. But not even this prized possession was what he wanted closest to his heart. He wanted Christine. He wanted God.

Dear God, I can't do this. . . without You.

Of course not. Why could he not remember that he need not do any of this alone?

He pushed the mask farther away until loose scores hid it; his need for its protective drug abated, and ran his fingers over the keys. A soft light, coming neither from candles nor sun, illuminated the notes he knew he must play. Gratitude and longing blended with the music, and he began to sing.

Only in darkness can I live

only in shadow and fear

Far from the arms of your immortal love

that calls me and brings me to here.

Out of my desert and into the night

I climb and I beg you'll appear

My love, my life,

My reason for song.

My joy, my Angel—

come to me, come to me—

Come to me!

Christine sat up with a start, her heart pounding. He'd called her. Finally, he'd called her, after weeks of wondering and begging and fighting her own inclinations, he'd called her. She looked around the room, uncertain for a moment where she was or what she'd been doing.

"Christine?" Meg looked up from the barre. "What's wrong?"

Christine shook her head. "I think everything will be right, soon. I think we will go to my Angel."

"Really?" Meg straightened and stretched. "All of us? Christine, you'd take us with you when you go to him?"

"I'd not thought otherwise. Maman would not wish it, would she—that I go alone?"

"Maman would rather lock you in a convent until you're wizened and ancient. How do you know? How will you tell her? He sent no note—I would have known. How will you convince her?"

"He'll send word. Today or tomorrow. But you and I will pack—and Leonie. And when Maman scolds us for our lack-a-bed ways, we'll tease and drive her to distraction!"

Meg giggled. "Will it be a long journey? Because Maman in a foul mood at close quarters won't prove any entertainment whatsoever."

Christine laughed. "Perhaps we won't tease then, but just be a bit superior. I know she'll be as glad as I am to have things settled."

The Comte hobbled close to the fire as he entered the room, turned on him as though manning an attack. "You are not happy here?"

Taken aback, he shook his head. "Your grace, I have felt no lack of any good thing here, but one."

"And that would be your infernal mask?" Shaking in rage, the old man swung his cane, missing an ottoman by inches.

For the first time he noticed Raoul behind the Comte, hovering, reaching as though to steady the old man.

But he must answer soon, or fuel the Comte's anger. "I only lack Christine."

Again he saw the pain in Raoul's eyes, and felt its answer of pity in his heart. But Christine had chosen—she had chosen him—not the boy. He'd rather only one heart broken, not all three. T'was God's choice and gift that his own heart's desire found a home at last.

"Then why is she not here?"

Again he found himself lost as to what explanation he must give. Would he never find ease in conversation, or would incessant misunderstanding plague him always? He held his hand out to Raoul. "The Vicomte—" he began.

"Father." Raoul moved closer to the Comte. "Please, sit, rest yourself. I suggested that he wait a week or so before sending for the girl. A suggestion only, but he acquiesced."

The Comte lowered himself to the settee with Raoul's help, then leaned his chin upon the backs of his hands, still clasping the cane. "So you take my son's council?"

"On some things, yes."

The Comte nodded. "Perhaps, though, you would do well to send for her. Send for the entire household. It is a small one, I believe?"

"Yes." His heart pounded at the thought—send for Christine! "I will, now. I will—"

"Your enthusiasm bodes well for the girl but rest assured, Raoul will see to the details. Philippe, my man, will accompany them to our estate in the south of France. The unrest in the city makes necessary that we all leave."

"We leave also?" he asked.

The Comte nodded. "All will be seen to. You need not worry. But—ah—here is Philippe. He has something of intense importance to tell us."

Philippe entered, looking a bit less his usual pristine self. "Your grace." He bowed to the Comte, to Raoul and then to him. "Your grace. I have located the—the person you wished me to find, and brought her here. She is now outside this very room, under Henri's eye."

The Comte chuckled. "Well done, Philippe. I applaud your fortitude. Now, bring her in."

Philippe bowed but he could not force his eyes to follow the manservant to the door. Yet another woman thrust upon him—the Comte must revel in his discomfort. Once again, he longed for the safety of his drug and raised his hand. Raoul moved from behind his father and pulled his arm away from his face.

He struggled away and Raoul hissed, "The entire time you've been in this room you've not felt the need to hide yourself. Why now?"

"Leave him be," the Comte commanded. "I cannot vouch for this person as I do for my household, and I will not have my nameless guest mocked by a stranger—who is perhaps not such a stranger."

Both the younger men gaped at the Comte, and so missed the moment Philippe entered, followed by Henri and an older woman.

His right hand in place, his heart brimming with a gratitude that bordered on servility to the old Comte, he turned to study the woman.

"Come closer," the Comte ordered.

He glanced at her face, away in revulsion and at her again as his stomach roiled and his mind sought refuge from what must be the truth. The Comte had promised him a name, and now, he'd brought this woman—this poor excuse for motherhood. Although nearly toothless and badly aged, he still recognized her.

No! He found himself advancing on her, one hand before his face and the other clenched as though he held a rope. He would murder her—he would choke the life from her worthless neck and leave her—

Raoul stepped in front of him, blocking him. "No." The younger man's low voice managed to penetrate his rage.

The woman gawped at him, showing three rotted teeth in her gaping jaw. Were it not for Henri and Philippe behind her, she must have fled.

The Comte joined him and Raoul, and patted his arm. He shook the old man off, but could not discourage his attentions.

"Be still, my nameless friend, for I sense your name lies now within our grasp." To the woman he said, "I trust you know my guest?"

"I—I—no! Neber seen 'im afore."

"Come, don't lie to me. I see the truth written on your face as much as you see it written on his. This is the babe you stole, full-grown, is it not?"

"I—" She crumpled under the Comte's assurance. "I canna be certain, your grace. My eyes is old and my mind feeble—"

"Bah!" With surprising force, the Comte grasped his arm and drew him closer to the woman. Such was the strength of his grip that to dislodge him would surely cause him to topple. "Look you well upon him, and tell the truth lest you finish your days among the thieves and prostitutes in the prison where you belong."

Her eyes widened. "It should've died, your grace, that babe—so malformed, it was! Like to have been kissed by Satan, it was that ugly. Its mother lay dead and I knew no nobleman'd want a babe like that, so I took it away to die. Only it wouldn't, your grace. It wouldn't! And I couldna bring it back, you'd've clapped me into stocks, I'd done that. So I—I—"

"You sold me to gypsies," he finished for her. She gasped and he went on. "You may not know my face but I know yours."

"Not want the babe?" The Comte's whisper brimmed with pain. "I would that I had been given the choice to cherish my son. My son!"

The light which had followed his fingers across the keys now danced around him and the Comte and held them for a moment. Its peace gave him a moment to assimilate and to know with his heart, more than with the stunned surface of his consciousness, the truth of what he'd just learned. As it faded he recognized the triumph on the Comte's face.

The Comte shook his arm. "You see, you do indeed have a name. I saw you baptized myself before this hag spirited you away."

The woman shuffled backwards. "I telled you the truth, your grace. Don't punish a weak old woman—"

"Bah! You don't deserve the name of woman. Away with you! Out of my sight." That time, neither Philippe nor Henri needed to drag the old woman through the room.

When the door shut behind the trio, the old man nodded, and his hand on his arm trembled. "My son."

He stared at the Comte, Raoul's father. "My father? My father?" he said, then, "And she is not my mother?"

"Nay. I had your mother's portrait placed in your apartments. I've caught you studying her face, though you knew her not."

He bowed his head, near overcome with emotions. This old man—this startling, raging, endearing old man—was his father? And all that the old man and his wife had promised had come to pass—the mystery solved, the solution written, the name given—but he still did not know the last.

Meeting his father's eyes, he said, "Please, my—my father, I beg you. Give me my name."