Master of Illusion — Book One
Anne Rouen
Chapter 8
28 March 1872
We are in Uproar. Angel has refused Monsieur Dupont's Contract.
At the organ in the chapel, Monsieur Dupont wound up his lesson with Angel. 'Excellent, dear boy, excellent. Now, I think Elise has made some supper for us on the fire next door. Let us go and eat. I have something to say to you.'
Angel made no demur, for there was a wonderfully appetising aroma of freshly made toast and hot chocolate coming from the little room off the chapel, and it was a chilly night.
Elise, cheeks rosy from the heat of the fire, stopped buttering toast to pour chocolate from the pot on the hob, smiling a welcome as they entered. Monsieur Dupont took the cups from her and put them on the coffee table. She finished buttering the toast, cut it into fingers and brought it over.
'Thank you, my dear. Sit down and have your chocolate. Toast, Angel? Mmm, this is delicious. Is there anything nicer than hot toast made over the coals? A very good way to celebrate, is it not?'
'But, Monsieur Dupont, what are we celebrating?' A thought struck her. 'Is it your birthday?'
'No, Mignonne―and hardly cause to celebrate if it is. No, it is to do with Angel's musical studies.'
He turned to the boy sipping his chocolate and chewing methodically, mouth closed. Natural manners, he thought. I wonder who he really is? 'You have studied hard, dear boy, and you are ready now to sing, as we agreed. Provided you keep on with your lessons, you are, as of now, our resident boy soprano. Get out your most attractive mask. You may have your first rehearsal onstage tomorrow.'
'But, Monsieur Dupont―I cannot―in front of people ...' He went white, except for the scarring, which stood out purple.
'But you will be masked, dear boy, and at that distance, no-one will know.'
'I cannot sing in a mask. I have tried, but I cannot. I cannot breathe — move my face muscles. I am sorry.' His wretchedness was palpable. 'I want to do it, but I cannot. I am sorry, Monsieur, I have let you down; and I know that a man of honour does not ...' His head drooped.
Elise moved to put her arm around him. 'Never mind, dear. Monsieur Dupont will find a solution.'
'Will he, indeed?' murmured Monsieur Dupont. 'I hope so. Your faith in me is touching, my child. Hold hard, mon fils, we will do nothing to distress you. We will put off your debut for a little, while we think about it. But we must not leave it too long.'
'Why not?' asked Elise, over Angel's head.
From his face hidden in her shoulder came the muffled reply, 'Because I will not stay a soprano. Because when my voice ... breaks ... who knows what it will be?'
'Precisely, mon cher. Now, let me see if I have this right: if, by some means, I can arrange for you to sing unseen, you will honour your contract?'
Angel raised his head. 'Yes, Monsieur, but I do not see ... In the wings or behind the stage, my voice will not project.'
Elise, not a singer, cried, 'But, Monsieur, if he stood always with his good side facing the audience, he could do it.'
Monsieur Dupont shook his head. 'No good, Petite. His voice would disappear into the wings. He would need to be at least three-quarter facing the audience ...' His voice tailed off into thought, an intent look on his face. There was a point up high where sound would be concentrated; it was part of the acoustics of the theatre. If he could find the exact spot and hide it from the audience by the angle of the curtain and one or two carefully placed mirrors ...
He turned to Angel. 'Do I have your word—remember, a man of honour does not go back on his word—that if I can arrange for you to sing unseen, then you will definitely sing?'
He nodded. 'Yes, Monsieur, you have my word. As long as I cannot be seen, I will sing.'
'Good. And how is your head for heights?'
'Fine.'
'Very well. Be ready to sing tomorrow.'
29 March 1872
Monsieur Dupont is busy finding a Place for Angel to sing.
Angel and Elise sat on their favourite ornamental wall in the garden, faces turned to the shaft of early spring sunshine peeking through the cloud. It did not matter that it was a trifle cold, for this little corner was sheltered from the chilly breeze, and it was private. They'd formed the habit of meeting here after Monsieur Dupont's warning to Angel about the need for fresh air, slipping away in spare moments to discuss their emerging philosophies on the world. It had been Elise's idea to combine a relaxing chat with a sojourn in the healthy outdoors, but lately their conversations had taken on a more serious flavour—ethics, joining their growing passion for justice, as a favoured topic. Sometimes their discussion became quite technical and heated, occasionally causing Angel to stamp away in frustration; but in the main, Elise—sensitive to his moods—was able to soothe him back to good humour before this point.
Today they were in the midst of a lively exchange on whether violence was a necessary evil for the dispensing of justice, when the carpenter's lad came up behind them.
'Hey, Devil,' he called. 'Your platform is ready. Old Dupont wants you up on the stage now, to try it out.'
Without a word, Angel jumped down, punched him in the face and ran off towards the opera house.
'Oh.' The boy reeled against the wall, his hand to his bleeding nose. 'He's a brute. I'm going to tell Monsieur Dupont.'
'He should not do such things, of course. But you deserved it. If you tell Monsieur Dupont, I shall have to tell him why he did it. You must not call him names. He has had enough of such things.'
'But he is a devil. He puts nasty devices in my tool bag that jump out at me when I open it. He rigs up little explosives on the walls that go off when you hammer in the nails. Oh, I am sick of his practical jokes, I can tell you, and so is Master Hillier.'
'Very well. I shall try to talk to him when he has cooled off a little. But I don't understand why he has been doing these things to the carpenters and no-one else?'
The boy hung his head. 'He did ask Master Hillier if he could watch us work and help us, so that he could learn from us, but Master Hillier said that it would put him off his dinner if he had to look at his ugly face all day and told him to go away.'
'Oh!' Elise's cheeks reddened. 'That is disgusting, absolutely disgusting! Monsieur Dupont shall hear of this. And you can think yourself lucky that you've already got a blood nose or you'd have another one!' Seething, she marched off to find Angel.
Greeted by the sweet purity of his voice as she entered the auditorium, she sat down to listen, calming immediately.
'What do you think, my dear?' Monsieur Dupont's benevolent face appeared over the edge of the orchestra pit. 'How is the sound?'
'Perfect,' she said, and meant it.
'Bien. You go off to lunch now, while Angel and I finish our rehearsal. You can take his déjeuner to him after that.'
She went away to think out how she could possibly explain to Angel that he must not react the way he had, even if it was, to some extent, justified.
§
He was already defensive when she entered the cellar, meeting her eyes from behind his draftsman's table. 'Don't look at me like that.'
'Like what, mon cher?' She set the tray down close to his hand.
He averted his eyes. 'You make me feel guilty.'
'Tiens,' she said politely. 'And are you?'
'Elise, go away! Go and disconcert someone else.'
She tossed her head. 'You are rude—very rude!'
'And you are tiresome!' he flashed back, hurling the tray at her. 'Go away!'
Fortunately, it missed her, fetching up against a chest of drawers; the plate and glass smashing on the floor. Unwisely, she stood her ground, surveying the debris, unlike Ziggy, who had discreetly vanished at the first sound of his raised voice.
'Now, look what you've done, Angel. Cook will be furious. I shall have to clear it up.'
'Go away! Go away! Go away!' he shouted in mounting fury, beginning to launch at her whatever missile came to hand.
She tried to stand against the barrage, but after being struck by a glass inkstand, a silver candlestick and two heavy books in quick succession, she gave it best.
Sobbing with distress, she ran from the room, clapping a hand to the back of her arm as she felt a sudden, sharp sting. The point of a compass, still attached to its pencil, was embedded deep in the flesh. Not even pausing in her flight, she pulled it out, dropping it in the doorway.
Blinded by tears, she ran into the arms of Monsieur Dupont on the second cellar stairs.
'Elise, my dear. Whatever is the matter? This is not like you.'
'It is Angel,' she sobbed. 'I don't understand him. I tried to—no, I did not even say a word before he started and then he ... he ...' She held out her arm.
'Oh, dear, dear. Give me your handkerchief, and I will bind it up for you. There.' He took her up to the chapel. 'Sit down, my dear. I think you had better tell me all about it.'
Afterwards, he did not speak for a little while, then he said, 'Do not blame yourself, Mignonne. Angel is not like other children. You had best leave this to me. Now, you go up and rest in your room for half an hour, and then go to practice. And Elise,' he added, 'I want you to stay away from Angel until he communicates with you in an acceptable manner. I know it will be hard, but you must do it for both your own sake and his. He must not be permitted to think of you as his possession. Perhaps you do not understand what I am saying here, but it is very important, Mignonne, and I want your promise that you will obey me in this.'
She stared at him, eyes wide and troubled. 'But—who will bring his food and care for him?'
'That is exactly my point, my dear. But do not fret, I shall not allow him to starve. Go on now.'
He waited until she had turned the corner and closed the door behind her before turning away himself to resume his descent of the stairs.
'I see you were not hungry, my son.' Monsieur Dupont stooped to retrieve the compass, picking his way through the debris on the floor.
Angel started to rise to his feet from behind his desk.
'No, no, dear boy, do not get up on my account,' he said, removing the pencil and putting down the compass in front of him. 'One should take very good care of one's instruments,' he murmured, 'for the sake of accuracy. A very tiny deviation will put a building out by as much as one or two metres. And that would be disastrous, would it not? ... I shall sit in this armchair while we have a little chat.' He picked up Ziggy and sat her on his knee. 'Ah, very comfortable. Elise chose it for you, you know.'
Angel bowed his head, saying nothing, rubbing a hand over his scarred forehead.
'We men,' said Monsieur Dupont, tenting his fingers and rolling the pencil between them. 'We are strong, n'est-ce pas? Much stronger than les femmes, are we not? We can very easily hurt them, snap them like this pencil.' He held it up and did so, tossing the pieces to Angel. 'But because we are so much stronger, and it is easy for us to hurt them, we have a responsibility to protect them and to treat them kindly. Les femmes,' he mused, 'their very softness and sweetness is a comfort to us. Elise, for example, so gentle and good, so small and soft. Exquisite.' He kissed his fingers. 'Is it justice that she be hurt for her kindness, think you?'
'Arrrgh!' Angel grabbed up the compass and stabbed it violently into his arm, driving it to the bone, causing the cat to shriek and fly out of the room. 'There,' he said, 'I have paid for what I did to Elise. She has had justice.'
'No, my son.' Monsieur Dupont rose to his feet, dismayed. 'No. Do you think Elise would be happy to see you suffer? No and no, she would be hurt doubly. But you are on the right track in that you are sorry for what you did to her. You are, are you not?' he said, pulling out the point and binding up Angel's arm with his own handkerchief.
'Yes,' he muttered. 'I did not mean it. I was angry.'
'Why were you angry with her, mon fils?'
'Because she was right. She always is―right.'
'Oh-ho,' laughed Monsieur Dupont. 'You will have to get used to that. Number one lesson in being a man: les femmes, they are always right. But seriously, you wish for justice for Elise? To make reparation?'
'Yes, Monsieur. I did not mean to hurt Elise. I would take it back if I could.'
'Another lesson, mon cher. There are many of us who feel that way and mourn forever. But I do not think your case is a lost cause.' He sat back and regarded the boy. 'So, tell me—what can you do to make Elise happy again?'
'I do not ... know.' He looked at him candidly. 'What would you do if you were me?'
I would not bite the hand that fed me, for a start. 'Oh, les femmes, they like an apology—that would be a good beginning. Perhaps you could tell Elise you did not mean it. Or a gift? Something you have made yourself—that will show you care.'
'Quoi?'
'Well, one of your fine drawings, perhaps? Or a carving, or sculpture? Or you might paint a fan for her? You will think of something she will like.'
'Yes, but ... what if ... she does not forgive me?'
'That is a risk, bien sûr. But I think she will forgive you, my son. She is very loving and compassionate.'
'Yes.' He put his head in his hands. 'But, can she forgive me?'
'That is just one of the many questions for which a man needs courage, mon fils. But there is a way to sound the waters. You can tell her how you feel without words. Get out the book Manners and Conduct for a Contemporary Gentleman—it is in your library here, somewhere. In it you will find the Language of Flowers. Then you can tell her how sorry you are by sending the right flowers. You see? It is a useful thing for a man to know. You never can tell when you may need it. Eh, mon brave.' He clapped him on the shoulder. 'I will leave you now.'
He turned back at the door. 'There is a temporary change in your meal arrangements. Cook will leave your tray on the table outside the basement door for you to collect at your leisure. À bientôt.'
Angel reddened. 'Yes, Monsieur.'
Monsieur Dupont's lessons soon hit home to Angel. His boring suppers that he was beginning to rail against were replicated in all the other meals left for him outside the basement door. But Monsieur Dupont had made it clear—if he wanted variety, he must make a friend of Cook or overcome his aversion to appearing in public and take his meals at the dining table.
He missed Elise, her warm, motherly presence, the way she supported him, entering into all his plans and providing a sounding board for his ideas. Not that she was anybody's puppet—oh, no, she had plenty of ideas of her own. And not afraid to voice them, either. Nom d'un chien, but he missed her.
At first, he raged, destroying paintings and manuscripts, venting his spleen by hurling small objects at the walls, before falling exhausted onto his palanquin. There he stayed for quite some time. He awoke thoughtful, and rose to tidy the mess; no mean feat. Satisfied, he reached for the book recommended by Monsieur Dupont, and two other botanical texts, studying them so hard that he forgot two of his meals before he surfaced, ravenous. Consequently, the tray having been taken away, he had to raid the pantry.
4 April 1872
I miss Angel, but Monsieur Dupont has made me Promise, and I cannot break it, on pain of Death. Poor Angel, I hope he has enough to eat, but he is so Stubborn ...
After foraying in various gardens, Angel went to Cook, bringing with him a bouquet of succulent herbs. 'Good morning, Madame. I am Angel. I have come to thank you for your so wonderful cuisine.'
'Ah, Petit—so you are the little mouse that takes the food from the larder, hein?'
'Yes, and it was very nice until Monsieur Dupont put a stop to it. I am fed up with bread and cheese.'
'Well, naturally. I wonder that you took it for so long. I have been in daily expectation of meeting you in my kitchen.'
'It was the lunches you sent me, Madame. I shall never forget the first one—the roast duckling—magnifique.' He kissed his fingers in the manner of Monsieur Dupont.
'Mais, merci, mon chou. And what is that you have there?'
He proffered the bouquet with a little bow. 'Fresh from the garden, Madame,' he said. 'You will be able to make a delightful sauce with these, hein?'
Not proof against the cajolery in the blue eyes, or the ordeal of a growing boy's hunger, Cook was pleased to accept them, and after a few minutes conversation, his obvious knowledge of their various culinary uses put her on her mettle.
'You shall try them in your déjeuner,' she promised. 'And you may call me Berthe. Oh, here, take a croissant, fresh out of the oven. Have two. Boys are always hungry.' She shooed him away, his immediate needs assuaged.
Pleased with the success of this venture, he went away to put the second into operation.
§
Elise sat on the wall. She was lonely, but Monsieur Dupont's instructions had been clear. She was not to go near Angel until he had made at least one sincere gesture of remorse. She turned as she heard his voice.
'Elise? These are for you.' He was thrusting a bouquet at her.
'Oh, Angel.' She slipped off the wall and came over to take the flowers, her wide smile vanishing as she studied them. She looked up, her lips trembling, eyes full of reproach. 'This is a very sick joke. I did not think that even you would play a joke like that.'
'What do you mean? Cannot you read the flowers? I am saying I am sorry.'
'Is that what you think?'
'Yes.'
'Then, you should study the language more carefully.'
He glowered. 'Why?'
'These flowers are saying you are sorry I am dead. That is not very nice.'
'But, no,' he said. 'Look: Je regrette infiniment—see? The asphodel.'
'Yes: I am infinitely sorry that you are dead. The asphodel is right, but you see these marigolds? And the cypress? When you put them together that is what they mean—sorrow and death.'
'Quoi?' He stared at her in horror. 'Oh, Elise, I did not mean — I like the asphodel, they are elegant, like you. But since they are all white, I added some colour and texture. I thought you would like the bright gold of the marigolds and the feathery green with the little cones. Oh, that has just made everything worse! I am sorry for what I did. Even if you were dead—I am still sorry. What can I do?'
His dismay was so comical that she began to laugh. 'Nothing, you idiot. Come here.' She held out her arms. 'Of course, I forgive you, mon cher—of course.' Suddenly, it was exquisitely funny that Angel—who could solve the most incomprehensible mathematical problem, draw such complicated architectural plans, compose such convoluted music—could make so dire a mistake in his social address, all because his artist's eye had demanded he add texture and colour to a bouquet, without noticing the consequent change to his message.
He clasped her to him fondly, laughing with relief. 'Oh, thank you, dear. I will never try to hurt you again.'
She sighed. He was sorry he had hurt her. That was all she needed to resume her friendship with him. But why was she reminded of a child hugging his poupée de chiffon? She thought about what Monsieur Dupont had said about him regarding her as his possession. Am I his rag doll? Disengaging herself, she said, 'Shall I teach you the language of flowers?'
'No,' he said. 'I am not giving you flowers any more. I can think of much better gifts for you. And one more thing,' he added. 'If I do ever give flowers again, it shall be just one, and it shall be a red rose. Nobody can mistake the meaning of that.'
'No, mon cher. But―you must be very sure.'
'I will be. Shall you bring my supper tonight?'
23 April 1872
Angel and I, we performed together tonight. Gabby, our beautiful Gabby, came to watch us, but she left before we came offstage. She was heavily veiled, but I would know her anywhere. I was Heartbroken that she did not stay to talk with us.
The pure beauty of the voice stunned the patrons, surrounding them so that they could not tell the direction of the singer. Monsieur Dupont, glancing over his shoulder, smiled at their obvious puzzlement. After several false starts and enough shifting of the platform to drive the carpenters demented, he had hit on the acoustically perfect spot—it was proven, here and now.
The audience and critics acclaimed it as one of the consummate performances of the season. The great bowls of flowers from the south released their nostalgic scent. The ballerinas on the stage defied gravity as they performed their graceful patterns; the music flattering and supporting them. The angelic voice completed the picture—exquisitely, aesthetically glorious—a banquet for all the senses.
Nobody knew that the beautiful little ballerina, La Belle, cried herself to sleep that night; her joy in her performance evaporating, because her friend and idol had not cared to come backstage to congratulate her or share even a hug.
