A Song in the Night
A/N: I will be away from my computer over the weekend and thought I would post the next chapter tonight. A mild warning for language; we also get a glimpse of 'our' Phantom... :-)
Chapter Eleven
Instinctively, Erik took a step backward when Veronique's finger struck his chest. His mouth opened and closed twice before he found his voice. "Pardon, Mademoiselle, I—I meant no offense. I simply hoped that you would . . . accept a loan toward the cost of replacing the broken string of your cello."
The fight drained out of her at his softly-spoken words, and she dropped her head. "Oh," she murmured, stuffing the money in her pocket. Her face flushed with even more color, she mumbled, "I am sorry, Monsieur." Turning on her heel, she rushed out of the house without another word.
"Veronique, wait!" She heard Giselle call after her, but she broke into a trot and soon was out of sight. After a few minutes, she swiped angrily at the tears clouding her vision.
Merde alors! Veronique chastised herself. You must be the silliest girl on the face of the earth! How could you have thought for one instant that he meant anything improper by leaving the money?
She trudged home, muttering to herself occasionally, and stomped up the stairs to her apartment. A scrap of paper was tacked to the door, and she jerked it down, cursing softly when the paper tore nearly in half. Thrusting her key in the lock, she opened the door and once inside her apartment, kicked the door closed with her foot, perversely enjoying the resulting slam.
Not waiting to remove her coat, Veronique went to the window and held the two sections of the note together. " 'You must remove yourself and any belongings from these premises by no later than noon tomorrow,' " she read aloud, gasping in outrage as she scanned the rest of the message. " 'Single women are not permitted to have men in their rooms without a chaperone. A man was seen leaving your apartment late last night.' "
Stunned, she dropped to the window seat and stared at the far wall. "I don't believe this! Condemned without a fair hearing, without a chance to explain. Fils de . . . ! Wasn't that why they fought the damned Revolution?" Furious, she crumpled the note and flung it to the floor.
Sainte Mère! What am I going to do with my furniture? The small sofa, the secrétaire, her bed and night table, and the table and two chairs in the kitchen she had brought with her from Auxerre. Clutching the small gold cross that had belonged to her mother, she whispered several Aves, hoping the prayer to the Blessed Virgin would calm her enough to think clearly.
Go talk to Giselle, the voice in her head told her.
"No!" whispered Veronique quickly. "I cannot impose on her kindness again. I have already done that far too many times in the last few days."
Who said anything about imposing on her? retorted the voice. Just go and talk to her. She might know of somewhere you could live.
"And I suppose I should apologize for the way I acted earlier," Veronique muttered. "Will I never learn to control my temper and think before I speak?" Sighing heavily, she pushed to her feet and went to the door, kicking aside the crumpled note from the landlady.
Take a deep breath, Veronique, and count to ten. She smiled faintly, hearing her maman's voice in her head. Obediently, she did, and felt marginally better when she let the breath out slowly.
On the walk back to Mme. Tremaine's, she tried to practice what she would say to that good woman, but it got all jumbled up in her head and finally she gave up. At the bottom of the steps outside the house, Veronique's knees wobbled, weak with dread. You must do this, and now, Veronique, she told herself sternly. Knees still trembling, she climbed the stairs and lifted the doorknocker.
Giselle opened the door a short time later. She said nothing when she saw Veronique; she simply opened her arms and the girl fell into them with a soft cry.
"Oh, Madame! Please forgive me for my horrible behavior this morning," cried Veronique. "I honestly do not know what I was thinking, how I could have believed . . ."
The older woman patted her on the back comfortingly. "Shhh, ma fille, it's all right. No harm done. Your life has been turned upside down these last few days—I think it is completely understandable if you are not quite yourself." Sliding an arm about her waist, she led the girl toward the kitchen. "Come and have a cup of tea, chérie. That will solve a world of ills, I've discovered."
Tiredly Veronique took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair in the kitchen. "I just . . . don't know what's wrong with me," she murmured. "Normally I don't . . . I'm not . . ." She smiled gratefully when Giselle set a cup of tea in front of her. When she saw Samson stomp toward her, she scooted her chair back a little and patted her lap.
He needed no further invitation and made himself at home. His rumbling purr seemed to ease the tension in her shoulders a little, and she scratched him behind his ears. "Merci, mon chèr ami," she whispered.
"I can see in your eyes that something else has happened since you left here earlier," Giselle said to her. "What is it, chérie?"
Veronique took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. "I am being evicted from my apartment, for being a single woman who allowed a man in her rooms without a chaperone."
The words, spoken with no emotion, stopped Erik cold as he walked into the kitchen. Merde alors! "But . . . we did nothing but talk and drink coffee!" he muttered.
Veronique's head jerked around at the sound of his voice, and a flush of color rose in her cheeks. "Yes, you and I know that, but to anyone else who might have been watching us . . ." Her words trailed off and she grimaced.
He felt his temper beginning to rise and fought to keep it under control as he walked around the table. "I will speak to your landlord and—"
"It will not do any good," interrupted Veronique. "My landlady is as sour an old woman as I've ever met. Based on my dealings with her, she will say that her version of the 'event' is second in truth only to the Holy Gospel." Her shoulders slumping, she spoke softly. "Now I must find a place to live as well as a job." She reached out to pick up her teacup with a trembling hand.
Seeing her obvious distress, Erik silently but vehemently cursed the woman who had caused it. It made him wish that he had not left his Punjab lasso behind at the opera house. Perhaps I will pay the old biddy a short visit, after all. He leaned back against the cupboard, thinking.
Giselle spoke for the first time since Veronique's announcement. "I offer you the use of the small room off the pantry, chérie, until you can find another apartment."
A lone tear traced its way down the girl's cheek, and she wiped it away with a knuckle. "No, Mme. Giselle. Merci beaucoup, but I cannot accept."
"Why not?" the older woman demanded immediately.
"Because . . . because I have . . . imposed on you so many times already, in such a short time . . ." She bit her lip to keep from sobbing.
Giselle dismissed her concerns with a wave of her hand. "Bah! You have eaten with us, what, twice? Three times? That is not imposing, child. That is friendship."
Erik chuckled, startling both women. "You had best give in, Veronique. She is going to have her way, no matter what excuses you offer or how you try to reason with her. A wise man knows when he is defeated."
Shooting him a look he couldn't quite decipher, Giselle reached over and took Veronique's hand. "I insist, ma fille. And as Erik knows all too well, I always get my way. At least in my own house."
Veronique had to swallow twice before she could speak past the lump in her throat. "I—I have a little furniture that I must move, also," she whispered.
"We will find a place for it in the attic, chérie," Giselle assured her. "One of the neighbors has a wagon; we'll borrow it and his horse and get your things out of that dreadful place by tonight." She slanted another look at Erik. "Perhaps it would be wise, after Veronique has finished her tea, for you to return to her apartment with her and help her bring some of her things back here this morning. If this woman is as devious as I suspect," she said to the girl, "she will be waiting for the first opportunity to steal whatever she can from you, child."
Incensed at that thought, Veronique got to her feet, set Samson in the chair and downed the rest of her tea in one gulp. "She had better keep her filthy, greedy paws off my things," she muttered. Glancing at Erik, she added, "I will meet you at the front door."
Armed with a small wooden crate and some burlap bags, they set off a few minutes later. Erik found himself hiding a smile as Veronique muttered under her breath, dire threats and warnings to her landlady. I must be careful not to provoke you, petite chatte, he thought with a grin. At least, not very often.
As they climbed the stairs, Veronique turned to him with a martial glint in her eye. "If she has touched my cello, I'll . . ."
"Don't go borrowing trouble, Veronique." He reached out and took her hand, stopping her momentarily from unlocking the door. "Take a deep breath and hold it. Now, close your eyes and let it out slowly." When she did, he released her hand with a tiny squeeze. "All right, let's go in now."
Thankfully, everything was as she had left it, and she sighed in relief. "I have some boxes in the kitchen, I think, from when I moved here a few months ago. You put my books and things from the secrétaire in the wooden crate; I'll work in the kitchen."
Within a couple of hours they had boxed and packed everything except the furniture, and Veronique had folded her clothing into three small carpetbags. One of her neighbors came to ask her something, and after a couple of glances at Erik's face, offered the use of his small hand cart. The three of them carried her things to the curb and loaded them on the cart. The neighbor also offered to keep an eye on Veronique's furniture and they began the return trip to Giselle's.
Carrying her cello, Veronique tried not to think about the old biddy who had booted her out on the street, but with little success. Dried-up old prune, she thought acidly. She huffed out a breath and switched the cello to her other arm. I'll show you! she added defiantly. "I'll become the best, most famous cellist in France, maybe all of Europe," she muttered.
Giselle met them outside and grabbed a couple of suitcases off the cart. "Come, chérie, let's go look at the room." To Erik she said, "I'll send André out to help you. Set everything in the parlor for now, until Veronique can decide what she will need." She grinned at his mock salute and ushered Veronique into the house. "If your bed won't fit, there's a cot in the attic," she said as the door closed behind them.
Shaking his head, Erik hefted a box and set it on his shoulder. Général Giselle is at it again, he mused. Although that may not be such a bad thing. The poor girl seems at the end of her rope.
By dinner time, Veronique was settled in the small room, and Samson was happily ensconced on the cot. Erik had worked up quite a sweat hauling the furniture up to the attic, so he indulged in a bath before dinner. As he sat soaking in the hot water, he pondered again the idea of visiting the landlady later tonight. Perhaps just put a flea in her ear, he thought, a bit of warning against repeating such actions in the future? And perhaps it would be wise to wait a night or two, also.
The clock was striking seven as he made his way downstairs. The other boarders were already seated at the table, and Veronique helped Giselle and Elisabeth bring the food into the dining room. When she started to go back into the kitchen, Giselle stopped her.
"No, ma fille, you will stay and eat with us. You're staying with us for a short while and you helped me prepare this, so . . ."
Duchense, the boarder who had given Veronique the leering looks the night before, spoke up. "And just who is going to pay for her meals, hein? I'll volunteer, if there are no other . . . takers." He grinned suggestively, nudging the man sitting next to him, who gave him a look of supreme disgust.
"Jesu, Duchense, watch your tongue for once!" muttered M. Chermont, scooting his chair a short distance away.
"I have already arranged it with Mme. Tremaine; I will pay for Mlle. duPres' meals, Monsieur," said Erik, his voice curt and cold. The look he gave the other man made him swallow hard and drop his gaze to the tablecloth, where it remained for the entire meal.
At the end of dinner, Giselle fixed her own searing look on her witless boarder. "M. Duchense, I will have a word with you in the parlor, now." Without waiting for him to respond, she pushed back her chair and swept regally from the room.
Erik slipped down the hallway and shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation, if it could be termed such. Giselle did all the talking.
"One more such vulgar display, Monsieur, and you will be forced to seek accommodations elsewhere." Giselle spoke coldly, but Erik heard the considerable anger vibrating in every word. "I have tolerated your drunkenness and foul language and lewd remarks for the last time. No more. The next time you choose to insult someone else living here, I will throw you out on your sorry ass. Do you understand me?"
A short pause, then M. Duchense mumbled, "Oui, Madame, I understand."
Erik heard footsteps approaching the door and hurried back to the dining room, unable to keep a wide smile from crossing his face. "Brava, Giselle," he murmured.
Later that night, after the rest of the house had settled into sleep, Veronique tossed and turned. The cot was comfortable enough, for what it was. She simply could not find the correct position and fall asleep. She had been so restless that Samson deserted her after only a few minutes. Punching her pillow, she flopped over on her back with a soft oath. Merde! You should be so exhausted that you can't keep your eyes open. Yet here you are, staring at the ceiling, as wide-awake as this morning.
You know what is keeping you awake, that annoying little voice in her head piped up. You're waiting for Erik to play for you. Silly baby, can't go to sleep without her lullaby.
"Oh, shut up!" she growled in reply.
Three floors above her, Erik paced his tiny room, unable to sleep either. What a bizarre turn of events. I am glad that Giselle is willing to help her, but . . . it feels strange, knowing she is here in the same house. He held his violin in one hand, unsure if he should play tonight.
After arguing with himself for several moments, finally he tucked the violin under his chin and began the Kyrie from one of Schubert's Masses.
Duchense, fortified with the entire contents of a bottle of cheap wine, heard the soft music too, as he crept out of his room. We'll just see who throws who out on their sorry ass!