12. CONFRONTATION

Seeing the handsome face that he had been born with on another man had to be regarded as a tormenting hallucination. It was Lucifer bidding for a laugh at Dorian's expense, and by his horrified reaction, the Devil had easily gotten it. But Dorian, in spite of the continued palpitations of his heart from the shock, found himself retracing his steps to that tiny chapel later that night.

It was only a couple of hours before the sun would begin to rise and there were still the haunting notes being played from the organ within. He spent all night watching the imposter play that instrument. He only seemed to pause to scribble onto wrinkled paper. The man was a composer; that much was certain. But there was more than music, Dorian came to realize, when the imposter would occasionally talk to himself, or perhaps the walls. From Dorian's place at the grimy window, he could not hear what was being muttered. Though, he did distinctly make out a few references to a "her" and "she."

He wanted to know who this thief was- this man who stole his façade. When the morning came, the stranger at last left his organ to disappear through a door. He was gone for nearly an hour, and Dorian assumed he had gone to bed at last. Just as he resolved to return to his own sanctuary of the dead, the imposter reemerged. He had changed out of his evening dress at last and into an ordinary suit of a deep chocolate brown. It was not terribly impressive, especially to Dorian who knew that his beautiful physique deserved to be clad in nothing less than splendor.

The imposter collected his newly written music and rushed so quickly from the chapel that he practically flew. Dorian, all the while, was gone unnoticed as the man went on foot to an unknown location. Just as he did the night before, Dorian shadowed him closely, keeping his face concealed beneath hat and scarf. Fortunately, the lovely imposter was far too distracted to look over his shoulder this time.

They walked all morning through the streets of Paris until they came at last to a large and striking chateau. On the gate was a coat of arms bearing the name Comte de Chagny. Dorian new that name! Comte Philippe de Chagny was an old friend, someone who had spent many a wild night with Dorian in the highest- and lowest- places of Paris. When this stranger entered into the large household, Dorian was left all the more bewildered. Did Philippe believe this person to be Dorian Gray? It couldn't be!

With his hideous face, however, he did not dare to make himself known follow into the house. Instead, he lurked on the outside; spying through whatever windows he could to catch a glimpse of something, anything, all the while evading the servants who busied themselves around the house with their duties. Then, something flitted to his ugly ears. It was a voice singing from inside, the notes familiar as the ones he had heard composed the very night before.

As the organ played the tune, it was haunting and somewhat disturbing. But now, as a mysterious and heavenly voice sang them, it sank deep into Dorian's core. Had he a soul of his own, he would have sworn it was stricken by such sounds. For three hours he listened to this angelic singing, forgetting for a moment that he was a living corpse crouching on the threshold of an aristocrat's home. The music stopped, and sometime later, the imposter came wandering out the front door.

He was carrying his music again, but now he looked in a daze. In fact, he looked downright confused. He barely reached the street before he leaned heavily on the lamp post. He appeared as Dorian felt after listening to such music. Suddenly, the sound of an approaching brougham alerted the man, and he slipped into a hiding place in the shadows. This move brought him unbearably close to Dorian, nearly within arm's reach. How easy it would have been to grab him and demand that he return his face to him!

The passenger of the brougham, however, caught both of their attentions. A young man climbed out and went directly to the house where he entered as though he were the lord and master. That surely wasn't Philippe, though this man did bear some resemblance… Perhaps the younger brother that Philippe had mentioned on more than one occasion? What was his name… As the imposter watched the young man enter the chateau, Dorian could see his hand curling into a white-knuckled fist. There was a clear rage… But why?

Before he knew it, he was once again trailing the ghost of his former self through the streets of Paris. He did not know his reasons for following so closely. He only knew that it was joyous and unbearably painful to see his own handsome face once again.

For a mere instant Dorian glanced away as a noise in the thoroughfare stole his attention, and when he looked back, the imposter was gone. In a sudden panic, Dorian rushed forward, desperate to find him and trail him again. As he passed a shadowed doorway, he heard a sharp whisper of air and something cut into his throat. His entire body was jerked backward against another, and in a gasping fight, he tried to pull at a cord that coiled around his neck. It was so tight, even around his scarf, that he could not get a finger beneath it.

"Come to scavenge my pockets again?" a voice laughed in his ear.

Dorian could only gag a reply.

"You should choose your prey more wisely, monsieur," said the man, "and not be fooled by appearances!"

Suddenly, Dorian was released. He fell to the ground immediately, a long and painful breath being taken in.

"Who are you..?" he managed to ask in a hoarse breath.

A brief laugh escaped the imposter but was silenced abruptly by curiosity and perhaps confusion. "Isn't that what I should be asking you?"

"I am Dorian Gray!" He declared his identity as he at last lifted his dark eyes to the man who wore his face, the scarf over his own mouth confining his air as he at last breathed easy again.

But the imposter only looked at him nonchalantly. "I thank you for providing me with the name that I should submit to the Époque obituary, in that case that you follow me again."

Before the man could walk away, however, Dorian's boney fingers curled around his ankle and held him in place. "Who are you?" He insisted desperately.

"You ask my identity and hide your own face?" spat the man. "You've no doubt an ordinary face beneath and therefore have no right to ask me!"

Then, ready to prove a point, the imposter knelt down beside Dorian's felled form and threw off the hat simultaneously as he tore the scarf from his face. As Dorian anticipated, a look of horror came across the handsome young face and the imposter fell backwards, his sparkling eyes wide as they stared with terror. He was frozen.

"You call this atrocity an ordinary face?" Dorian cried and began to pull the scarf over his mouth to conceal it again.

"No!" The stranger screamed a protest and reached forward, pulling the scarf down once more as he stared. The initial terror was becoming awe. "How can it be…?" he whispered. "You… you are a mirror of my true face…"

This made Dorian's heart stop. "And you mine." He replied with wonder. At last, the other man allowed him to cover his shameful face once more, and for a moment he thought he saw pity in the imposter's eyes.

"I think, monsieur," the man said after a long silence, "that we have much to discuss. But not here. I should like some answers." He glanced about the street where few people paid any attention to the confrontation.

"I should like some answers as well," Dorian said rather bitterly. "I can take you to a remote place where we can talk freely… If you're not too afraid."

"Afraid?" scoffed the other. "A life in shadows makes one immune to the dark. The only thing that frightens me about your face is that it is no longer mine."

That sold him. Dorian was convinced that whatever game the Devil, or perhaps God, was playing on him involved this stranger in one way or another and he intended to find out how.