Part Ten: Monsieur Fat Chance

Mirielle smiled and passed the dish of potatoes. Clément Cambin had arrived with a bottle of wine and sliced pork for the dinner. He'd donned an apron and rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, talking to all of her roommates as they went about preparing dinner.

He'd proven to be a nice fellow. But she had noticed that her roommate Ursulé and Clément had seemed a little quiet. Excusing herself to make a trip to the kitchen to get more rolls, she followed Ursulé. Mirielle asked, "What do you think of him?"

Ursulé rinsed a dish. "He seems nice." Waiting for her to finish, Mirielle noticed she was still rinsing the same dish.

"Do you like him?" They had talked while cooking and Ursulé had mentioned her Austrian mother's recipe for Pork Schnitzel, to which Clément seemed very interested in trying. Picking up a pan and moving it closer to the sink, Mirielle told her, "It's all right if you like each other."

The other woman's face flamed. "I'm sorry, Mirielle. This has never happened to me before." Ursulé was nearly six feet tall, with dark red hair, gentle brown eyes and charming dimples Although she was graceful, she would fade to the background when introduced to people because her height made her feel awkward.

"Oh, cherié," Mirielle smiled, "I'm happy for you both."

"Then it's alright if …?"

"Yes. I like him, but I think you two get along very well. Why not try?"

Ursulé's nervous hand crept to her cheek. "Oh, I don't know. I mean, he may not want to."

"Ask him out," Mirielle prodded. "I think he'd be flattered." She paused and looked towards the door. "Just be careful, he might be after your Mama's schnitzel." With a wink, she went to back to the table and asked Clément to get the rolls she had forgotten. After a quick look around the table, he got up and went to the kitchen.

She poured some more wine in her glass. Well, her second foray into making a gentleman's acquaintance was decidedly shorter than the first. She found herself remembering the dark and Erik's voice. With a shiver she finished her wine.


He lay back on the sofa and contemplated the items on the fireplace mantel. The slim silver vase was one of his mother's possessions. She'd said it was a gift of her Mother when she married. She'd been furious when he'd climbed up onto the chair, teetering on the arm as his other small foot slid down between the arm and the cushion. He'd nearly toppled the vase as he grabbed at the mantel. She'd sent him to his room. As if she ever needed a reason to send him away.

Like a shinning finger, the highlights along the silver cylinder lead upward to the head of the rose that listed to one side. Its blood colored petals still held their elegant arrangement.

Getting off the sofa, he gathered his coat and prepared to go out. As he went to the bedroom to retrieve his wallet, he paused in the parlor.

Sugar? Was it sugar they said would make the bloom last longer? He fetched the vase. "Here, little fellow. Let's see if this will help." Taking it to the kitchen he added a bit of sugar to a glass of water and topped off the vase. He dropped it off on the mantel on his way out of the house. A petal fell.


Mirielle paused to wipe her forehead. The new girl looked to be about thirteen. She'd spent a week running up and down the length of the room replacing the empty bobbins of thread, but the boss told Mirielle that today the girl would start on the looms.

The poor thing was clumsy, her thin fingers shaking as she attempted to keep the rhythm of the work. The shuttle would stop on a thread, the heddles lifted and dropped too quickly; the combing board would take too long.

"Take your time," Mirielle coaxed her.

Another failed attempt and she could see the perspiration gleaming above the girl's lips. This was not a terribly hard task to manage, but she sensed the girl was too nervous.

"Here. I want you to close your eyes." Mirielle told her, grasping her slim shoulders from behind. "Can you hear my voice?"

The girl nodded. "Very well. Now, listen to the shuttle. Can you hear that whoosh noise?"

The girl's head turned, following the shuttle with her ear. "Don't look at where the noise is coming from; just listen to the way it sounds. Like a dance, one step to raise the heddle, two steps to move the shuttle, three steps to push the combing board." Helping the girl to move at a steady pace, she built the intuitive motions of her hands to accomplish the weaving.

"Good," Mirielle gave her slim shoulders a squeeze. "That wasn't so bad was it?"

Letting the girl get on with her work, Mirielle returned to the loom she worked. When it was time for lunch, she brought the girl with her to the table where a group of her coworkers sat together, introducing her. When it was time to return, Mirielle noticed a well dressed young man coming towards the group.

"Do I have the pleasure of addressing a Madame Montalais," his voice purred.

"I am Madame Montalais," she replied, slowing her steps towards the building.

"I am Mathurin LaChance." He slid a business card out of his pocket in two fingers and held it out for her. "I'm a reporter for The Echo. I'd like to talk to you about your evenings at the Opera."

She had been glancing at the card as he spoke. Looking up at the young man, she was struck at the arrogant way he looked down at her. The trace of a pleasant smile he wore did not displace the way his eyes took her in. They measured her, categorized her, made note of her clothing and her figure underneath, and assumed what her lot in life was.

Mirielle was used to men looking at her. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but since she had bloomed early, men's eyes always moved over her body in the way that they wished their hands could. Many were the times she had carried on conversations with men who stared pointedly at her bosom. She'd embarrassed several by pointing out that her head was above her neck.

"I'm sorry. I'm working right now." She turned away.

"You don't understand, Madame." LaChance stepped behind her. "You see, I intend to write an article about the Opera Ghost for my paper."

She spun to look at him. "I do understand M. LaChance. What you fail to understand is that I am employed to work here at the mill. They do not pay me to talk to reporters."

She continued through the door and back to her loom. She did notice that the man loitered around the yard for a few more minutes, as if deciding whether he could follow her inside. "Monsieur Fat Chance," she christened him. What transpired between her and Erik was no one's business.