Chapter Thirteen: The Sharing of Information
She lay awake that night, eyes open and staring blankly at the darkness. Through the thin walls she could hear Bram shifting restlessly in the next room. He often had a hard time sleeping, feeling aches and pains where his legs should be; how sad, she thought, that not only should he be asked to contend with the absence of his legs, but with their complaining ghosts as well.
Sometimes she went to sit with him, to sing him to sleep.
Tonight, she did not, and something in her doubted that she would ever sing again.
Tomorrow she must look for Christine Daae— no, for Christine de Chagny, wife of the Vicomte, beloved of the Phantom of the Opera—
There was a twinge of pain deep in Maggie, a twisting feeling deep down, which she refused to analyze or even think about, for fear it should prove to be jealousy.
The following morning she rose late, her eyes inclined to close and her face haggard. After washing and tending to Bram's various needs, she twisted her hair up in its braids, fingers moving surely, the mirror unnecessary on account of the years she'd spent in this routine. She finished, patting the last strands into place, then paused and took a look in the mirror.
A rounded face—
Quiet eyes—
Snub nose and a determination to the eyebrows which was not becoming in a submissive woman. However, the word "submissive" couldn't rightly be applied to her. She grinned suddenly. Her smile was, perhaps, her best feature; it showed less often of late than it had done when she was a girl.
They say Christine Daae possessed a beauty unmatched in Paris—
Maggie cut the nagging voice off before it went any further. Doubtless Christine de Chagny was a lovely woman; however, it seemed supremely illogical to Maggie that the most beautiful girl in Paris would go entirely unnoticed until a Phantom chose to make her his protege. That was common sense.
Regardless. It was Christine that Erik wanted found, and it was Christine that Maggie would put forth every effort to find.
She laid the mirror face-down on the vanity with a decisive thump.
A swift walk and twenty minutes later saw her back at the Hall of Records, searching for an acquaintance of hers who might just know where Christine was residing while in Paris.
Her name was Adelaide Catterson, commonly called Lady, and she was British. Not British in the normal sense of being rigidly proper and rather humorless— indeed, were it not for her accent you could not have placed her as belonging to the race at all. She had dark, swarthy skin, mischievous brown eyes, and black hair piled high on her head; she was boisterous and loud and flirtatious; and she knew everyone in Paris. It was for this reason only that Maggie sought her out— she did not care for Adelaide Catterson's manner.
She was greeted with an enthusiastic handshake and a wide smile.
"Margaret, how are you? It's been simply ages, has it not, since we last talked. How is your brother?"
"He is well, thank you—"
"Not getting about at all?"
"He—" Maggie paused and looked at her. "No, Adelaide, he has no legs. He cannot get about at all."
"Oh, yes, forgot about that— so many people one meets these days, all with different trials and misfortunes and such interesting problems— why, just the other day I ran into Madame da Shea, her husband left her for another woman— several other women, in fact—"
Maggie shook her head mutely, holding up a hand in an effort to halt Adelaide's flow of gossiping rhetoric. It took a few moments, but she finally succeeded.
"Actually," she was finally forced to say loudly, "there was someone I wanted to inquire about— do you know the de Chagny family?"
The look that crossed Adelaide's face indicated clearly that no, she did not, but that she would like to, very much.
"The wife was involved in that marvelous scandal in the Opera House two years ago—"
"Yes, that's right," said Maggie guardedly.
"They say she— well, its hardly proper for me to mention it to an unmarried woman— but you know what I mean— there was a lot of talk about her relationship with the other man—"
"Indeed," said Maggie sturdily. Inwardly she wanted to cry, to hear the rumors about Erik and his Christine— but she also wanted very, very badly to laugh. She did neither.
"Myself I could hardly credit it. Such a pure young woman, that Christine Daae. But there was, nevertheless, some question about—"
"I don't suppose you would know what they are doing these days?"
Adelaide paused and stared blankly at her. "They went into hiding, you know— silly, I think, to hide from someone who is most likely dead now. They seemed to fear a vengeful ghost—"
"Yes, it would seem that way," said Maggie softly.
"But then, they never did find his body—"
"I thought perhaps they would be coming back to Paris for the season," said Maggie, determined now to pin Adelaide down and learn what she could.
"Why, I believe I did hear that, as a matter of fact," said Adelaide. She was quite proud of her contacts in all the families in Paris, and most of the families in France; though invariably these contacts proved to be maids or kitchen boys or secretaries. Nevertheless, they gave good information. Often a subordinate saw sides of the rich and titled that the general public would not. "A friend of mine who knows the Tristese family— from Italy, you know— says they received a visit from Christine de Chagny herself. The only invitation she accepted, you know— there were scads, I am sure, last year, and when they did not come at all, I imagine some people felt put out— however, a great deal tried again, and it is quite marvelous for the Tristese family that she came to them. No-one thought it at all likely—"
Maggie's breath was coming short. The Tristese family— yes, she knew them. And Christine was there, possibly— the sharp disappointment she felt was undeniable.
She would have to go to Erik and tell him that her commission had been fulfilled— and then he would have no need of her any longer—
Her heart sank— regret at the certain end of her relationship with Erik, and a twinge of horror that she had become so attached to him, so caught up by his voice and presence—
The music. That damnable music.
Unheeded and almost unheard, Adelaide was chattering on, gradually coming to the realization that her audience had lost whatever interest she'd had in the first place. Maggie cut her off abruptly.
"Thank you, Miss Catterson— that is all I wanted to know."
She turned and hurried away, Adelaide staring after her with definite curiosity in her eyes.