A Song in the Night
Chapter Fourteen
One week later
Erik stopped outside the front door, knocking the slush from his boots before entering the house. Hurrying to the kitchen, he felt his spirits dive a little when he found Giselle alone there. He pulled off his cloak and dropped it on a chair. "Is Veronique here? I must speak to her immediately."
Giselle spoke over her shoulder. "She is in the vacant room, trying to decide if she could stand to sleep there or not." A few days after Duchense's 'departure', Giselle decided that the furniture in that room was no longer suitable for her house, so the other two men had helped Erik carry it out. Giselle had scrubbed the walls and floors vigorously with lye soap, and had left the windows cracked open to allow some fresh air inside.
He hurried up the stairs now and found Veronique standing in the doorway, chewing on her thumbnail. "M. Vuillaume has returned!" he told her excitedly.
She turned to him, her eyes huge with mixture of hope and worry. "Oh, please tell me he's not planning to leave again tomorrow!"
"I don't believe so. At least, I didn't hear Robilliard say anything about it." Erik stared at her, seeing her close her eyes and take a deep breath. "Are you all right, chérie? You look a little pale."
Letting out the breath slowly, she opened her eyes and laughed softly. "Nervous, that's all."
Scared to death is more like it, the voice in her head retorted.
Veronique huffed out a breath in irritation, earning a quizzical look from Erik. Giving him a quick smile, she said, "So, tomorrow I will take my letter to him, and pray for my good luck to continue."
The next morning, Erik and Veronique sat together on the omnibus, each lost in their own thoughts, saying very little. When they arrived at Vuillaume's, Erik held the door open for her, and then went to his worktable. They had agreed it would be best if no one at the shop knew that they were acquainted.
Veronique spoke to one of the men bent over a table. "Where might I find M. Vuillaume?"
Hearing a woman's voice, the man raised his head and stared at her for a long moment. Then he jerked his head to the left. "He should be in there, Mademoiselle," he muttered, and went back to his work.
Veronique thanked him and walked in the direction he'd indicated, holding her skirt up to avoid the piles of wood shavings and sawdust. They need someone to clean in here, at the very least! The door opened just as she was about to knock, and she took a quick step backward.
"Oui, Mademoiselle? How may I help you?" A stout, gray-haired man spoke to her, and she handed him her letter.
"This is for M. Vuillaume, from his friend Alphonse Bertrand," she said quickly, "in reference to me, Veronique duPres."
"Bonjour, Mlle. duPres. I am Antoine Robilliard. M Vuillaume is inside. Please, go in and take a seat." He handed the letter back to her and pushed the door open a little wider. Returning a few minutes later with a tray holding a small carafe and three cups, he went inside his office and closed the door.
Erik tried to concentrate on his work, gluing two pieces of maple together to form the back of a violin. But his attention kept going back to the door of Robilliard's office. Please, do not let her be disappointed yet again! He wasn't sure to whom he directed that thought, but it went through his mind over and over.
After what felt like hours, the door opened and Veronique and Robilliard emerged. She glanced in his direction and nodded once, but he thought she did not look as happy as he had believed that she would.
Robilliard spoke over the noise of the planes and rasps. "Messieurs, your attention, s'il vous plaît. This is Mademoiselle duPres. She will be working for us, cleaning up after us, beginning tomorrow. M. Vuillaume expects you to treat her with the same respect as you do your wives and mothers. I leave you to introduce yourselves." With that announcement, he made a short bow to Veronique and returned to his office.
After a moment, Veronique went to each table and the men quickly muttered their names and went back to work. At last she stood at Erik's table, and he told her his name quietly, as the others had. She smiled briefly and nodded, and he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes. I'll talk to you tonight, she mouthed, and he nodded in reply.
On the ride home, Erik chafed his hands together, trying to warm them and finally stuck them under his armpits. The ride felt interminable before they reached the final stop. Quickly he climbed down from the omnibus and strode in the direction of the boarding house, quite anxious to see Veronique and talk to her, find out what had happened in her meeting with Vuillaume. He arrived just as they were sitting down to dinner and he hurried to wash his hands and join them.
The meal was another of Giselle's masterpieces, and afterward they sat back in their chairs, replete. She folded her hands together on the table and said, "Messieurs, if I may impose upon you again—Mlle. duPres is going to be moving into the vacant room, and I—we would appreciate it very much if you could bring her furniture down from the attic . . . once your meal has settled, of course."
Chermont and Montaigne murmured their agreement and rose from the table to step outside for a cigar. Erik waited until they were out of earshot before turning to Veronique. "What happened with M. Vuillaume, chaton?"
Sighing, she slumped in her chair. "Oh, he was glad to have news of M. Bertrand. And he was quite courteous and pleasant to me, but he did not feel the business could take on another apprentice at this time."
"Oh, chérie, I am so sorry." Erik reached out and took her hand, rubbing it between his.
"Why should you apologize? It's not your fault. At least I will be working there in some capacity. I did extract a promise from him, though, that he would hire me as an apprentice as soon as possible." She grinned at him. "Evidently M. Bertrand's recommendation was quite . . . glowing."
It is not the only thing that is glowing, thought Erik as he looked at Veronique. Giselle's good cooking had filled in the hollows in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled at him. She was the same young woman he had come to know, and yet . . . she was different.
With much grunting and a few muffled curses, the men got Veronique's bed and other furniture carried down to the second floor. She directed them as to where to set each piece, thanking them profusely when they had finished.
Giselle came in a moment later, carrying some of Veronique's clothes. "Well!" she said, glancing around the room. "I believe that this calls for a special dessert tomorrow night, as a thank-you." She looked at the three men and asked, "What would you all prefer? A fruit cobbler, perhaps?"
The trio nodded immediately, smiling widely. "Bien, I will see what I can whip up. Bonsoir, messieurs. Veronique, if you need anything, I will be in my room." Giselle went to the door and the men followed her, Erik leaving the room last.
He went into the parlor and picked up yesterday's edition of L'Epoque, sitting down on the sofa to skim through it. On the back page, headlining the society news, was a lengthy article describing the marriage of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and Christine Daaé.
Erik's breath left him in a whoosh, and he closed his eyes. His heart pounded for a beat or two, and he laid his head against the back of the sofa. Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling, but saw nothing. I wish you a long and happy life, Christine. Bonne chance. After a moment he rose and climbed the stairs to his room.
For a long time he stood and stared out his tiny window, moving only to bend down and pick up Marguerite when she twined around his legs. Settling her in the crook of his arm, he absently scratched behind her ears, smiling slightly when he heard her begin to purr. "How much my life has changed, chaton, and in only a few short weeks," he whispered to her. "All for the better, of course, although I would not have believed it when I first fled the Opera House."
He turned from the window and sat down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. "I have friends now, chérie, which is a very strange thing for me. Giselle, Veronique, and you," he added, kissing the top of her head. With a sigh he set her on the mattress and scooted down until his head lay on the pillow. Promptly the little cat curled up next to him, her tail occasionally flicking his cheek.
As tired as he was, he could not fall asleep. When he closed his eyes, the vision of Christine and Raoul moving away from him in the boat filled his brain. With a muffled curse, Erik sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. Oh, la vache! She is far better off with the boy than with you, and you know it!
He pushed to his feet and grabbed his cloak, thinking he would go outside and walk off his . . . frustration. When he reached the bottom floor, he heard a noise in the kitchen and moved silently down the hallway toward the sound. His breath caught in his throat when he saw Veronique sitting at the table, wrapped in her quilt, Samson filling her lap to overflowing. "Veronique," said Erik quietly, "are you all right?"
Her head whipped around at the sound of his voice, and she gave him a lopsided smile. "Yes, I just . . . couldn't sleep." At his frown she added quickly, "It's not the room. I'm not sure what is wrong exactly." She noticed his cloak in his hands. "Were you . . . going out?"
"Oddly enough, I couldn't sleep either." He sat down next to her, resting his elbows on the table. "The night that I stood under your window and listened to you play, I also had trouble sleeping. I went out walking, hoping to . . . wear myself out enough so that I would sleep regardless of my dreams."
"And you wanted to do the same thing tonight." She shifted the big orange cat a little, smiling when he opened one eye and glared at her. "If you would like to talk about it, I promise not to divulge anything." Erik did not reply, and after a long moment, she blew out a soft breath. "Well, I think I might be able to sleep now. Good ni—"
"Someone I once knew, and . . . and loved, married another man a few days ago," blurted Erik.
Speechless for a moment, Veronique blinked. "Oh, dear," she murmured, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "Tell me, as much or as little as you like."
He swallowed hard, and began to speak in a low voice. "She was . . . a student of mine, I suppose one could say. I heard her sing when she was only seven or eight years old and even then, her voice was remarkable for a child that age. She had recently lost her father and had come to live at the opera house."
"And you offered to teach her?"
Erik sat back, and looked at Veronique. "Oh, I know how it sounds, believe me," he muttered. "But she wanted to sing, and I wanted to help her, and . . . that's all it was, at first. And then . . . about six months ago, I looked at her and . . . she had grown up and she was beautiful and . . ." Gesturing to his face, he went on, "But when she got a good look at this, everything changed. A childhood friend came back into her life, a handsome, wealthy aristocrat and . . ." His voice trailed away.
"And she chose him over you," said Veronique softly. After a moment, she added, "As much as it might hurt you to hear it, I think she made the right choice." Erik's eyes narrowed in anger and she hastened to say, "Obviously she wasn't the right woman for you, if she could not see beyond the scars to the man you are underneath them."
Closing his eyes to hide the pain he felt, Erik muttered, "And just what kind of person am I, Veronique?"
"Compassionate, intelligent, talented, witty, charming—and the cats like you," she added with a grin. "What better testament to your character?"
A loud, angry yowl interrupted them, coming from just under the kitchen window. Erik shot to his feet and went to the back door, listening intently. When he heard footsteps pounding down the alley, he opened the door and stepped out, but a glimpse of someone running away was all he saw. He went back inside and closed the door, rubbing the back of his neck to dispel the ominous feeling he had. He took one step and nearly tripped over a big, solid black cat.
"Sacré bleu!" Erik grumbled. The cat laid its ears back and stared at him from narrowed golden eyes. Then something Giselle had told him his very first night here came back to him, and he said, "Bonsoir, Faust. Was that you we heard a moment ago?"
Duchense fled down the alley, damning all cats to hell as he ran. He had been standing under the kitchen window, listening avidly to Erik and Veronique, when something had brushed his leg, startling him. When he'd turned his head, two huge yellow eyes had been staring at him, and in his haste to get away, he'd stepped on the damned cat's tail.
So the freak had some connection to the opera, Duchense thought as he stopped a couple of blocks away to catch his breath. Wonder if he was the 'ghost' everyone talked about? I bet I can find someone who'll know. He and that old bitch are going to pay for what they did to me.