A Song in the Night
A/N: We see a couple of sides of Erik here-- the Phantom, and . . . someone else . . . :-) Warning for mild sexual content.
Chapter Twenty-five
Erik and Veronique looked at each other, and at the same time, both said, "Deneuve."
Giselle made a noise of frustration and clenched her fists. "Yes," she said, her tone one of utter disgust. "He showed up here about an hour ago, and for the last fifty-nine minutes, I have been trying to get rid of him!"
Taking a deep breath, she held it for several seconds then let it out slowly. "If you must be rude to him, so be it. Just make him understand, in no uncertain terms, that he is not welcome here. I tried to explain it to him myself, but he ignored me completely. I was about to take my broom to him when I saw you coming down the street."
Erik murmured, "I will do my best," and left the women on the threshold. He paused a moment outside the parlor to straighten his cravat and jacket, then entered the room to find Deneuve ensconced in the best chair like visiting royalty. "M. Deneuve, what brings you here today?" Erik asked him, wasting no time on pleasantries.
"Why, I simply came to visit M. Tremaine—"
Erik cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Do not insult my intelligence, Deneuve." He advanced toward the other man, his fingers twitching for his lasso. Hélas, that I have forsaken such things. "I ask you again. For what reason have you come here today? Which one of us are you trying to ferret out information on, so that you can attempt to blackmail us later?"
Deneuve swallowed noisily, and looked around him for any avenue of escape. There was none. Mesmerized as Erik moved toward him, he tried to deny the accusation, but the only sound that emerged from his throat was a squeak.
Erik halted a foot away and leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair. "Listen carefully to me, Deneuve. I am not a man who repeats himself. You are not welcome in this house. Mme. Tremaine does not want to see you on her doorstep, or anywhere else nearby, ever again." His voice deepened, became more menacing. "If you should foolishly decide to ignore this warning, you will be dealing with me. That is something you do not want to do, Monsieur. Do you understand me?"
Deneuve nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a puppet's. "Very good," said Erik. He helped the other man stand and escorted him to the door. "Remember, Monsieur, if you return here, you will deal with me."
The door closed behind him with a quiet snick, snapping François Deneuve out of his daze. He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, and knew without a doubt they were as red as cherries. He tried to act nonchalant as he put his hand to his throat, as if checking the folds of his cravat. Raising his chin, he went down the steps unhurriedly.
He needn't have bothered. No one was on the street to notice his departure. Angrily he stomped to the omnibus stop, only to have to stand and wait several minutes until the next one trundled to a stop. Fuming, he paid his fare and walked to the rear of the conveyance, dusting the seat with his handkerchief before sitting.
How dare he treat me in such a manner! Just who does that scarred nobody think he is? If he's such a magnificent musician, why isn't he playing in an orchestra? Or giving solo concerts? It's not like he couldn't wear a mask to cover up that ugly face . . .
'Musician' and 'mask' made Deneuve sit back in his seat, his mouth slightly agape. Could he . . . Could he be . . . "The Opera Ghost!?"
After dinner that evening, Veronique sat outside on the front steps, enjoying the warm breeze, watching André playing with some of the neighborhood children. Erik soon joined her and she gave him an irritated look. "Why did you introduce me to your grand-mère as your fiancée?" she asked.
Erik swallowed. "It . . . it seemed easier, somehow," he murmured.
"Easier than what?" she retorted, and he felt the noose tighten around his neck.
He took her hand and sandwiched it between his. "You do believe that I love you, don't you, Veronique?"
He sounded very uncertain, and in her heart she knew she couldn't torment him for long. She turned her head and looked at him, not seeing the scars, only the good man she knew him to be. "Yes," she answered. "It was just a shock, to hear you say it to someone else, before you have even asked me."
"Will you, chaton?" She continued to stare at him, and he brought their joined hands up to his mouth, lightly kissing hers. "Will you marry me, mon coeur, and make me the happiest man alive?"
It felt like an eternity before she nodded, and buried herself in his arms. "Yes," she whispered, "and I will be the luckiest woman on earth."
"Do you truly believe that, chérie? I—"
Veronique eased out of his embrace and took his face in her hands. "Be quiet, Erik, and kiss me," she demanded. She took his mouth hungrily and after a moment, he pulled her tight against him. He plundered her mouth as he never had before, their bodies straining against each other.
Childish laughter broke them apart, their faces flaming as they realized they had an audience. Without a word they stood and went inside the house. As soon as Erik closed the door behind them, Veronique went back into his arms. Reaching around him, she pulled the tail of his shirt free from his trousers and slid her hands up his back.
His hand came up and cupped her breast, his thumb making several passes over her nipple. She gave a soft cry and he covered her mouth with his. A sudden crash of glass jerked them apart; they stood with their foreheads touching, trying to calm their breathing. "I think," said Erik shakily, "we should get married soon."
"Must we wait until we're married?" The question popped out before Veronique could stop it. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, nibbling on his skin, savoring the slightly salty taste of him.
Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip and he moaned. Other parts of his body threatened to overrule his brain and for an instant he considered where they might go to be alone. But there is nowhere! Putting his hands on her shoulders, he moved her away from him, stared into her heavy-lidded eyes. "Yes, chaton, we must wait."
She pouted and he smiled, in spite of the painful condition of his aroused body. "Let's go tell Giselle the news; I'm sure she'll want to begin preparations immediately."
The next day, after a long and grueling rehearsal at the Opéra Comique, the musicians stood in small groups, talking in low voices about the new concertmaster. "Where in God's name did they find this bouffon?" asked one of the trumpeters. "He was consistently a beat behind M. Courtois the entire rehearsal."
One of the bassists scoffed. "You think that's bad? You should have to play with the bowing he gave us! Impossible!"
"Sainte Mère, how many times did we stop and start over?" The pianist shook his head.
The principal cellist added, "My five-year old daughter can play better than he."
"Shh! Here he comes!" the oboist said, and nearly everyone scattered.
Deneuve approached those remaining with a big smile. "Pardon, Laurent, but do you have a moment?" he asked, jerking his chin at the man with whom Laurent Hebert was talking.
The other man nodded at Laurent and said they could continue their discussion at a later time.
Impatiently Deneuve waited until there was no one within earshot. He smiled again and said, "You came to us from the Opéra Populaire, did you not?"
The assistant principal violist gritted his teeth. He had not liked Deneuve from the moment he clapped eyes on him, and his overbearing ways and general lack of common courtesy grated on Laurent's nerves—and most of the other orchestra members as well. "Yes," he replied finally. "When the Populaire was destroyed, I auditioned here, and was hired as soon as there was a vacancy in the viola section."
"And how many years did you play in the orchestra at the Populaire?"
Deneuve tried to adopt a friendly air, but Laurent saw behind his false smile and apparently innocuous question. Determined to tell him as little as possible, Laurent began to make his way back to the orchestra pit to collect his instrument case and retrieve his music. "I played with them for five years," he said, hoping against hope that he could escape soon.
"So, you were there long enough to hear most of the rumors about the Ghost?"
Deneuve trailed behind him, therefore not seeing the violist cross his eyes and stick out his tongue. With a short laugh, he opened his viola case and carefully laid his instrument inside. "Mon Dieu, I should think everyone in Paris has heard all the rumors about the Ghost," said Laurent sarcastically. "Where have you been, Deneuve? Out of the country?"
Deneuve's face turned pink and he started to upbraid Laurent for his impertinence. After all, he was the concertmaster! But before he could speak, the other man pushed past him.
"You will have to excuse me, Deneuve. I must hurry. My daughter is sick and I need to stop at the chemist's." With that, he strode out of the orchestra pit and left Deneuve staring after him.
There were no rehearsals scheduled for the next two days, and on the second day, Laurent made a trip to Vuillaume's to check on the possibility of having a child-sized instrument made. He had heard from a friend about the wonderful new violin he'd had made there, and how the fellow who had made it played better than he did. Laurent believed he knew who that person was. When he stepped through the door, the first person he saw was Erik. Erik looked up and Laurent gave him a slight nod.
As he passed Erik's worktable, unobtrusively he dropped a small folded piece of paper. On it he had asked Erik to meet him when he finished work for the day. After speaking with M. Robilliard about his request, he left the shop and went to the arranged place for the meeting.
Not long afterward, Erik arrived. "Laurent," he said, "what has happened?" They had become acquainted when Laurent first joined the orchestra at the Populaire and had gotten completely lost in the bowels of the opera house. Somehow, he found himself in the chapel, just as Erik was leaving. The two men were equally startled, but "the Ghost" had not threatened him in any way and they had become friends of a sort.
Now, Laurent frowned at him. "That little salaud, Deneuve, was asking me about playing in the Populaire's orchestra. What rumors had I heard about the Ghost, and so on." He ran his hands through his rust-colored hair and made a sound of disgust. "I told him only that I had played for M. Reyer for five years, and said nothing about rumors."
Sighing, Erik leaned back against the wall. "Merde. We had a slight . . . disagreement the other day, and I escorted him out of my landlady's house with a stern warning never to return."
"Well, I just wanted to tell you that he's snooping." The violist stopped and swallowed hard. "I can never repay you for what you did for Madeline and Juliette and me," he said quietly. Money for their rent had mysteriously appeared in his cubbyhole in the orchestra's rehearsal room on a couple of occasions, always just in the nick of time.
Erik waved away his thanks. "I know what it is to be cold and hungry," he murmured. "That should never happen to a child." Straightening, he added, "Merci for the warning." He clapped Laurent on the shoulder and left.
On the ride home, Erik was strangely quiet, and Veronique gave him several questioning looks. "I'll explain when we reach Giselle's," he said softly, "where there are not so many ears."
That piqued her curiosity and she was fairly bursting with it by the time they arrived at the boarding house. Erik made her wait until after dinner, suggesting that they help Giselle with the dishes.
"Oh, mes chéries, you cannot know how happy you have made me with your engagement." Giselle beamed at them when they came into the kitchen. "We should discuss when and where, and all that."
Bending down, Erik kissed her cheek. "Unfortunately, we have something else to discuss with you at the moment." They took seats at the table and he said, "An acquaintance of mine told me today that Deneuve is still snooping, asking questions about the Opera Ghost."
Both women uttered mild oaths, and he nodded. "My sentiments, as well." Sighing, he scrubbed his face with one hand. "I know what my reaction would have been several months ago, but . . ."
Veronique grinned at him. "But now you are a reformed Ghost," she said, making Giselle and Erik chuckle.
After a moment, Giselle said, "Perhaps we should do some snooping of our own." She stood and went to the stove, set water to boil for tea. Returning to the table, she asked, "Your friend, the one who warned you? I presume he was the person from whom Deneuve was trying to get information?"
Erik nodded, and Giselle continued, "Talk to him again in a few days. See what he can tell you about Deneuve the musician. I have always had the feeling that something was just a little suspicious about him."