A Song in the Night
A/N: Warning for sexual content. ;-)
Chapter Twenty-six
Erik smiled to himself as he tested the doorknob. It turned silently, and with a glance in both directions, he slipped through a side door of the building housing the Opéra-Comique.
Taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, he listened to the sounds of the opera house coming awake—pans rattling and banging in the kitchen, doors opening and closing, lumber for new scenery being delivered.
He realized with a bit of surprise that he did not miss his former life. His current one—Deneuve le raseur notwithstanding—was much better than he could have ever imagined.
Erik shook himself out of his reverie and set off toward the rehearsal rooms. He located Laurent's folder of music and slid an unsigned note between the pages of the score for the production currently in rehearsal. That accomplished, he made his way out of the building as easily as he had entered.
The Opéra-Comique was located a few blocks from Eléonore's apartment, and Erik decided to take the chance that she would be at home on such a lovely spring morning. When he arrived, Claire was just leaving, on her way to the market, and she told him Eléonore was in the garden.
Kneeling in front of some roses, she shaded her eyes and saw him standing by the table. "Mon chéri! What a delightful surprise!" He helped her to her feet and she gave him a kiss on both cheeks. "Sit down, and I'll bring us some tea." Before he could refuse, she disappeared inside, returning several minutes later with a small tray.
"Now, what has brought you here this morning?" Pouring them both a cup of tea, she sat back with a sigh. "And where is your darling fiancée?"
He felt his cheeks heat, and said, "To be perfectly honest, I had not actually asked Veronique to marry me when we were here before." He held up a hand when he saw Eléonore about to speak, and added quickly, "I have asked her, and she said yes." Although that fact still amazes me tremendously. "We have not decided on a date, or have even arranged to have the banns read yet."
"But you will soon, n'est-ce pas? Oh, mon chèr fils, I am so happy for you!" His grand-mère dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "You and Veronique will be very happy together, I can feel it."
How strange it seems to have another person feel happy for me about something, he thought. First Giselle, now my grand-mère. This will take some getting used to. "As for this morning," he shrugged. "I happened to be nearby, and thought I would see if you were receiving visitors."
"Oh, I wish you had come by yesterday," said Eléonore. "I would have asked you to accompany me to a concert last night." She shook her head. "But on second thought, it is probably better that you did not. It was atrocious."
"What performance did you attend?"
Eléonore shuddered. "A concert by the orchestra of the Opéra-Comique. It was—indescribable, actually. Several people I knew walked out after the first selection. To be quite honest, I am thinking of withdrawing my patronage of the Comique if this continues."
Erik's ears perked up at that. "They recently hired a new concertmaster, didn't they?"
Eléonore nearly choked on her tea. "Mon Dieu, he is an idiot! I tell you, Erik, I have never heard such horrendous, incompetent playing in my life—even from youngsters just learning!" She shook her head. "Something is amiss at the Comique. This gosse was hired very quickly and if I remember correctly, without the usual auditions."
After a moment, she nodded decisively. "I believe it is time that I looked into this—discreetly, of course. It is obvious to anyone with ears that this ignorant is not at all qualified for the position."
She looked at him speculatively and Erik shook his head. "No, Eleonore, absolutely not," he said firmly. "It would be far too easy for someone to make the connection." If Deneuve could put it together . . . He held her gaze until she nodded. "I prefer my job at Vuillaume's, hiding in plain sight, as it were."
"I suppose this also means you won't allow me to host a big wedding for you and Veronique," she said with a frown.
"We have not spoken much about it, but I think both of us want something small and quiet," Erik told her. "But you will be my guest of honor, and Claire, of course. I would imagine that M. Bertrand will 'give the bride away'," he mused. After a moment he added, "As soon as a date and time are arranged, I will tell you."
She beamed at him. "If there is anything I might do for you, chéri, you will permit me, will you not?"
He nodded. "Anything within reason, Eléonore."
Realizing she had pressed him as far as she dared, she sighed. "In regard to this 'problem' at the Comique," she said, "perhaps I will also speak to some of my friends who are also patrons. This reflects badly on all of us, really."
Erik boosted himself onto a rafter high above the stage of the Opéra-Comique. After his conversation with his grand-mère yesterday, he decided to "drop in" and watch a rehearsal of L'italiana in Algieri.
The musicians wandered in first, carrying their instruments. A few minutes later the chorus arrived, fresh from their warm-up in another room. Then some of the principal singers appeared. Erik recognized some former members of the Populaire's chorus who had advanced to larger roles.
Deneuve scurried in moments later, his face pink and wearing an irritated look, much like a small boy who has just been scolded. Erik grinned. You have a knack for aggravating everyone around you, don't you, boy? You'll need to watch your step when dealing with my grand-mère.
M. Courtois, the conductor, made his way to the orchestra pit as the oboist sounded the A and the rest of the orchestra began to tune. Tapping his baton smartly on his music stand, he drew everyone's attention. "We will begin working on Act II today," he said, flipping his score to the appropriate page. The soprano and the contralto took their places on the stage and began to sing at a cue from M. Courtois.
But within minutes he was forced to stop the music. He glared at Deneuve, who returned the look as innocently as possible. High above them, Erik muffled a snort of disgust. The conductor and Deneuve had a very short conversation, after which M. Courtois returned to the podium and raised his baton.
Erik smiled as the second-chair violinist gave Deneuve a strange look as the orchestra played the introduction for the soprano. Deneuve appeared to be playing, but since the orchestra remained precisely in tempo with M. Courtois, obviously he was not. Why are you tolerating this bouffon? wondered Erik. He must be blackmailing you, or is threatening to do so.
Having seen enough, Erik slipped down from his hiding place and made his way outside. After checking his watch, he saw that he had been in the rehearsal for only an hour. It had seemed much longer. His conversation the day before with Eléonore came to mind, and he set off in the direction of several shops. He had an important purchase to make.
Humming to himself, Erik took the front steps of Giselle's two at a time. A movement caught his eye as he reached for the doorknob and he turned to look at the house next door. Piles of furniture decorated the small front yard, and a very glum boy sat on the ground next to one of them.
Erik turned and went back down the steps, slowly crossed to where the boy sat. The boy watched him approach and Erik crouched down a few feet away. "Marcel, what is the matter?" he asked, seeing evidence of tears on the boy's face.
"We—we have to move away," Marcel answered, his voice quavering.
"I am very sorry to hear that," murmured Erik. André and Marcel were good friends, he knew, and he and the boys had spent some very enjoyable time together in the past months. "It looks as though you will be leaving soon," Erik said. "I know André will miss you. As will Mme. Tremaine, Mme. Marek, Mlle. duPres and myself." He gave Marcel a squeeze on the shoulder and stood. "Are your parents inside?" he asked as an afterthought.
Marcel nodded and swiped his nose on the back of his hand. "Maman is in the kitchen."
A few minutes later, Erik emerged from the house, knowing that a portion of his remaining money from the opera would be doing some good. He entered Giselle's, and went straight up to his room. He needed to make some plans.
After dinner that evening Erik coaxed Veronique away from the table. "Come, chaton, let's go for a walk."
Looking puzzled, she followed him down the hall and out the front door. Once they reached the sidewalk, he tugged her hand up to rest on his forearm and they strolled to the end of the street, where it made a little curve before intersecting with the Rue Blanc.
Giselle and some of the other homeowners had made a little park in the curve, planting flowers and shrubbery and placing a couple of wooden benches facing each other. Erik guided Veronique to one of them and seated her. She looked up at him questioningly.
He pulled a small box from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. "I hope—I hope you like it, mon coeur."
Slowly she opened the lid and gasped. On the cotton batting laid a gold ring, set with a round diamond flanked by two smaller emeralds. Tears flooded her eyes and she stared at him, speechless.
"You don't like it?" He went down on one knee in front of her, feeling a touch of panic. "We can take it back, ma doux, and get—"
She pressed her fingertips to his mouth to silence him. "No, we are not taking this back. I love it, Erik, truly! I was—just surprised. I never expected anything like this."
With a shout of laughter he scooped her of the bench and twirled her around in a circle. When he set her down, she handed him the ring and extended her hand. Solemnly he slid the ring on her finger; it fit perfectly, the stones winking at them in the fading light.
Raising her hand, he kissed the ring, and she melted against him. After a moment, he eased back and curved a knuckle under her chin. Their mouths met in a soft, sweet kiss that soon became hot and passionate.
Erik's hand had just slid down to cup her bottom when a long whistle, followed by loud laughter, split the stillness of the night. Veronique blushed furiously; Erik scanned their surroundings, trying to see if someone was hiding in the shadows.
Seeing no one, he curved an arm protectively around Veronique and they began to walk back to Giselle's.
"Soon?" Veronique asked hopefully.
"Yes, chérie. Soon, I promise." But not nearly soon enough!
Three days later
"Keep your eyes closed, Veronique," said Erik sternly. "No peeking." Carefully he guided her up the stairs and reached around her to open the door. As soon as they were inside, he said, "All right, you can open your eyes now."
She blinked, and looked at him over her shoulder. "Where are we?"
Taking her arm, he led her down the hallway to the first door. "This is the house next door, where Marcel and his parents lived. M. Valle has a new job in Rouen, and . . . I have bought the house."
Veronique threw her arms around his neck with a squeal, nearly toppling them to the floor. She peppered his face and neck with kisses, making Erik chuckle. Finally he pried her hands from around his neck and said, "I take it this meets with your approval?"
Nodding, she slid her arms around his waist and sighed. "Oh, yes." They stood for a couple of minutes, savoring the silence then she eased back and said, "This was the parlor, I suppose. Let's look at the rest of the rooms."
Hand in hand they went through all the rooms on the first floor: the dining room, the kitchen, a pantry, a small water closet, and a room they decided would be a library. Climbing the stairs, they found three bedrooms, a linen closet and a larger water closet with a bathtub.
Standing in the largest of the bedrooms, Veronique glanced around, mentally filling it with furniture. Erik came up behind her and put his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest. "The bed should go here, don't you think?" she said, gesturing to the wall opposite the window. He nibbled on her neck in reply, and all thoughts of furniture went right out of her head. She turned in his arms and kissed him, making him growl when she slid her hands down inside the back of his trousers and squeezed his backside.
Erik scooped her up in his arms and carried her to a faded upholstered bench that the Valles had left behind. He sat down and Veronique straddled his lap, pulling his shirt tail free while he attacked the buttons on the bodice of her dress. Within seconds he had her undressed to her chemise and she had opened his shirt and spread the cloth wide.
Fingertips calloused by years of playing the violin traced her collarbone and left a trail of goose bumps in their wake. Gently he cupped both breasts and dragged his thumbs over the stiff peaks pressing against the thin material; she moaned and squirmed on his lap. One hand moved to her back; the other up to her shoulder and eased the strap of her chemise out of the way. When the cloth fell, revealing the dark pink nipple, Erik bent his head and took it in his mouth, suckling tenderly.
Veronique cried out, and clutched his shoulders. Hot and cold sensations rushed over her, and she would have gone limp, if not for Erik's arm supporting her. She squirmed again, trying to get closer to him, feeling the hardness of his arousal pressed against her woman's place.
In a split second she found herself on her back, Erik looming over her. She raised her arms and pulled him down, relishing his weight upon her and the feeling of bare skin to bare skin. In the near silence, their heavy breathing was the only sound—until the front door opened and Giselle's voice floated up the stairs.
"Mes chéries? Erik's grand-mère has come to visit."
gosse—youngster
L'italiana in Algieri is an opera by Gioachino Rossini, supposedly written in only 18 days. First performed in 1813, its principal roles are for bass, soprano, tenor and contralto. Fred Plotkin, author of Opera 101 and for many years performance manager of the Metropolitan Opera, has this to say about Rossini: "Rossini was the first great Italian composer of the 19th century. The sparkling sound of his music, and the alleged facility with which he wrote it, are prime reasons for its being discounted by 'serious' music lovers. Add to this the fact that his best-known works are comedies, which are wrongly considered by many to be the poor cousins of serious opera, and Rossini is frequently undervalued."