Chapter Twenty-six
The first thing Alana noticed when she walked through the door was the darkness. The jail had no windows to let in the brightness of the day's sun, just the dim light of two rusty oil lamps, and the air was stale and stuffy. It was a tiny building with only two cells, and there was no jailer to be found. There was only one other human being in sight, a bedraggled-looking man with torn clothes lying motionless on a cot, facing the wall.
Her father.
For a moment she just stood there, staring, overcome with emotion. She'd long harbored resentment towards him for his treatment of her, and as she looked at him now, bad memories she'd been trying to bury deep inside came flooding into her mind again. She could almost feel the sting of his hand across her face, the blow of the giant branch he'd beaten her with the night Erik had rescued her. All at once, Alana was filled with fear, and she trembled where she stood.
And then other memories came to her. Memories of Andre laughing with her and her mother. Of him telling her stories, teaching her how to ride a horse, taking her on hiking trips to explore the woods of the countryside. She remembered parties at the house, back when their family had had friends. She remembered Christmases past, decorating trees and opening presents. Tears came to her eyes as she recalled her father dancing with her as her mother sang. He waltzed her across the room, then lifted her into his arms and spun her around as she laughed.
Alana's heart was breaking. She'd never felt such a strange combination of terror, anger, and love. She loved him. He was her father after all. She missed him. Wiping her tears away, she found the strength to speak.
"Hello."
The man in the cell stirred, and rolled over. He ran a hand across his face and blinked in the dim light. His eyes grew wide. "You!"
"Yes, me." Alana was halfway between smiling and crying again.
Andre looked conflicted as well; his face was a combination of fear, anger, and guilt. He got up and walked to the front of the cell. Unconsciously, Alana backed away a little. "I thought you'd gone. Left town." His voice was hoarse.
"I did," Alana said. "But I've come back for you, Father. I heard what happened. And I'm here to help."
Andre just shook his head and gave a low, bitter laugh. "You can't help me."
His attitude clearly hadn't improved any. "You know, I think this is the first time I've seen you sober since Mother died."
Her father's face changed, grew softer. Sadder. "Don't mention that…please don't mention it."
She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard him speak without screaming at her. "How does it feel, not being drunk?"
He grunted. "Terrible. Ever since they took my drink away and locked me up here, all I've been able to do is think about her. And about you." He sighed and looked at the floor. "I remember waking up one morning to find myself outside. I'd been hit on the back of the head, I still don't know what happened. I went home, and you were gone. And you never came back. I…I wasn't sure what had happened to you. I thought…you had run away, or been kidnapped, or killed. Hell, I even considered the possibility that I had killed you..,"
Alana gasped.
"Awful, I know. Not knowing what had happened was eating me up inside…it only made me want to drink more, and when I couldn't, I snapped. Got in a fight, and wound up locked in here."
"I know," she said. "Madame Durand told me."
"She came and saw me the other day, and told me about you, that you were alive and safe. I felt better, knowing that you were all right, but I know that I'm the reason you left, Alana." He was looking directly at her now, his eyes filled with pain. "You ran away from me."
She was trembling, and could not speak.
"But I understand why you did," he continued. "Who knows what I would have done to you? God, all I want is to get some whiskey in here, but I'm afraid to drink it now. Who knows what I'll say, what I'll do to you? My own daughter!" Andre's expression was tortured. "I don't want you to be afraid of me…are you afraid of me, Alana?"
The girl backed up a few more steps, still speechless.
"Oh no, you are. I can see it in your eyes." He hid his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry." He lifted his face up to gaze up at the ceiling. "I'm so sorry. Lord. What have I done?"
By then, Alana had gone.
A few minutes later, Raimond walked through the door. Andre was leaning against the iron bars of his cell, staring at the floor, but he looked up when he heard the door close.
"You…what are you doing here?" Andre growled.
Raimond stepped forward. "Alana's been staying with us in Paris. Now I might ask you the same question Andre…what are you doing here? Behind bars?"
"Don't pretend you don't know." He spat on the floor.
The other man looked at him sadly. "Drinking doesn't make anyone's troubles go away, Andre. It just buries them beneath an ever growing pile of other problems."
"Don't you think I know that by now?" Andre's voice sounded angry and desperately miserable. "I'm in jail! The whole town has been talking about me, the town drunk, for years, and now I'm really giving them something to talk about…did you know that I'm the only man to get arrested here in almost a year? Do you know how it feels to be the town outcast? No, of course not! You've always been the brother who got everything he ever wanted! The perfect life! Father always did like you best, because your mother…!"
Raimond held up a hand. "Let's not get into this, Andre," he interjected. "What I want to know is, why did you not tell me about Una's death?"
The other man was silent.
It hurt Raimond to bring it up, and he knew it was hurting his half brother even more, but he had to know what Andre had to say for himself. He needed to understand. "Amelie and I would have come to Détente in a heartbeat. We would have tried our best to help you and Alana. We could have taken care of the farm, instead of leaving your poor daughter to try and run things on her own…while you went out and squandered your life's savings!"
Andre was shaking his head. "I robbed her of her childhood, Raimond," he said sadly. "I ruined her life. All she wanted to do was help me. And I turned around and hit her across the face when she dared to speak to me. No child should have had to live the way she did. Oh God, Raimond, what have I done? I don't even deserve to live."
"We'll get through this." Raimond knew his half-brother needed encouragement right now, not criticism. "In time, you can be free of your addiction. Your daughter will learn not to be afraid. And you will remember how to be the man you once were."
Andre grimaced. "He died the day Una left us."
"But she didn't leave, Andre. She's still with us. She'll always be alive in our memories. In our hearts."
"You know it's not the same."
Raimond sighed. "Yes, I do. She meant a lot to me too, brother…to everyone who knew her. It's hard living in a world without someone like her."
"She was the wisest, strongest, most beautiful person I've ever known. How could I possibly live without her by my side?"
"By remembering her as she was," Raimond said. "By living the way she would have wanted you to. By remembering that she's not gone, that you will see her once more someday, and you will never be parted again."
"You speak of Heaven, don't you?"
Raimond nodded. "That's where Una is. Waiting for you. For all of us."
"You're such a fool. I'll never see her again. If there really is a Heaven, then there's no place there for someone like me.
"All have fallen short," the other man said. "But no sin is unforgivable. God will always love you. So will your daughter. And so will I."
Andre looked up at him in surprise.
"No matter what, you will always be my brother." Raimond smiled and held out a hand. "Do you want to change your life?"
For the first time, Andre laughed. "You are such a preacher."
Raimond laughed along with him. "What can I say? Now, do you want to change your life or not?"
Andre took his hand and shook it. "No more drinking. No more acting like a fool. I want to be a good father to my daughter."
Raimond smiled. "You already are, brother."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In Paris, the hunt for the Phantom of the Opera was still in progress. By now it was afternoon, and there were no leads, not even the slightest clue. Damien took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. "I hate this man," he said to Raoul, who stood next to him as the two stopped for a rest. "I really hate him. This is impossible."
"I know what you mean," the other man replied. "He's uncatchable."
"That's not even a real word, you idiot," Damien laughed.
"It's this awful heat," said Raoul as he shaded his eyes from the sun. "It's melting my brain."
"Ha! What brain? Anyone with a brain would have stuck to the plan…my plan, instead of completely changing the game like you've done."
"Your plan could still work," Raoul protested. "He could still come to the ball. He does have a habit of showing up in places where he's not wanted. And, Christine will be there. "
Damien nodded. "And Mademoiselle Valjean. I suppose there's a possibility he might still come. He'd better. Because searching for him like this is such a pain in the…"
"My lord!" came a cry from behind them.
Both men turned, and there was Emilian standing before them.
"Do you have any leads?" Damien asked him.
The gypsy man shrugged. "I was just going to suggest that we search Sacree Boulevard. That's where I found the bodies…"
"And that's where Alana lives," Damien interrupted. "He could have gone to her for help." He turned to Raoul. "It's worth a shot, wouldn't you say?"
The Vicomte nodded, and they set off, Emilian leading the way.
"This is the house," Damien said. "I've been here before."
Raoul raised an eyebrow, much to Damien's annoyance.
"Not like that. I go to the church across the street for heaven's sakes, the man who lives here is my pastor…and I also happened to bring Alana home the other day. But…" he added before his friend had a chance to say anything, "I only walked her to the door."
"Good boy," Raoul said, and Damien laughed, unconsciously reaching inside his jacket pocket to feel the metal of the revolver he kept hidden there.
They knocked on the door repeatedly with no answer. "Now, how are we going to get in?" the Comte asked. "And where's Emilian?"
From behind the house, there came a sound of breaking glass. The two men looked at each other, than ran around back. There was Emilian, reaching through the broken glass at the top of the door and unlocking it. He pushed the door open. "Gentlemen." He bowed slightly and motioned for them to go inside.
"You broke their door? Really?"
Damien glared at Emilian, who just shrugged and said, "They won't know who did it."
The Comte rolled his eyes and pushed past the other two men. They split up and spent the next hour searching the house. They found nothing of real value to their search. Raoul found a large pile of sheet music in one of the bedrooms, written in what looked like the madman's handwriting, but nothing that could lead them to him now. Frustrated, they left the house, not noticing several bulges where Emilian's formerly empty pockets were.
Next they decided to search the church building because of the family connection and close proximity to the house. The building was required to be left open during the day as a venue for the public, mostly politicians and activists, to discuss important issues, a practice that had been continued even after the Commune was ended. The two aristocrats and the gypsy entered the church and hunted for clues once again, finding nothing but a roomful of irate politicians, angry at being disturbed when Raoul and Damien suddenly burst through the doors.
They were walking back to the entrance with Emilian, annoyed and muttering obscenities cursing their failures, when they heard sounds of shouting, and gunshots. Damien dashed forward to open the door, and saw the streets beginning to flood with people, all crowded together and screaming protests. He slammed the door shut. "It's another blasted riot!"
Raoul groaned. "Wonderful. Now it will be even easier for the Phantom disappear."
Damien nodded miserably. "And how are we going to get back home? The streets will be too crowded, and once those rioters see us dressed like this, they'll probably tar and feather us, or who knows what."
The Vicomte nodded; this crowd was fiercely, radically socialistic and hated the Parisian aristocrats.
"I can help," Emilian said. "Take off your jackets. Rumple your clothes up a bit." The other two men obeyed. "There, that's good. Now, follow me out this side door. I can take you back another way."
He led them outside into the side street, where they were greeted by the deafening cries of the protesters, shouting for better treatment of workers, equal rights for all, and an end to the reign of the aristocrats. Most of the crowd was on the opposite side of the building, but many wild-eyed men and women were rushing through this street to join the rest of the throng. Some ran into Raoul and almost knocked him over as Emilian led them forward. The Vicomte brushed himself off and glared in the rioters' direction. "I swear, it's like the Revolution days again. I feel like Louis XV."
Damien pushed past two other young men carrying signs with letters scrawled in blood red ink. "At least they haven't brought out the guillotines yet. And I think you'd be more of a Marie Antoinette anyway," he said, his eyes gleaming mischievously.
"Remind me why I'm even friends with you," the Vicomte growled as the three of them ducked into a deserted alley.
"Because despite myself, I started letting you follow me around out of the goodness of my heart," Damien said, flashing Raoul an innocent smile. "Someone had to."
Raoul couldn't think of a comeback, so the three men hurried through the dark alleys in silence. Damien kept his eyes open, searching everywhere for a trace of the Phantom or a clue that might lead them to him. He was bound to lurk in a place like this, waiting in the shadows to prey on the innocent. In spite of the summer heat, he felt a chill in the air. He glanced over at Raoul; he looked as nervous as Damien felt. Neither one of them had been to this part of the city, where they passed vagabonds and drunks lying asleep in the street while rats and other vermin crawled around them. At least they had Emilian to guide them-Damien planned to pay him handsomely for his help today. If not for him, they might never have made it past the riot. He and Raoul were both well-known faces in the city, everyone knew their names. And those protesters were not fond of them and their wealth at all. For a moment, he looked at Emilian just in front of them, wondering what the youngish gypsy man thought of them. Just how loyal was he? What did he believe in exactly? He wouldn't lead them into some trap out here in this shady part of the city, would he? Damien cursed inwardly. Blast these uncertain times. It seemed that no one could be sure of anything, or anyone.
But he was just being paranoid; Emilian led them safely back to Parc de Seigneurs and the Comte paid him well for his assistance. The man had really been proving himself useful lately.
The two men went into a parlor and collapsed onto a pair of couches. It had been a long, fruitless day.
"Well, now what do we do?" Damien asked, staring up at the ceiling.
"I think we should talk to someone," the Vicomte said evenly.
Damien turned to look at him. "Who?"
"Your housekeeper."
"Madame Giry? I've already questioned all the servants. She said she doesn't have any idea of his whereabouts."
The other man rolled his eyes. "That doesn't mean anything."
"She seems to be a good woman, and she's been a wonderful servant so far. I don't think she would lie to me."
"I think she would," said Raoul. "I've told you how she used to work at the Opera Populaire. She and her daughter were there for years. And I've told you how Madame Giry has a...special connection to the Phantom. She's the one who brought him to the opera house in the first place."
At the words, Damien bristled. That meant Madame Giry was partly to blame for Avery's death. If she hadn't brought the madman to the opera house, then the accident would never have happened. "Very well. We can question her again."
Soon the housekeeper was standing before them, stone-faced.
"You're probably aware that the Phantom was at my house last night," Raoul said to the woman.
She nodded. "Everyone has been talking about it."
"He escaped, but he was injured. Has he contacted you in any way?" he asked.
"No." Madame Giry was a hard woman to read sometimes. Neither man could tell if she was lying or speaking the truth. "With all due respect, I have told the both of you that I have not seen or heard from him since the night of the accident."
"You do know that obstruction of justice is a crime, don't you?" Raoul was frustrated and hoping to get some kind of reaction out of her.
Still, she gazed back at him, unflinching. "I am aware of that, monsieur."
"Then you also know that it's your public duty to tell us the truth."
"I am…"
"Well I don't believe you!" Raoul burst out. "You've always tried to protect him, and who's to say you aren't doing that now? The man is pathetic, he can't survive on his own. He needs someone to hide him, to support him, and for years you were that woman. And I think you still are. I think you know exactly where he is. Maybe you've hidden him away somewhere." The Vicomte turned to Damien, who'd been watching both of them, thinking deeply. "Have you had the Girys' apartment searched?"
"No, I thought it would be an invasion of privacy. And I believed her story before. But," he directed his gaze at Madame Giry, with suspicion in his eyes, "perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad idea. I think the two of us should go and have a look around."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
If there was one thing Meg had learned from her mother-other than dancing, of course-it was how to eavesdrop. When Antoinette had been suddenly called to meet with the master and the Vicomte in the parlor, she had known something was the matter. Especially since the entire household had been talking about how a murderous fugitive had been seen in the Parc the night before. She had discreetly followed her mother, and proceeded to dust a shelf of curios in the hallway outside the parlor, listening in on the conversation.
As soon as she heard the Comte de Bellamy say that they should have a look around the apartment, Meg dropped the duster and broke into a mad dash, hoisting up her skirts as she rushed down the hallway, ignoring the surprised faces and questions of her fellow servants.
She cut through the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with the head chef, who carried a pot of boiling water. Then she burst into the servants' quarters hallway, which was thankfully empty since it was nearly dinnertime. She threw open their apartment door, then closed it as quietly as she could.
Erik was lying on the couch sleeping, covered in blankets. Meg hurried over to him. "Erik!" she whispered fiercely. "Erik! Wake up!"
He didn't stir, so she knelt beside him and gathered enough courage to reach out and shake him a little. He still slept, so she shook him harder. "Wake up!"
The man let out a groan of pain, and as soon as his eyes opened he gave her a vicious glare. "What?"
"You have to get out of here now! Raoul de Chagny has made the master suspicious! They're coming to search the apartment! We have to leave!"
Erik looked stunned and disconcerted at the news, but he quickly sat up, letting out a gasp.
"What's the matter?" Meg asked, but as he got up she saw his torn clothes and the bandages. "Oh no. Mother told me you were hurt, but I didn't know it was that bad."
"It's not. I'll be fine." Erik was already limping towards the door. Meg hurried to open it first and make sure the hallway was clear. It was, and she reached to put up the hood of Erik's cloak. His masked face had to be hidden.
"Here, let me help you." Meg's fear was gone now, replaced by an overwhelming sense of panic and a simultaneous drive to help the man escape at all costs. If he were caught, her mother would be heartbroken. And all three of them might end up in prison. She let Erik lean on her a little, and they began making their way as fast as possible down the hallway.
They stepped outside and set off into the twilight, keeping to the backstreets.
"Where are we going?" Erik asked her.
"Back home."