A Song in the Night
A/N: At long last, the wedding... :-)
Chapter Twenty-nine
When Laurent opened his folder of music two days later at rehearsal, a folded scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. Swiftly he scooped it up and stuffed it in his pocket. During a break an hour later, he pulled it out and glanced at it. It contained only the words "This afternoon" and an address. In case anyone was watching him, he shrugged and put the note back in his pocket.
Managing to contain his excitement, he retrieved the telegrams from his locked desk and proceeded to the address on the note. Erik met him at the door and invited him to the garden to meet Eléonore.
"Bonjour, M. Hebert," said Eléonore as Laurent bowed over her hand. "I am most pleased to meet you, especially since Erik tells me you have the proof that will help rid us of Deneuve's presence at the Comique."
"What an honor it is to meet you, Madame Duvalier. And on behalf of the musicians of the Opéra-Comique, please accept our heartfelt thanks for your assistance with our 'cause'." Laurent handed her a large envelope. "These are the replies to our telegrams. I only hope they will be sufficient."
Eléonore read several of the wires before smiling at Erik and Laurent. "Oh, indeed, M. Hebert, I think these will do quite nicely." Claire appeared with a tray containing four glasses and a bottle of sherry. Eléonore poured everyone a drink. "Please, join me in a toast to the return of excellent music to the Comique."
The next afternoon
"I said, take your hands off me, you fils de putain!" The angry words carried through the silence of the corridor, followed immediately by the sharp crack of a hand striking flesh.
François Deneuve backed away from the ballet rat, holding his cheek. "You're going to regret that," he muttered and moved toward her. Suddenly his eyes widened as a hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around.
Laurent Hebert stood glaring at him, his fists clenched. "You're wanted in the managers' office, Deneuve." He waited until the concertmaster had straightened his coat before adding, "And if I ever catch you trying to molest any of the women here again, it will be the second-biggest mistake of your life."
Deneuve gave each of them an angry look and stalked off. He paused for a moment outside the door of the office then knocked twice. A voice bade him enter and he swung open the door to find the room filled with people. A lady was seated in front of the desk, and several men, including M. Courtois and some orchestra members, stood along the walls.
M. Laclede, the senior manager, pointed to the other chair in front of the desk. "Take a seat, Deneuve," he ordered. When the concertmaster had done so, Laclede said bluntly, "You are no longer employed by the Opéra-Comique, Monsieur."
Deneuve started to babble, unable to form a coherent sentence, and M. Laclede cut him off with an abrupt gesture. "This is not open for discussion. We have evidence that you are not qualified for the position, and these gentlemen," he indicated the orchestra members, "will also testify to that. M. Belette, who hired you, told us everything before he . . . killed himself."
"I demand to see this 'evidence'," Deneuve sneered. His hand trembling slightly, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and mopped his face. Clearly, the news of Belette's death had startled him.
"Certainement," said Laclede. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out several telegrams; he took the one on the top and proceeded to read it aloud. "This is from M. Delacroix at the Royal Conservatoire in The Hague—'François Deneuve was asked to leave the Conservatoire one month after he arrived, by a unanimous vote of his instructors. He did not show any aptitude for music whatsoever, and most certainly did not receive a diploma from our institution.' " He waved the other telegrams. "These are all of a similar nature."
The lady spoke. "The gentlemen here who you probably do not recognize are patrons of the Comique, as am I. We have signed a petition asking for your removal, stating we will withdraw our support if you are not relieved of your 'duties' immediately. This would mean a loss of revenue of approximately fifty thousand francs, something I do not believe the Opéra-Comique can withstand at this time."
The color drained from Deneuve's face and he slumped in the chair. The lady leaned forward and spoke in a voice audible only to the two of them. "Oh, and by the way, Monsieur. I have been told that the men working on the demolition of the Opéra Populaire pulled a charred body from the ruins a few days ago. It was found well below street level, and is believed to be the body of the Opera Ghost." The woman gave him a pointed look and he swallowed hard. "I understand there is to be an announcement regarding the discovery in tomorrow's newspaper." Deneuve nodded that he understood, and she leaned back in her chair.
Laclede spoke again. "You will be escorted from the premises within the hour, Deneuve. And be warned—if any orchestra should contact us in the future about you, we will tell them the brutal, honest truth. I would suggest that you not embarrass yourself further."
Deneuve pushed unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the door. Just as he reached for the doorknob, Laclede said, "One more thing to remember, Deneuve. We—any of us here—can do you far more damage than you could to us." He nodded and one of the orchestra members moved to escort Deneuve out. M. Courtois went with them.
A collective sigh came from the remaining musicians, making Laclede and the others smile. "Messieurs, Madame, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done. I can assure you that changes in administrative policy will be forthcoming immediately," Laclede told them. "To that end, might I have a private word with you, Mme. Duvalier?"
"And so, Deneuve is gone," Eléonore said with a smile. She had come to Giselle's to share the good news and found Erik moving his clothing and belongings over to the new house. "I am quite relieved, I must say, both for you and Veronique, and the opera, of course." She sat back on the sofa in Erik and Veronique's parlor and folded her hands in her lap.
"Merci, Eléonore, for all your help." Erik leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Somehow I sense that you enjoyed all this tremendously," he added, and she nodded.
"I did indeed," she said, "and in fact, M. Lambeau has offered me a position of sorts at the Comique." Explaining that her new duties would mostly involve screening applicants, she said, "At last I will be able to use the knowledge that I acquired from listening to Gérard and his friends."
Erik frowned at the mention of his grandfather, and she patted his hand. "He was not the best of husbands, or of fathers, but he was an excellent musician, chéri. I'm certain that he had no idea I was listening while he and his cronies discussed and argued about music, but it was truly an education in itself," she said. "Now, I can put that to good use." She paused a moment then asked, "Is everything ready for tomorrow?"
He gave her a wry smile. "I am ready for tomorrow," he said. Much more than I intend to admit to you! "Giselle and Elisabeth have been baking for days. It smelled wonderful, but they flatly refused to let me taste anything. Ran me out of the kitchen, as a matter of fact."
With a chuckle, Eléonore rose and went to the door. "Then I shall see you tomorrow afternoon, at one o'clock."
The priest arrived a few minutes early, amidst a flurry of final preparations. He joined Erik and M. Bertrand in the parlor, trying to keep out of the way of the women. The three engaged in small talk for a few moments, M. Bertrand and Père Jean finding a common interest in gardening.
When a knock sounded on the door, Erik went to answer it. His grand-mère and Claire had arrived, and he took them in to meet M. Bertrand and the priest. After the introductions, the ladies excused themselves to go upstairs and see Veronique. Erik took the opportunity to escape to the kitchen and stood staring out the window. Did you feel this way, Maman? he wondered. Excited and frightened at the same time? For an instant he felt the touch of her lips on his scarred cheek, and brought his hand up to rub the spot gently.
Upstairs, Giselle and Elisabeth were helping Veronique into her undergarments and dress. Eléonore and Claire arrived as they were fussing with the fall of the skirt. "Oh, ma chère fille," said Eleonore softly. "Comme c'est belle." Dabbing her eyes, she said, "I would be honored if you carried this, chérie." She reached into her reticule and brought out a lace-edged handkerchief. "It belonged to Erik's maman."
Veronique held out her hand, blinking back tears. "Truly, Grand-mère, I am the one who is honored," she whispered. They embraced then stepped apart as the clock downstairs chimed once.
Eléonore, Claire and Elisabeth gave the bride a kiss on the cheek and left the room. Giselle fussed a bit more with the drape of the lace overskirt. "Bien," she said finally. She took Veronique by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "You are at the beginning of a wonderful part of your life, ma chérie. You and Erik will deal well with life and with each other." With that, she kissed the girl on both cheeks and said, "Time to get married."
Slowly Veronique descended the staircase, her heart nearly bursting with love when she saw M. Bertrand waiting for her at the bottom. He blinked back tears and offered his arm to her. "Be happy, chérie," he said softly as they entered the parlor. Veronique muffled a gasp when she saw Erik standing in front of the fireplace. Tall, muscular, resplendent in a black suit, silver waistcoat, stark white shirt and cravat, the sight of him made her already dry mouth go even drier.
Erik turned as he heard them enter, and his heart began to pound. Sainte Mère, how beautiful she is! The ivory dress flowed around her as she walked, and somehow it brought out golden highlights in her hair. The only jewelry she wore was her mother's gold cross, and a pair of diamond and emerald earrings he had found to match her engagement ring. Her hair was arranged loosely on top of her head, with a few curls framing her face.
M. Bertrand took her hand and gave it to Erik. They faced the priest and a movement caught Erik's eye. Turning his head slightly, he saw Samson and Marguerite sneak into the parlor from the kitchen. He squeezed Veronique's hand and when she looked at him, he inclined his head toward the cats. She choked back a laugh as the priest began to speak.
Within moments, they were wed. When they had exchanged gold rings, Giselle and M. Bertrand held the carré over their heads. "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," murmured Père Jean. Making the sign of the cross, he blessed them and said, "You may kiss your bride, Erik."
He did so, with enthusiasm, until Giselle said, "All right, that's enough of that. You have all night ahead of you." Everyone laughed, including the bride and groom, and they led the way to the dining room. On the table sat a beautiful croquembouche, along with tiny sandwiches, coffee and a bottle of champagne, cooling in a silver bucket.
Giselle and Elisabeth poured everyone but André a glass of champagne and M. Bertrand raised his with a smile. "I would like to toast the happy couple," he said. "My first position after leaving the Conservatoire was with a small chamber orchestra in Marseilles. I became good friends with one of the woodwind players, a Spaniard. He taught me a traditional Spanish toast, which I believe is quite appropriate for our newlyweds. Salud, amor, y dinero." He tipped his glass toward the bride and groom. "That means 'health, love and wealth'."
The others murmured "Here, here" and clinked glasses with each other as Erik and Veronique entwined their arms and drank.
Raising her glass, Eléonore spoke. "To my grandson and his bride." She blinked suddenly, her eyes awash in tears. "I never thought I would say those words," she whispered. Both Erik and Veronique slid an arm around her, and she held on tight.
Just then Samson meowed loudly, breaking the spell. Everyone laughed except Giselle, who peered under the table at him with a glare. "Samson, allez-vous-en!" she hissed, trying to shoo him out of the room. Staring at her impassively, he eased his bulk down on the floor, refusing to budge.
"Bah!" After several attempts, Giselle gave up on getting the big orange tom cat to leave. "I sincerely hope he moves next door with you," she said. "I wash my hands of him."
When the clock struck twice, Erik and Veronique took their leave of the guests to go to the magistrate's office for the civil part of the proceedings, accompanied by Giselle and M. Bertrand as their witnesses. On the way back to Giselle's, M. Bertrand asked, "Will you two be able to continue at Vuillaume's, now that you're married?"
Veronique looked at Erik and he nodded. "I've been thinking about teaching, beginners only, of course," she told them. "The extra downstairs room would be perfect." She squeezed Erik's hand. "I've been trying to persuade him to give lessons, also, but I have not convinced him . . . yet."
M. Bertrand chuckled. "A word of advice, Erik. Be wary when a woman tries to persuade you to do anything." Both Giselle and Veronique looked at him angrily, and he spread his hands as if in surrender. "I have found it is far easier on everyone if you simply capitulate at the beginning, and save yourself the bother."
"Merci, Monsieur. I will do my best to remember that in the future." Erik's voice quivered with suppressed laughter, and Veronique nudged him with her elbow.
The taxi stopped in front of Giselle's and M. Bertrand helped her alight, then Erik followed, extending his hand to Veronique. A cheer went up from the group gathered on the lawn and they showered the newlyweds with rice and birdseed.
Scooping Veronique up in his arms, Erik dashed toward their house—and the solitude they had both been craving for weeks.
A/N: I do apologize for leaving you here... but thought the wedding night deserved its own chapter... I hope you will agree, once you've read it... :-)
