Chapter 29. July 1887. Monday.
"You are quite certain it is safe?"
"Yes, Monsieur. So long as the pregnancy continues to progress normally, there is generally no harm in the husband and wife continuing to engage in marital relations."
" 'Generally,' " repeated Erik. "You mean, then, that you can not give me absolute reassurance?"
"I should be committing malpractice if I did," replied the grey-bearded doctor calmly. "The mysteries of the human reproductive system are not completely understood; they may never be. It is possible that in some cases, when the pregnancy is already precarious, intercourse might be dangerous to the woman or the child. But I have been in practice for over forty years, Monsieur, and I have observed that if a woman is going to lose a pregnancy, she generally does, no matter what preventive procedures are undertaken; and conversely, if she is not going to, very little can derail the natural progression of the parturient process – bar, of course, when the woman resorts to abortifacients, which Madame Villeneuve will of course not be doing. And I can tell you that there are no signs whatsoever of any trouble with her. She is in excellent health, and at her age there are not likely to be any complications. No, I think there is little risk to either her or the child if you continue to indulge. A bit of caution will be called for in the last month or two, but that is a fair way off yet. It is kind of you to be so concerned, however. Many women would be overjoyed to have such a solicitous husband."
I doubt that, thought Erik, but he did not say so, not caring to discourse on his assorted marital difficulties with another. He was, however, quite favourably impressed with this physician; old Dr. Durand was Christine's usual doctor, and after speaking to two others, Erik had decided that he ought not distress his wife by insisting she go to a new one if he found Durand worthy; after all, the man had examined Christine already and would be therefore more qualified to discuss her case.
The agreement of all three of the medical opinions which he now had to pick from was encouraging. So too was the fact that Dr. Durand, unlike the others, had not batted an eye about the mask. The new lifelike one had proved imperfect, and Erik was attempting to refine it still further, but for the time being he was back to the black silk one. But he found Durand easy to talk to – or rather, as easy as any person was, to Erik – and now brought up the second issue he was worried about.
"Doctor, I wish also to consult with you about the possibility of... birth defects."
"I see," said the doctor. "Am I to understand, then, that whatever you feel you must conceal about your face is something that you were born with? I had thought that perhaps you were injured in the war."
"Yes, I was born with... I was... born this way," said Erik, hating the way he could not find words which he could express smoothly. Why was it only this issue that undid him like this? With gritted teeth he sought to reassert dominion over his emotions. "I have married quite late in life, and so now I must be concerned about the possibility of passing my appearance on to my offspring. I wanted your opinion on whether that was likely."
"Very well," replied the doctor. "Yes, there are some deformities which can be inherited, and others which generally are not, to the best of the medical profession's understanding. Birth defects are actually not very common at all, when compared to the overall number of children born. The mother's health is sometimes a factor, but one which we need not worry about in this case. But, Monsieur... it will be difficult for me to give you more specific advice unless I can see the deformity in question."
Erik considered this. It did not seem an unreasonable request, unfortunately. Of course the poor man could not give specifics without being in possession of all the relevant information. Could he bring himself to reveal his shame to the doctor? Using glimpses of his face to scare the inhabitants of the Opera was one thing, but standing here in an examining room in broad daylight, before this kindly old fellow whom he found he actually rather liked…
Yes, he thought he could. He had to know; if there was a strong likelihood that the child would be deformed, emergency measures would have to be taken before Christine got too far along. The longer one waited to terminate a pregnancy, the more dangerous it would be for the woman, and it would take him a bit of time both to acquire the necessary substances and to find a way to get them into Christine without her knowledge, as there was no way she would ever agree to it. The priests might say that such an action was a mortal sin, but... in Erik's opinion, it was far from being the worst thing he had ever done.
And besides, giving Dr. Durand a look at the face of Death might be a good way of taking the man's measure. If Erik was to relinquish Christine into Durand's hands when the time came, he wanted to be very, very sure that the doctor was able to deal with anything untoward that might occur. With a gracefulness born of long habit, he rose to his feet. As usual when standing upright, he loomed over the other man. The doctor was a solidly built man, but of only average stature, which meant that Erik towered over him by at least six inches. He had always enjoyed the increased ability to intimidate which his unusual height gave him, and the feeling of power partially took his mind off what he was doing, as he raised his left hand and swept off both wig and mask.
Dr. Durand passed the unexpected test admirably. True, his eyes flew wide open and his monocle fell out, and he swallowed hard. But Erik felt he could forgive the man that, especially as the doctor recovered his composure quickly, replaced his eyepiece, and, with a control over his voice that would have done credit to Erik himself, politely requested that Erik sit down again and allow his face to be examined more closely.
Erik did so, his jaw clenched. He had exposed his deformity dozens of times, of course, to his mother, in the travelling fairs, and before his hapless victims in the shah's prisons; in the Opera he had been wont to deliberately show himself to its denizens while unmasked, the better to cement the ghost's fearsome reputation. But no one other than Christine had ever looked at him this closely or for this long, and in such bright light. He would have liked to close his eyes, but did not, keeping them fixed instead on the physician, to check for any sign of fright or repulsion.
Dr. Durand evinced nothing other than professionalism, however, as he peered closely at Erik's face from all angles, gently felt the bones that protruded under the thin skin, and asked questions quietly, such as, "Do you suffer from pain? No? That is good. Is it difficult for you to eat? Do you find your ability to taste food impeded? And how is your sense of smell? Are you subject to catarrh, or pneumonia? How is your vision?"
Erik answered each question as best he could. When the doctor took a seat in front of him, he breathed a sigh of relief. The examination appeared to be over.
"Monsieur, I think there is not much danger of your child being deformed," began Dr. Durand. "Your disfigurement appears to be merely a randomly occurring birth defect. It is... particularly severe, I grant you, but I see no signs indicating that it is hereditary. I assume there was no history of such a thing in your family?"
Erik shook his head jerkily.
"Well, then. There you have it. Sometimes these things simply happen. Only God knows why. With this concern also I can not give you absolute reassurance; but it is my professional opinion that this child, and any others you and your wife may be blessed with, are in no greater danger of being born disfigured than anyone else's. Which is to say, very little."
Erik released the breath he had been holding. "I see," he said slowly.
The doctor smiled sympathetically. "Most children are born normal, Monsieur Villeneuve. I think yours will be too. But, in the event that they are not, they will at least be lucky enough to have a father who can teach them how to make their way in the world with such a burden."
Erik was taken aback. He had not thought of it in that light at all, being far more afraid that he would be responsible for unleashing another monster upon an unsuspecting world – and an unsuspecting mother. But he was not sure at all that his methods of 'making his way in the world' were anything that should be held up as an example.
"Monsieur – " The doctor was speaking again. "Have you considered surgery at all? The outcome would not be certain, but it is possible that it would help. I see that – "
"You do not need to tell me that there are such procedures available," hissed Erik, cutting the other man off and leaping to his feet, towering over the startled physician. "I am an extremely educated man, and I have travelled extensively through parts of the world where physicians have been performing such surgeries for centuries. I have read more texts on the subject than you even know exist, I assure you." Seething, he replaced his wig and mask quickly, then snatched up his hat and cloak. "Neither you nor any of your colleagues will have the opportunity to experiment on the monster."
He slammed his way out of the doctor's house, knowing he had made a spectacle of himself. Christine must find another doctor. This well-meaning old fool was completely unsuitable. Furiously he stalked along the sidewalk, scattering other passersby before him like startled insects fleeing an oncoming bat, till he could turn off onto a less-used street.
Paying little attention to where he was going, he strode along, his mind in turmoil and his fingers flexing, wishing to hit something or someone. At length the exercise diminished his anger, and a black despair took over.
He was a damned thing. Born twisted and deformed, both inside and out; a creature to be feared and despised by all decent people. God had made his face the way it was to warn people of the horror of Erik, to warn away everything that was good and pure. He had tried for much of his life to believe that his face was in and of itself the root of all the dreadful things that had happened to him... but somewhere far inside his mind, so far that he could ignore its existence most of the time, the knowledge had always been there that it wasn't his face, it was him. He was irreparably flawed, and his face only the outer indication of the loathsome vileness within. He'd been born bad, and there was nothing to be done about it.
He'd told the doctor the truth; he had devoured every text and treatise he could get his hands on concerning the subject of surgical correction of facial defects, and there were plenty in the East. Surgeons had indeed been performing, and writing on the performing of, such surgeries for a very long time. With the Orientals' penchant for cutting off noses as punishment for condemned criminals, adulterous wives, and captured soldiers, there was a need in their societies for ways of remedying the mutilation, and so methods had arisen to attempt to fill that need. He'd read as much as he could find, desperately searching for a glimmer of hope that his situation might be improved, even a little.
But he could find none. His face was surely beyond the pale of anything anyone else had ever had to deal with. Why else did others react to him as they did? Running, screaming, seeking to hurt him even if he had never done a thing to them? Wanting him to use his talents and his ingenuity for their benefit, and ever more horrible ends? No, God had intended him to be this way, and deep inside he feared to try to change it.
He had reached the Seine. He stopped and put his hands on the railing, curling his long fingers around the cold metal. It was not only the deep and capricious remnants of what remained of his childhood religious indoctrination that stopped him from considering surgery on his face. It was also a cringing terror of lying helpless under the hands of other men while they jabbed and peered at the exposed evidence of his evil nature, secure in their superiority as they deigned to help a poor pitiable being who did not even deserve to be called a man. It was the overwhelming fear that they might overpower him if he surrendered himself to them thusly, either to lock him up in the prison he surely deserved, or to haul him off to be studied by scientists under piercingly bright lights. He knew himself to be a freak of nature, on many levels. If he were a normal man, he would be quite keen to examine such a unique specimen. He was not concerned about undergoing anaesthesia, as he would have simply refused it; pain was nothing to incapacitation. He had suffered pain many times, and survived. He was not afraid of it. No, it was the loss of control that frightened him the most, by far.
So, he'd turned away from the possibility, faint as it might be, of any help that the medical profession might offer him. His face was his face, and he must learn to overcome the assorted difficulties it brought him as best he could. And he must do so alone, without any help or succour from anyone. No one else could offer him anything; no one else, after all, had to live with his face.
He brought his head up sharply. Christine! Christine had to live with it now, didn't she? Day in and day out? And... and the child...
It wasn't only him anymore, was it?
Could he willingly condemn her to continue to live out her life with a monster? Could he condemn his child to have one for a father? Force both of them to live with the prejudice that would be thrown their way, all because of him? Suppose she eventually came to the point of being unable to bear it any longer? Could he continue to live with the fear of ultimately losing her to a man with a face that was not abhorrent? Could he do so... knowing that there was a chance, however small, that his face might be improved, even a little?
He exhaled slowly, and drew his cloak tightly around him, staring wretchedly out at the black water. No other man had to decide this. No other husband had to stand in the darkness, wondering whether it was worth risking all that Erik would risk by surrendering to the surgeons, or whether it was better to take the chance of his wife deciding to run from him. No, it was only Erik that must suffer such misery. Even when he found a bit of happiness, he must worry all the time that it would be taken from him.
He thought of his child screaming in terror the first time he leaned over the cradle; then of himself screaming as his limbs were bound and he was taken prisoner. And he had no idea which would be worse. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this recognition that there might be something in the world more terrible than a loss of the dignity and autonomy that made life marginally bearable.
Life was so complicated now that Christine was in the picture. Before, he'd thought his life was difficult, but now he saw with startling clarity just how simple it had really been. Then, whenever he was faced with any decision, he had only to think of what would be most beneficial for Erik. That settled, he could proceed. But now he had to consider her. And it was so very hard, when his first impulse was still to be concerned only with what he wanted or needed! What right had he to have a wife, under those circumstances?
For example, he did not want any further contact with Dr. Durand, especially not now that the physician would surely want to know why Erik had reacted in such a fashion. But if he forbade Christine to go to the man any more, she would want to know why, and he did not want to tell her. True, he could simply snap at her that she was to obey him; she would probably do it. She seemed to want very much to be a good wife, for some reason. But then she would cry, and he would feel like a dog. Being married was supposed to be joyful, not a tangled mess of problems and misunderstandings. Surely, he must be having such difficulties purely because he was simply not suited for it.
He was not suited for happiness.
After a time he ceased staring blankly out at the river and turned away, heading back to the Opera. He would have liked very much to go up and sit on the roof, soothing himself with solitude, but he had promised his wife he would be home for dinner. And so, like a good husband, he went home.
Home was bright and welcoming, almost disorientingly so. Good smells wafted out from the kitchen, and Christine popped out of it, swathed in an apron and covered in flour. She was as red as an apple, and little tendrils of hair curled beautifully around her flushed face. She kissed him, giving him a faint taste of raspberry jam, and said breathlessly, "Oh, you're back! I was afraid you mightn't be in time to eat dinner when it's at its best. Go and wash up, I've already set the table."
Heading for her bathroom, which was closer, Erik walked slowly down the hall, looking at all of Christine's things, now restored to their proper places, that signified her presence in his home and in his life. In the bathroom, her potions and powders were spread over the countertop, and there were jars of many-coloured bath salts on the shelf by the tub. And there was her silver-backed hairbrush, with strands of her glorious hair caught in its bristles. He pulled a few out and wound them around an index finger pensively.
He should have allowed her to marry someone else. Bad enough that he had to live with his face; what right had he to subject the woman he loved to it, for the rest of their lives? He took off his mask and stared morosely at his reflection in the mirror which would not even have been there, if not for Christine. Yes, it was just as bad as always. Surely he hadn't been expecting it to be different? He thought again of lying supine on an operating table, completely exposed and vulnerable, seeing the disgust, or worse, the avid curiosity, in the surgeons' faces as they leaned over him. He shuddered, and turned away.
Erik was silent during dinner, thinking gloomily that other husbands did not have to keep their heads turned carefully away from their wives, so as to spare them the sight of the worst of the deformity engaged in mastication. No doubt Christine would prefer not to have to watch it, either. He wondered if she ever thought of what her life might have been like had she married someone else, and felt that he had been unbearably selfish to prevent her from doing so. But when he pictured her married to some other man, and his hands on her, Erik's blood boiled in his veins. Which was not overly helpful. Christine allowed him his sullen silence for a time, but finally refused to let it continue any longer.
"You are very quiet tonight," she observed, slicing the onion tart that had been the source of the flour earlier. "Was dinner not to your liking?"
"Not at all. It was fine."
"Only 'fine'?"
"All right then, it was marvellous. Happy?"
"No. I want to know why you are in a bad mood. Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Did someone in the Opera do something you took exception to?"
"No more so than usual."
"Are you having difficulties with your new opera?"
"No."
"How about your experiments?"
"No."
"Is your work on your new automatons going well?"
"Yes."
"Then why won't you talk to me?"
"I was thinking."
"About what?"
He was in no humour to tell her what was actually on his mind, or to continue this interrogation. He reached for a compliment to fend her off for a while.
"You look exceptionally beautiful tonight."
"Do I?" she replied, smiling.
She did, actually, he realised, in a pretty yellow polonaise that fitted her still-trim figure to great advantage. It ought to be unlawful for a bodice to so tightly hug the tempting curves it contained. He would have to have a stern word with her dressmaker.
"What else were you thinking?" she purred. He caught her gaze and held it meaningfully. It had been three days, as he had not wanted to take any risks until after speaking to the doctors. Perhaps she was feeling... deprived... ? Certainly she must be wondering why he'd avoided intimacy for that long, and right after their most recent days-long quarrel. But as marital relations were apparently safe after all…
He dropped his eyes from hers long enough to inspect her dress again. She had changed swiftly after finishing the preparations for their dinner, into something more appropriate for the evening. He should have noticed and done the same, but he had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to do so and was still in the same frock coat he'd been wearing all day. Well-off couples changed into dinner attire every night, even when only amongst their families, but down here with no one to judge themselves against, he and Christine could easily end up at the table in their dressing gowns, should they be disinclined to make a fuss over that particular meal. So she must have had some reason to don silk... and that low, square neckline... had she been hoping to tempt him?
If so, it was working. A slow, beautiful flush coloured the exposed tops of her lovely breasts, and she lowered her eyelashes. It had a devastating effect on his self-control.
He stood and pushed his chair back, and strode around the table to her. She looked up at him, startled. Unfurling a hand as he loomed over her, he asked shortly, "Christine, will you come to bed with me?"
"Why... of course," she said, sounding confused, and unknowingly passing the test he had impulsively laid out for her. She put her hand in his and rose, and he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. Clearing up dinner could wait. The urge to forget his fears in the sweet oblivion of his wife's body, and to hear her crying out his name and only his name, was too overwhelming, and he had never been a patient man.
O-O-O O-O-O
