I wish to give a shout-out to my bestest reviewer and most faithful and patient reader Hot4Gerry. Despite my rewrites, missed deadlines and the vulgarities of my undisciplined life, she has remained my stalwart reader throughout this story. She is up there with Samwise the Hobbit, Doctor Watson, and Shrek's sidekick Donkey. God Bless you, Leslie! Take a bow!
I therefore dedicate this chapter (that contains much Erik) to you!
Chapter Thirty FiveI am slow to leave my bed, having spent one restless night too many in the past week. By the time I am washed, brushed and dressed, Anna has tapped twice upon my bedroom door. I do, eventually, appear wherein she disappears to fetch my breakfast.
Chanson is on the long divan before the fireplace, reading the morning's papers, drinking coffee. Looking up, he smiles, murmuring, "A late night, hmm?"
I grunt and ignore him. He is entirely too interested in my relationship with Butler. I take the newest edition of Le Temps and sit at table long enough to consume toasted bread heavily spread with jam and honey, and preview the news of the day…or yesterday, as it were.
Anna eventually departs noisily to the hotel laundry, for an extended visit. She has cast several dark glances my way, and made reference to last evening's 'scandalous' music. I bite my thumb at her elegantly satin-swathed back as she struggles through the suite doors, heavy basket of laundry in arms.
Mildly put out by her hypocrisy, I return to the newspaper.
There is a report…written in hyperbolic terms…of the French assault on Bamako, Senegal, the general tone being that of a Walter Scott novel, i.e. 'the grandeur of the battlefield,' written for the ingenuous reader. Lead by Lieutenant Colonel Borgnis-Desbordes, the campaign is just another self-aggrandizing trump by Brière de l'Isle, who has repeatedly been censured by the Assembly for his brutal tactics against the natives. I predict the man will be looking for a new job come summer.
I am no pacifist, but the current administration's push for colonial expansion is troubling when Prussia and Germany pant like hungry dogs over the thinly guarded flanks of France! I scowl fiercely into my coffee, and turn the page.
Of more interest is the recent premier of 'Le Chasseur Maudit' at the Salle Érard by the Société Nationale de Musique. Franck calls the production a 'symphonic poem', a term first used by Lizst, which seems merely a clever way of saying it is opera sans actors. Liszt has written several of these, which I find are very protracted affairs better suited as background music for house parties. Despite the stated ambition that the music would encourage listeners to 'visualize the scenes, ideas and moods that inspired the composer', I find they ask too much from the usual concert-goer, who soon find gossip and flirtation with their closest neighbor more engaging.
Having done with Le Temps, I move to the shorter divan, insisting Chanson relinquish the Petit Parisien he is obviously not actually reading. Chanson looks as if he is ready to fall asleep.
"Long night, eh?" I mock Chanson, with a smile.
Bleary eyed, he grins nonetheless. "There is a constant game of vingt et un going at the café across the street. Of course, it is the women who make it worthwhile…"
I cluck disapprovingly, and murmur, "Cards and women. You…to whom I must look for guidance."
"And so you should, my friend. I won a brace of louies and spent time with a most willing woman last night."
I can think of nothing to say to this admission. Opening his eyes, Chanson smiles widely at me. "Perhaps our next excursion should be an evening across the street…at the card table, of course."
I can only say, weakly, "Of course."
Chanson again sags comfortably into the divan seat cushions, and within moments is softly snoring. Damn the man and his thoroughly satisfied smile.
Suddenly the news of the day offers little of interest. Once assured that Chanson sleeps witlessly, I leave the divan to circumnavigate the suite, looking out the bay windows at the busy street, scowling at the piano I am far too restless to play. I wander about, seeking to pinpoint exactly what has me in such distemper when I realize…I wish to talk with Aislyne Butler…I want her here.
I find myself standing in her room, my eyes on her small desk, where an empty heavy paper package sits agape, its contents removed. There is the acrid scent of burnt paper in the room as well, masking Butler's usual scent of roses. Without thought I investigate the small brass waste can next to the desk, and find the scorched remnants of three sheets of creased folio stationery therein, beneath which are several sheets of half-charred newsprint.
Silently cursing at my own meddlesome nature, I gingerly pull the sheets of folio from the can, noting the second page is the worst damaged. Reading the top sheet, I have to wonder…is this what women consider deserving of time and postage?
I peruse the few lines of round script remaining upon the second page:
"…baked it in an emesis pan. You will agree, her message was unmistakable and had the desired effect. She is much happier these days, having been relieved of a most burdensome suitor!
It is my understanding you are stuck in Lyon until the mountain passes clear. I have given this missive, securely sealed, to de'Chagny as…"
The top of the next line of script is all that remains, and I cannot quickly decipher the loops and arcs remaining. The last page is as the first…scorched across the bottom one-third, but like the first contains naught but foolishness.
The half-dozen sheets of newsprint are no more forthcoming, having burned better by nature of their light weight. However, the top halves of the sheets are largely intact, as if they were held together, lit, and dropped into the can before they were much consumed. The narrowing shape of the can quickly put out the flames due to lack of air.
Among the several discernable illustrations, I see an upraised hand, bony fingers spread. Hmmmm….
Four other sheets reveal more illustrations and articles of the Opera Ghost's final hours; all are in French. There are randomly circled advertisements, and one 'social' article boxed in heavy pencil, none of which relate to the Ghost. The last sheet contains nothing of note…except on the charred few inches remaining below there is embossing as if that of hand-printed words, in a very small hand, with regular spacing between the lines. I cannot read more than a word or two…
I hear the unmistakable sound of the main suite door opening, and Aislyne's voice calling for Anna. As Chanson informs her of Anna's whereabouts, I carefully replace the papers into the waste can, and shove it beneath the desk. Arranging myself in a supine position upon her bed, I orient my head upon her quilt folded at the foot and press my hands to my chest, close my eyes and assume an air of suffering.
Exclaiming, "He was just here," I hear Chanson throw open the door to my room.
Aislyne enters her room to find me, apparently limp with pain, upon her bed.
"What?…"
I feebly wave one hand, to whine piteously, "I am here…yes. I came to find something for my head…it aches frightfully…" I again arrange my hands upon my chest as though ready for Dame Death. "I could not bear to bend over to fetch the box."
Aislyne is instantly at the bedside to touch my forehead, murmuring wordless comfort, her fingers warm and gentle against my brow. "I will make you a draught. Just lie there." She drags the case from beneath the bed, and there is the sound of clinking bottles and of paper packets being shifted about as she kneels beside the bed. Silence…she seems to be unmoving…perhaps reading? Fiercely I fight the urge to peek.
The box is shoved aside rather briskly, and with the slightest creak of knees she rises to walk two paces from the bed, pull the chair from beneath the desk, and with a soft sigh she subsides onto it. Glass touches upon glass, and the sound of pouring liquid precedes that of a bottle being set firmly upon the desk. Unease dawns as I hear her take one rather noisy sip.
"So…did this headache start before you rifled my trash, or…after?"
Zut alors!
Pushing myself up, I meet Aislyne's eyes, presently over the rim of a glass containing a generous dose of whiskey. The waste can sits midway between the desk and bed, silent witness to my nefarious nature.
I open my mouth to apologize, only to be coolly interrupted.
"You have soot on your shirt and hand, Bouchard." She takes a sip, visibly rolling the liquor about in her mouth, eyes narrowed. "But...truth be told, I would have done the same given the opportunity. I vow you did not find much of interest…Louise has no talent as a correspondent." She takes another sip of her whiskey, eyeing me guilelessly over the glass. Is she laughing at me?
Pulling out my handkerchief, I hastily brush at the telltale line of fine black ash across my shirtfront and from the back of my hand, keeping an eye on Aislyne Butler. She honestly appears not a whit concerned with my dubitable behavior, having crossed her ankles and assumed a most uncharacteristically loose-limbed posture within the low backed chair.
Further study reveals her nails are dirty from giving both horses a good scratch, and her hair is but partially pinned. Her eyes are suspiciously puffy, and there are the unmistakable tracks of tears down her cheeks.
Concerned, I rise from my seat on the bed. "My dear Aislyne! You are…"
She waves a hand carelessly in my direction. "Sit down, Bouchard. I am just fine…the horses are fine. Everything is just…" She makes a most disturbing face, rather like that of a fractious child. "Pffft! Fine!" She takes another sip of the fragrant whiskey.
I sit, as requested, awaiting further clarification for her extraordinary behavior.
Aislyne sets the glass upon her knee, her thoughts turning patently troubled, and gazes upon her dusty boot tips. "No…I am being less than candid. I cannot say I am 'fine' when, honestly, I am not. My friend, I have been greatly disappointed today, my trust cut to pieces by those from whom I thought better…a great deal better! By the whole of humanity. Truly…you have no idea…" Aislyne's stoic expression falters, wherein she takes another gulp from the glass.
I think briefly to argue that point…but am instead compelled to stand and step to her side. Reaching for her hand, I press it between mine, a rather inadequate gesture, but I am helpless in the face of her obvious unhappiness. Aislyne responds with an unsteady smile and welling eyes, most out of character for my Aislyne. She sets her glass upon the desk and pulls a severely abused handkerchief from her pocket, pressing it to her eyes.
Without thought, I move behind her and begin pulling the few remaining pins from her hair.
"What are you doing?" Aislyne abruptly sits upright, throwing her head up and moving forward as if she means to leave the chair; I lay my hands upon her shoulders, gently urging her back.
"Your hair is in great disarray, my dear. I thought only to remove the few hairpins that remain." I gently untangle the hairpins from her hair; released, it falls past her shoulders to the middle of her back, just brushing the low chairback. I cannot stop from smoothing my hands once lightly down the silken fall, amazed by its color…golden auburn with fiery copper and gilt highlights through its shimmering length. For a moment I am lustfully transfixed at the thought of actually gathering it within my hands…
"Bouchard, we must talk." Aislyne abruptly springs from the chair, and striding across the room, looks out at Chanson, whose breathing and position signify he is again fast asleep upon the divan.
Aislyne carefully closes the door till it is just ajar, and finger crossing her lips, whispers, "We must speak quietly and hope Dietré sleeps soundly and that Anna is delayed." Grabbing the desk chair, she drags it near her dresser and for the second time in five minutes I am commanded, "Sit."
Settling upon the bench before her dresser, Aislyne begins brushing her hair with brutal strokes, such that I must look away or rip the hairbrush from her hand. Instead I grit my teeth and growl, "Perhaps you first would first tell me who has upset you."
The look I receive is classic Butler, nose and chin elevated, her composure restored…yet her eyes are shadowed with bitter secrets. "We have no time for that, Bouchard."
Swiveling fully upon the bench to face me, Aislyne levels the hairbrush at my chest as if a weapon, her voice low and intense. "Bouchard, you do remember our meeting at the convent in Paris, do you not? You gave your word to do as I requested, without question."
Placing a forefinger upon the brush, I 'aim' it to the side. "I do remember the occasion and all particulars, Madame Butler…although the 'without question' doesn't sound at all like me." I grin playfully, but a frisson of unease threatens to sour my breakfast.
Aislyne returns to the mirror and using both hands, twists her hair into a thick coil, moving up the back of her head. Picking up two embellished combs she stabs them quite fiercely into place, securing the coil of hair to the top of her head. I cannot hide my reactionary wince, mindful to never allow her near my head when she is in such a state.
Grabbing several hairpins, she fashions fat curls with the remaining tail of hair, using the pins to affix them in a fan about the ornate comb. She begins to speak quietly, the stabbing of pins adding emphasis where her hushed voice does not.
"Bouchard, please go through your clothing and set out that appropriate for rough travel, probably on horseback. I know we purchased such clothing for you at Abrigaun's insistence. Look for the plain indigo-cloth shirts and heavy workmen's trousers, coarser than you are used to, I am sure. But it will be necessary, as we will not want to be recognized."
Aislyne raises a hand against my impending questions, continuing briskly. "You will need a bag small enough to carry with you. Pack it with such items as are absolutely necessary…a change of clothing, toiletries, and so on. I will have our travel papers, money, and naturally, my firearms."
I am by now fairly fizzing with curiosity, determined to pry this new mystery from Butler. Assuming a mildly wounded air, I cast a bit of pathos into my voice. "I am to do this without question? Do you not trust me enough to share what dictates the need for this…masquerade?"
Aislyne jumps up from the bench, and setting her hands upon my shoulders, leans down so that we are nearly nose to nose, and quietly declares, "Bouchard, I swear, if all this becomes necessary, you will know. I beg you…do this for me, because you trust me enough. And…do it now… today. I wish only to be prepared."
Her face a mere breath from mine, she gazes fiercely into my eyes, seeking the rational, reasonable adult she expects to find there. And secretly moved by her vehemence, I cast my features into those of a man ill used, mumbling that I will do as she asks.
Voice low, she adds, "Please say nothing to Chanson. I will speak to him and Emanuel if need arises."
When this close, the faint tear tracks on Aislyne's face are most compelling; I cannot help but wonder what has her weeping, then willing to dash off across France incognito with her mad patient in tow. However, Aislyne is now done with our talk, and cupping my right cheek gently she sets one lingering kiss upon my forehead. Then excusing herself, she sweeps off to wash up in the bath, closing the door firmly behind her.
I am left to stew in curiosity and lust, replaying the feel of Aislyne's lips against my skin and the view of white, rounded flesh beneath her blouse, while ruminating over her troubling request with all its bedeviling mystery. And then there are the events of the morning…as yet unexplained to me…leaving her bitterly disappointed with someone…
Abrigaun? That thought, at least, pleases me.
Returning the chair to its place before the desk, I take a moment to glare at the contents of the waste can. I am struck by the words, 'I have given this missive, securely sealed…' Why would it be important to securely seal a letter that is naught but vapid chatter and gossip? Do the names of Lady Thériault's kitchen cats, lists of foodstuffs, and senseless anecdotes warrant such caution?
Why was the second page burned further than the first or third? Was this a contrived happenstance? I recall Aislyne's amusement… imperfectly hidden…at my brazen impertinence in reading Lady Thériault's letter. 'I vow you did not find much of interest…'
Picking up the empty glass upon the desk, I find I am feeling more annoyed by the second. I close the door to her room behind me rather firmly when I leave.
Unreasonable as my irritation may be under the circumstances, I cannot help but feel I have been played the fool.
I sit on the divan across from a snoring Chanson, and brood, rolling over the entire conversation in my mind, attempting to formulate a sensible conclusion from damned little information.
In a most cowardly manner, I hid in the bath until I heard Bouchard leave my room, unwilling to face questions concerning either my request or the events of the morning…and most particularly, any regarding the dratted letter. I now realized I should have completely burned every page of the letter and newspaper sheets to ashes, as chances were Bouchard would see what I had done as a clumsy attempt at deception.
Could I not hear his voice in my head accusing me of just that?
Actually, it was the idea of the fire…the danger of doing so in the confines of the room without a proper grate…I simply could not bring myself to do it. The steam heating in the hotel meant there was no fireplace in the bedrooms, and I could not burn the papers in the fireplace in the main room with any privacy. How inconvenient the modern conveniences could be!
Of course the man had no right to go through my correspondence, discarded or not. But I was being truthful when I stated I would have done the same. Call it human nature…or call it infernal curiosity. It seemed we both possessed an appalling surfeit of it!
Upon viewing the state of my person in the well-lighted mirror cleverly hung above the washbasin, I nearly succumbed to a fit of the vapors. Tearstains ran down my cheeks, a broad swipe of dirt crossed my forehead, and my nails were filthy. My eyes were all but puffed shut, and near as red as my nose. I could be thankful for the subdued light at my dresser, as it meant I did not properly see my state of total dishevelment while attempting to browbeat and cozen Bouchard into doing my bidding.
Filling the basin with water from the tap, I soaked a washcloth and held it to my face, wishing the cool water could ease my humiliation as easily as it would the flush of embarrassment. Doubtless Bouchard had noticed every bit of grime, as well as signs of weeping…and had he not reacted just as any gentleman might, by ignoring it completely?
A gentleman…
Briskly I washed my face, and scrubbed my hands and nails. Looking into the mirror I was reassured I no longer looked as if I had spent the morning in lachrymal excess. My eyes remained swollen and even cool water could not diminish their bloodshot appearance. At the idea of exposing myself to the over-attentive eyes of Anna Gadreau I winced. No, that was out of the question!
I felt the need for solitude…time to recover my native composure. And upon leaving the bath I was relieved to find Bouchard had indeed closed the door out to the common room. I therefore took the opportunity to sit upon my bed and collect my thoughts, presently scattered in too many directions. Laying my hands, palm up, within each other I brought my breathing into a gentle, relaxed rhythm and sought the quiet, still place within…and instead found myself seeing again Jerrod Bouchard's face, his eyes warm with concern, his fingers twined with mine.
I heard Raoul de'Chagny's voice saying, "He is not…a monster…"
…and the mysterious fragmented conversation between Abrigaun and Jerrod Bouchard in the carriage betwixt Paris and Corbeil.
Nadir Kahn's relating the tale of the young 'Erik' in Persia…
…and the confession by Bouchard that he was responsible for the "cold blooded murder of Umbaldo Piangi."
Christine de'Chagny's assurance, "My Angel was just that, an angel, in every sense of the word…"
…and the madness in the man's eyes as he fought to keep his hands from my throat, his face twisted into that of an Angel of Death.
A monster…or a man? A gentleman…or the Angel of Death?
I thought again of Louise's translations of the farcical stories, each accompanied by ghoulish cartoons of an outrageously deformed de'Carpentier: emaciated and cadaver-like, with thinly stretched and ragged skin, missing lips, nose and hair. How could any of these, which reflected the accepted description of Erik de'Carpentier and the nobly formed Jerrod Bouchard be the same man?
And then there were Louise's revelations regarding Erik de'Carpentier, squeezed in tiny print between the lines of faded text on the newsprint. She had filled the very last page of newsprint nearly edge to edge in that same tiny hand, with unpublished details concerning de'Carpentier's home, told to her by her husband, Rudolph Thériault', Duc de Ventadour, over the past three years. As Inspector General for the Paris Prefecture of Police, her husband had unparalleled access to everything concerning the man who was Erik de'Carpentier.
It was two squadrons of Rudolph's best men who had filled the Opera Populaire one November night for the Grand Début Performance of 'Don Juan Triumphant' with the order to capture…or kill if necessary…the Opera Ghost. Having failed in the capture, Thériault remained involved in the year-long chase of the criminal now known as Erik de'Carpentier, who had brazenly remained in Paris, evading every trap and trick the Duc set to apprehend him.
Rudolph Thériault had personally visited the fantastical home below the Opera Populaire where the Opera Ghost had lived, sharing the details with his wife. And so Louise had shared them with me. Oh…I had read this page several times, and could nearly quote it word for word.
De'Carpentier had taken over the very lowest level of the opera house, its existence unknown to any except the original architect and the men who set the belowground footings. It was but an island of stone and steel-reinforced concrete centered in the wide concrete channel that carried an underground river between the massive footings for the opera house. In this unimaginable place, de'Carpentier had been able to construct his subterranean home, complete with iron portcullis across the only apparent access to it.
Built with the same stone used for the Populaire, de'Carpentier's home was elegantly proportioned, with electric lighting throughout, modern plumbing in both baths, a brace of bedrooms and a large and comfortable library with twin fireplaces at either end. It had a fully functional kitchen, and spacious dining room that looked out upon the shallow landing, cleverly harbored from the sharp spit of land that split the dark, swift waters of the lake at the front of his home.
Most notable was the 'concert hall' built in the shape of a wide four-sided wedge with a vaulted ceiling, the longest, curved wall being the very back wall of the house. Here he had completely reassembled a massive church organ, then designed and built an electrical motor to run the bellows.
Behind the house was a high concrete and iron wall, below which both river channels converged, the waters dangerously turbulent.
Louise wrote de'Carpentier's spacious bedroom served as his studio also, as dozens of filled canvases were stacked about the room, large technical drawings and life studies were fastened to the walls, with one entire wall papered in colored schematics of scenery and staging for many of the successful Populaire productions.
In a modest corner of this room was the man's bed…a wide, elevated box made in a very distinctive shape…that of the standard 17th century coffin. The box was not ornate, painted in flat black inside and out, and the bedding consisted of a hard wool-stuffed pallet covered neatly in cotton sheet and black wool blanket.
Despite his bizarre choice of bed, de'Carpentier had excellent taste, and expressed it in the elegant furnishings he chose for the rest of his home. A quartet of ruby satin Louis XVI bergère surrounded a Golle brass inlaid table in the dining room, and his oak library desk was made by Oeben. Matching Boulle inlaid commodes bracketed the Bellangé garnet satin settee in the parlour, with a six-octave Érard grand piano center stage.
The bedroom made for Christine Daae was furnished in an elegant cherrywood Louis-Phillipe suite commissioned by a noble de'Carpentier at least three generations back, from Jean Henri Riesener personally. Rumor held that the furniture had once occupied the bedroom of Erik de'Carpentier's mother.
And throughout the house, Erik had painted murals upon the stone walls, landscapes, seascapes, and in Christine's bedroom the ceiling was painted to accurately depict the evening sky, the walls that of a sun-drenched garden, with flitting butterflies and vast swaths of flowers. The concert hall's back wall was a mural of an audience sitting in rapt attention.
Yet it was in the library where I believe one would find true understanding of the man who had been the Opera Ghost, and the details Louise gave of this room are what intrigued me the most. Louise reported Rudolph had exclaimed that de'Carpentier's library "looked like the damned Bibliothèque Mazarine!", which is France's oldest and largest library, a gross exaggeration, I'm sure.
There were thousands of books neatly shelved in the floor to ceiling bookcases that dominated Erik's library. Books on history, geography, philosophy and psychology were ranked neatly by subject, with an entire wall of those on world sciences, from Astronomy to Zoology. A collection of fine literature, Virgil to Zola kept company with stacked professional journals, and leather portfolios full of musical scores. And everywhere lie the evidence of de'Carpentier's restless attention…in the notes and observations he added in the book margins, or upon papers covered with his crabbed handwriting and quickly rendered sketches, shoved in between the pages. Open books lie about throughout the house, pen and paper at hand, as if the man felt the need to read and study at every moment…in the kitchen, his bath, and his bedside. This man had been a true scholar, with an avid curiosity that encompassed every facet of the world beyond his strange dwelling's walls.
Here was a man that I would wish to have met.
I knew what it meant to be driven by a hungry mind, always seeking the answer to the endless mysteries of the physical world. I did not place myself as being anywhere near de'Carpentier's genius, nor did I have the diversity of his interests, but for all that, I might have been able to hold up my end of a conversation with the man. Yes, I do believe I might have…and I could have learned so much!
Why did I feel such empathy for this poor man?
Which brought me back to the reason for Louise's letter, and her suspicion that Jerrod Bouchard might well be Erik de'Carpentier.
I shook my head; surely it was…impossible!
Oh, the evidence was there, as adamant in its conclusion as it was impossible for me to believe. Had not Bouchard admitted to murdering Umbaldo Piangi…a name unfamiliar to me until Louise's translations? Of course, the man would have been familiar with the Opera Ghost's history, and could have added this to his story for drama. But the de'Chagny's high-handed involvement in the disposition of the Opera Ghost's body was troubling; coincidences began stacking up rather high once the tale I had been given regarding Christine's 'uncle' was compared to the story of the Soprano Daae's abduction.
And yet…how could the man I knew as Jerrod Bouchard ever be physically described as he had been in several eyewitness accounts as being 'skeletal', 'hideously deformed', possessing 'a death's head for a face', and…my favorite…'having but a lipless maw, a hole in lieu of a nose, with only scattered bits of stringy, black hair upon his head'. I believe it was the last description that spoke of tufts of hair erupting at his temples and below his ears! And the former managers claimed the Opera Ghost had ruled the Opera Populaire for over 50 years, demanding a lion's share of any profit made during the theater's seasonal productions.
But Jerrod Bouchard stated he was 44 years, and I might have guessed him younger. His hair was deep auburn and baring one small area, thick and full; he was not hairless nor did hair grow in tufts about his head. Jerrod's skin was smooth and fair, his features complete and well fashioned aside from the terrible scarring on one side of his face.
Jerrod Bouchard did not in the least present as being so chronically malnourished as to be considered 'skeletal' nor so deformed that he could send a person into near cardiac arrest with fear by baring his face. And inmates of the State-run asylums did not normally put on weight!
I quite realized eyewitness accounts of any event were subjective and usually suffered from a profound lack of accuracy. I could even see Bouchard using a suitably horrid mask while doing mildly nefarious deeds. What I could not see him doing was wholesale murder! His temper was impressively short, and he excelled at the art of intimidation, but a murderer…oh, no…
I was left with the similarities that could not be explained away by overactive imagination: the day of execution, the de'Chagny's involvement with both men, a facility to mesmerize with the voice.
The bits and pieces of conversations that cast such a damning shadow over the man.
Somewhat frantic, I sought a conclusive reasonable doubt to resist thinking of Bouchard as being anything but a troublesome relative of the de'Chagny's…a misunderstood man…an abused child who had grown into a harmlessly eccentric man.
I could not…would not…think of him as the maniacal Opera Ghost!
Despite the fact Bouchard did not suffer from a shortage of intelligence, I saw no evidence of burgeoning genius. He was obviously well traveled, well read, and possessed a very flexible mind. One could even say he was clever and entertaining, with an appropriate sense of humor for a gentleman. But so far, the only superior talent he exhibited was music. I had known many people with a musical gift, and not one rated 'genius' status.
And Erik de'Carpentier had been a genius, by report and by discovery of the innovative engineering and architectural features found within his home, some of which have attracted scholars from the Paris École Polytechnique and throughout Europe for possible general application. A heating system that not only warmed the rooms of his house, but heated water for cooking and bathing. A gas-fuel 'fireplace' with realistic logs made of formed concrete. Electric lights throughout the house, generated by a pair of cleverly designed water turbines set in the fast-running river channels at either side of his house, one of which also ran the airpump for the massive Cavaillé-Coll pipe organ…that was yet another mind-boggling mystery in inself.
There were the mechanical wonders…gadgets and automons of such staggering simplicity, walking, moving…rolling…blinking. They seemed to be but toys, yet they were marvels of construction that offered insight into the mind of a man who had nothing but time to tinker and bend metal and gears to his devices.
Coincidence…it could only be that. Yet even as I assured myself for the tenth time, I vowed to stay alert for trouble, for any sign Bouchard and I needed to 'disappear' and seek safety in the anomity of traveling without our escorts. I was overwhelmed with the fierce determination to protect this man from whatever evil might be following us. I wanted him safe and I would allow no one to interfere with that.
Not even the Opera Ghost.