Thank you all for following my story. Your reviews were awesome, the feedback is priceless. I know Erik and Gabrielle can be frustrating sometimes, but they have a lot of "stuff" to work out. It's good to know that most you believe Erik is coming across in a true manner; aloof, angry and moody one minute, vulnerable, kind and passionate the next. At least he doesn't give up!
Re-cap: Erik finally admits to Gabrielle that he loves her...
Ch 36
The Phantom of the Opera wept.
Erik clung to my legs and pressed his forehead against my knees; his hot tears dampening my dress. I stroked his disheveled hair with my free hand and allowed him the silence he needed to process his admission.
"I do love you, Gabrielle, I know I do. There is no other explanation for my need for you," he sounded relieved to be able to identify what had him so tangled up inside.
Erik peered up and searched my face to consider my reaction. His face was wet with his tears. Gently, I reached down and removed his mask, amazed that he offered no resistance.
I shifted on the love seat and motioned for Erik to come and sit next to me. He gained his composure, rose gracefully and took the spot beside me. I lay his mask in my lap, grasped his hands in mine, and rubbed the back of them with my thumbs.
"This love that has claimed me, it alters my self control and I am not accustomed to that. It's most unnerving. How can it be that two people as different as you and I can fit together in spite of the obstacles that plague us?"
"I'm not sure if he's penned it yet, but philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche said, What else is love but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts, and experiences otherwise than we do…? Perhaps he will find his inspiration for that quotation because of meeting us. You see Erik, differences are good," I said with a smile.
"But Gabrielle, the idea of love, it terrifies me. What if I make a mistake?"
"A mistake?" I chuckled lightly, "Oh you will make a mistake, or two, or three, or thousands. Be sure of it, or have you forgotten that you are not superhuman, Monsieur?"
"If that is so, then it's indeed a wonder anyone can survive such ventures."
"That's why TV psychologists became so popular in the 20th and 21st century," I said sardonically. Wouldn't Freud faint dead away if he got a load of Dr. Phil?
Erik made a valiant attempt smile at me while I continued, "Conflict is a natural part of life, Erik. Folks just work through their problems with open, honest communication. Mutual respect is important too, and guarding against deliberately wounding each other—especially when an argument ensues."
I leaned in and kissed his forehead. "I realize that most people in your life have treated you badly. I'll help you work on your reaction to dissention and anger if you'll let me."
Erik considered my words as if he were the ardent pupil and I, the wise instructor. I could see the scribe in his head taking notes.
"Gabrielle, there is so little that you know about me, my past, things I have been involved in that I am not proud of. I wonder if you knew would you still want me?"
"Erik, don't forget I know about the Opera thing. I read about it in the attic."
"Ah, yes, the newspaper clippings."
"And the book I told you about…."
"Book? What book do you refer to, Gabrielle?"
"Remember when I told you about reading the clippings? I told you about the turn of the century book about the Phantom of the Paris Opera. Many of the places, names and events were the same as those in the clippings, but many of the facts were way off. The author exercised total artistic license. I supposed the man must have known you, or had immense respect for you as an artist, because he didn't divulge key information."
"Such as, Mademoiselle?"
"I shrugged, "Let's see…your face. He has you covering your entire face and making you out to be a ghoul."
"Aren't I?" Erik said curtly.
"No, you have a nose and lips and a good amount of your own hair. Your eyes are not a wolfish yellow and you don't have the cold clammy grip of death. You do posses the most heavenly speaking and singing voice ever to touch my ears, and you are a magician, an architect and a genius. Those attributes the author got right."
Erik appeared stunned by my words. A small scowl colored his visible features, "I bid you, continue," he barked.
"In the book, you didn't kill Joseph Bouquet outright. Actually, there is only an inference that you did it, but no proof.
The man was a pervert, always skulking around the little ballerinas dormitories. He had even deflowered a few of the puerile things before they knew what had happened. He came sneaking around where he ought not, so the Punjab lasso taught him a lesson."
I lifted my eyebrows at him.
"Do not judge me, Gabrielle. He wouldn't heed my warnings. What else?" Erik demanded, squeezing my wrists tightly.
"Erik, ouch!" I jerked back, rubbing my wrists.
"Very sorry, darling," he attempted to sooth me by petting my arm. "I fear that I have become too caught up in your tale."
"I can't blame you." I recalled useless details, such as the book's character portrayal, timelines and settings. When he asked me who the author was, I pretended not to recall. I had no wish to see Monsieur Leroux become a hunted man.
"It doesn't matter anyway. Up until 2005, no one has compared the composer Erik DuPuis with the Phantom of the Paris Opera. You have a respectable and renowned legacy," I reassured Erik.
"This is all amazingly fantastic."
"From what I have gleaned by observing the intricacies of your brilliant mind, you are clever, brilliantly talented, polished and refined, in the same instant menacing and cunning as a jackal. You carry an unusual compassion for innocents in peril. I have watched you care for the animals which live on your land, and Monsieur Roux told me of your philanthropic gestures toward a particular an orphanage in Paris."
Erik groused, "That old man has a loose tongue."
"He likes you Erik; so do I. And I know of your time in Persia."
"What do you mean, dear?" He narrowed his eyes at me skeptically.
"You were an architect for the sultan of Mazendaran. That's what I read in the news clipping. There was sketch of a palace that an unnamed French architect was rumored to be designing for the sultan. I guessed it must be you; why else would you save that bit of paper?"
He issued a curt nod, "Go on."
"That book I read in high school also claimed that you were coerced into designing devices for the sultana as well—devilishly creative means of encouraging political prisoners and criminals to talk. She deceived you by using them for more than valid reasons; she used them to torture and murder whomever displeased her or for simple entertainment. Is this true or simple writer's conjecture?"
Erik turned from me and glowered, "What if it is? Will you unleash your outrage against me and run away, terrified of what you believe I may do to you Gabrielle?"
"No, I haven't reason to, do I Erik?" I stroked his back with my fingertips.
"Oh Gabrielle," he lamented. "Do you not realize I would never, ever harm you? I have harmed no one who did not deserve my wrath. I have only put an end to a life out of desperation for my own survival. Please, you do believe me, don't you?" Still facing away from me, Erik hung his head and spoke in a deep, dry whisper. His pain was palpable.
My heart ached for Erik. I wrapped my arms around him and laid my head on his broad back, "Erik, I believe you implicitly, and I love you dearly." I hugged him so hard my arms began to go numb.
He turned around to face me and there were tears shining in his jade eyes. He then startled me by pulling me into a deep, impassioned kiss.
The kiss lasted so long, I felt as though we'd moved into another realm. No other sensations existed except those between my love and I.
Eventually our lips drifted apart of their own accord. Erik and I gazed at one another in rapt amazement. "Gabrielle," he murmured, "With you I am whole."
Tilting my head slightly, I smiled warmly, "Erik Dupuis, I said you've always deserved to love and be loved in return."
He nodded and looked away attempting to will his tears back into their ducts. I too was misting up at this tender tableau. I reached into my skirt pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to him.
Erik accepted the square of linen from me and dabbed at his eyes. "How pitiable and un-masculine of me to cry in your presence, Gabrielle. My sincere apologies, mademoiselle."
"Erik, sweetheart, you're the most masculine man I've known in any century, bar none. You do not have to apologize. Allowing your heart to feel again is a monumental event."
"I suppose you are correct. Here darling," he said handing the damp hankie back to me. "We really must be going, I've arranged for a carriage to pick us up promptly at nine."
"So…we're still planning on our trip to the bazaar and the dressmaker?"
"Why wouldn't we, darling?" he waved off my comment as if last night's debacle never happened. "Change into a day dress. I'm off for a bath. Be ready in one hour's time."
"Thank you!" I granted him a kiss on his right cheek and scurried off to the bedchamber to change for our shopping adventure in merry old Victorian England.
Think of today's London, with streets full of people, vehicles, street peddlers, shops and parks, and you've got roughly the same thing going on in 1877, minus a few tall buildings and other updates of course.
"This is so cool!" I bubbled to Erik as I checked out the urban landscape from the window of our private carriage. "Look! Oh my God, there's a man spinning three dishes on three separate poles, just like in the tapes of the old Ed Sullivan show!"
Erik simply smiled and tolerated my child-like enthusiasm.
Sure, London was visibly dirty; there were urchins in the street, stray dogs and beggars strewn among the finely attired men and women of the upper class and their elegant trappings. Today, there are just as many pollutants in the world's big cities of my home century; they're just not as obvious.
"We've arrived at Madam Roche's shop, Gabrielle. I shall accompany you to instruct her as to your needs, and then I will leave you in the seamstress's capable hands. Choose whatever textiles and colors you like, but be sensible."
"Not to worry, Erik. I won't be frivolous with your generosity." I assured him.
"That's not what I meant, dear. Spend what you like, but take care not to commission anything too dense, for our French summers can be most stifling."
"Oh, got 'cha."
"And Gabrielle, my love?"
"Yes?"
"Retire the slang."
"Yes…indeed monsieur."
My proper response earned me a brilliant smile and a kiss. Erik playfully slipped his hand over one of my breasts and winked.
"Shall we?"
The coachman attended us as we disembarked from the carriage. Madame Roche's shop was in the fashionable West end, not far from our hotel. The customary shopkeeper's bell tinkled when we entered, signaling her that she should leave her sewing and meet one of her cherished customers. Ready to wear had become available in the last half of the century, and dressmakers were suffering the effects of many of the lower class women choosing the less pricey department type stores of the arcades and bazaars. Only the upper classes frequented a couturier.
From behind a curtain that led into another room, I heard the hurried voice of a woman call out, "Please, I am coming!"
"She's French?" I whispered.
"Yes, and because of her excellence, she still enjoys a brisk business in spite of the nouveaue emporiums."
A tiny woman of about 70 stepped from behind the fringed curtain. She wore a dark dress with a buttery yellow apron over it.
"Ah yes, you must be Monsieur Dupuis and Madame Thomassen. Oui, she is lovely, no? Such radiant dark copper locks." The woman touched my hair and smiled at me then Erik.
Strangers unnerved Erik. He had never seen the woman in his life and stood behind me, stoic and reticent.
Madame Roche' curtsied to us and addressed Erik, "Monsieur Dupuis, Monsieur Mangeot has told me much about your work, and what an elegant figure you make! Come children, sit and tell Emily what you are need of." With both hands, she motioned to a very well used Louis the XIV couch and two chairs.
From behind her ear, she produced a pencil and withdrew what I assumed to be an order pad from a pocket in her apron. A measuring tape hung from her wrinkled neck.
Erik began, "Madam Thomassen requires three day dresses, three blouses with skirts, two walking dresses and a summer evening gown. She is also in need of the pertinent unmentionables," he informed the woman with out batting an eyelash.
"And spare no expense."
Madame Roche bobbed her head in agreement, enthusiastically writing down Erik's instructions. On the inside, I imagined her thinking cha-ching!
"Madame Thomassen is to have whatever she wishes as long as it suits her. Since she is from America, you may find it necessary to assist her in her choice of designs and fabrics."
I thought this remark rude and frowned. Erik shot me a subtle warning scowl.
"Madame's garments are to be fit for our Parisian summers, and since we live there, it won't be necessary to design frocks fit for an English dowager."
The little seamstress uttered a polite laugh, "Oui Monsieur, I understand."
"I plan to stroll in Regents Park and indulge myself in some shopping. How long should I tarry, Madame Roche?"
"Three hours will be sufficient, monsieur. If we are not finished when you return, you may wait out here as long as needed."
With his directives complete, Erik bid us adieu.
I spent the next two and a half hours standing in my underwear, while Madame Roche measured, pinned, and prodded me. She complimented me for my fit and supple figure.
"Most of the young women I see are either too soft from living a life of luxury or coarse from having to work for a living—these Mademoiselles are brought in by their benefactors to be fitted for clothes appropriate a mistress. Is Monsieur Dupuis your benefactor, dear?"
"What the—my benefactor Madame?" I could not believe she had said such a thing to me. Leave it to the French to be so bold.
"The man is my uncle's business partner. He is helping me to get back on my feet after I lost my husband and most of my family in America and nothing more, Madame," I informed her haughtily.
The woman cackled with glee, "Indeed; your platonic protector! Not that man, dearie. Emily has seen much, and you cannot fool this old crone."
Was it that obvious? I thought Erik and I had done an admirable job of being cool and detached with one another in her presence.
"The mask, it is mysterious and exotic, but I imagine your man hides a disfigurement which he is ashamed to show the world. Ah, the world, it is un-necessarily cruel to what it cannot fathom."
Would this woman not shut-up?
"True, but as to Monsieur DuPuis' mask, I cannot say, Madame."
"No, no; that is why the heat of amour radiates from the two of you. You love him in spite of his foibles."
I used to be good at hiding my emotions from the public at large.
"Yes Madame Roche," I sighed. "Who can fool a wise woman like you? I confess…I love the man. But its okay, neither one of us is attached to another."
I rather resented being lumped into a pile with those mistresses, which she undoubtedly ran across regularly in her profession.
"It is alright dear girl," she patted my arm briefly before moving on to fit a skit form around my waist, "Emily understands. I will see you for your final fitting in three weeks, and then I will see you no more until you come for your bridal trousseau."
Is she whack? I wondered.
I whipped my head toward her, "Oh no, Madame, you are mistaken, I am nowhere close to being engaged to anyone, anywhere in anytime."
The idea of marriage to Erik never entered my mind until the M word began to fall from the lips of mere acquaintances-first from Erik's friend Nadir Khan and now the dressmaker, Madame Roche.
For me, entertaining the idea of marriage meant facing rejection. Erik had professed his love for me, but he wasn't going to ask for my hand. I nearly laughed in the clairvoyant dressmaker's face.
Erik returned to the Madame Roche's shop promptly at 3:30. He listened politely to M. Roche's chitchat, paid her in full for her services and whisked me off to our rented carriage.
"Who knew fittings could be so grueling," I said.
"No more than suffering the hordes in Regents Park with their prying eyes. All of bloody Britain must be about this afternoon. It is a veritable circus in the city today," Erik groused.
"Poor baby," I slid next to him and took his arm in mine. "You know, it's not necessary to visit the bazaar today, Madame Roche outfitted me with every style of garment and accessory I could possible need."
"But you want to shop and sight-see don't you, Gabrielle?"
"I've seen enough department stores and shopping malls, as we call them in 2005, to last both centuries. I am exhausted. Can we please go back to the hotel? I need a nap."
I realized how much Erik loathed crowds and I saw no need to cause him more stress. From what he told me, navigating the crowded park pushed the limits of his patience.
"Alright darling, if you're sure… whatever else is needed may be obtained when you and Marie go to Paris for your weekly trip. I will furnish you with the necessary funds."
"You don't need to provide everything for me, Erik; I can buy my own millinery and gloves. Sometimes your generosity makes me uncomfortable."
"My providing for you is not an insult to your abilities, Gabrielle. I want to take care of you, I want to give you everything you require and desire."
"That's sweet, really, I am just not used to it Erik. I've always been an independent girl."
"In 1877, it is not so easy for you to be—perhaps that will change. Until that time comes, allow me to do these things for you."
Reluctantly I agreed.
Shall I have the driver stop at a shop de fromagerie? We can enjoy our midday repast at the hotel before you retire for the nap, dear."
"Sounds like a plan to me. If you insist on being a social butterfly, let it be at supper."
Erik tapped on the driver's window and instructed the man to stop at a place on Oxford Street. The shop carried selections of fine cheeses and a variety of fresh breads from a nearby bakery. We made our choices: a French baguette, an herbed Gorgonzola and Gloucester. Our next stop would be the hotel.
We were making our way through the lobby when Fitzgerald broke away from checking in an elderly couple. "Monsieur Dupuis!" He waved an envelope in Erik's direction. "Here, I have a message for you."
Erik approached the desk warily. "No one knows I am here, save for the Roux's and Eugene," he whispered to me.
Erik inclined his head toward Fitzgerald in thanks and took the envelope from the man. Hastily, he slipped his thumb under the seal and withdrew a piece of stationary with an ornate M printed at the top of the page. I read his face for signs of reaction.
"It seems Monsieur Mangeot is inviting us to dine at his home this evening. Would you be averse to meeting my partner and his wife, Emily?"
"Not unless I have to perform for them in some fashion. Are they nice people?"
"Pleasant enough—both accept me in spite of my appearance and reserve. They have four polite children, the three and five year old do have an irritating penchant for asking repeatedly inane questions."
"They're children, Erik, it's what they do," I giggled at his bachelor-esque perspective.
"I must R.S.V.P. by courier." Erik asked Fitzgerald to send an informal reply of yes for this evening at 8:30, delivered post haste.
I hoped to have Erik all to myself this evening, but I welcomed any opportunity to meet his partner whom I'd heard so much about. Any man able to see beyond Erik's peculiar façade and surly attitude must be a man worth knowing.
Once in the room, Erik suggested a nap for the both of us.
"We should rest for an hour or so, and then we'll prepare for an amusing evening of socialization with my partner and his family," he commented dryly.
"Another social event for the adventuress and her reluctant paramour; don't fret, Erik—at least you have me to deflect conversation off of tonight."
"No dramatics, do you understand, Gabrielle? To be polite, you will partake of one glass of wine, which you will sip from the entire evening. I'm taking no chances with you and that tongue of yours wildcat. Are we clear, my pet?"
"You're no fun," I pouted.
"Gabrielle, I'll have no monkey shines…"
"Only kidding, my love; I'll be on my charm-school best behavior, I promise."
We undressed to our underclothes, kissed and dropped into bed.
- O -
A bit fluffy, but don't worry the plot will thicken again! Please review. — Leesa