Chapter Thirty Six

When Bouchard asked me to join him for a quiet ride out on horseback, I hesitated just long enough to fan through the possibilities for the remainder of the afternoon. I decided being harassed by Bouchard held far more attraction than attempting to avoid Anna's critical eye, and turned to give him my assent…only to catch a strange look pass between he and Chanson.

Bouchard smoothly sent me toward my room, saying, "I will meet you here as soon as you are ready.

I choose my heavier habit, aware of a cooler feel to the air this afternoon, heralding the possibility of a wet evening. I refastened my hair, tied on a light scarf instead of hat, and pulled on my riding boots. One glance in the mirror assured me that my small nap and subsequent late lunch had revived the color in my cheeks, and cleared my eyes.

Bouchard was waiting by the fireplace, dressed in dark trousers and sack coat, gloves and a flat-topped sport cap in his hands. I had made a fuss when Abrigaun had picked that particular cap out for Bouchard…and I believe my misgivings were sound. I'd seen its like on those who followed the horseraces across England, and worn by a few of the dandy set here, in France. Nonetheless, once he had pulled it atop his head, it looked well enough, although I may be prejudiced.

Upon stepping from the back entrance to Le Corbusier, I could see Chanson and Xavier attempting to calm Aminta enough to set the saddle upon her broad back. Aminta was having none of it, thrusting her shoulder hard into Dietré, therefore moving them both further from a frustrated Xavier and the saddle. Aminta spied me halfway across the stable yard, and immediately began a rumbling, snorting litany of complaint, tossing her head and pinning her ears quite fiercely. Aware of Bouchard's censorious eye, I sternly demanded she stand once I'd pulled the lead from Chanson, and taking the saddle from Xavier's hands, set it upon the mare's back and bent to draw the girth. The bridle was fetched and Aminta meekly lowered her head to allow the bit past her teeth and headstall pulled over her ears. She stood quietly whilst I buckled the throatlatch and rechecked the girth. Having thus proved my mare to be a solid citizen, I bounced my chin in Bouchard's direction.

Chanson cast a dark look at Aminta, and shook his head. "That is no proper lady's mount, Mademoiselle!"

"Perhaps, Dietré. But she certainly suits me."

Chanson grunted and walked away, only to return leading a nondescript dun mare. Thom appeared at my side to aid me in ascending to my saddle, doing so with such vigor I nearly missed the saddle completely but for a firm hold on the pommel. Settling myself, I patted Thom's shoulder and breathlessly thanked him.

Chanson assumed a droll expression, remarking, "Mayhap you need a taller horse, Mademoiselle." Neatly putting himself in the saddle, he heeled his mare about, and it was then I noticed the blue-steel revolver he carried holstered at his hip. Coyly pointing my crop at his mount, I moved closer, eyeing the revolver patently. "Chanson, that is a very nice mare…I gather you will be riding with us?" Chanson nodded, saying nothing but looking quickly to Bouchard.

Upon pulling himself into the saddle, Bouchard's long coat swept aside, and the butt of a similar revolver was briefly visible holstered below his left arm.

The lowering certainty that my morning's ordeal was no longer a secret started a dull heat at my cheekbones. Nonetheless, I refused to allow anything to ruin this, perhaps the last ride we would share for a very long time. The thought of the narrow railcars, and the constant noise of the wheels upon iron tracks simply reinforced my wish to enjoy this afternoon completely.

Aminta, for all her fussing at the gentlemen, settled into a smooth, forward walk without a single jig or head toss, keeping next to Bouchard's gelding the entire distance through Lyon's cobbled streets. Wordlessly we headed for the open parkland that followed the River Saôen south from Lyon.

Chanson's dun showed far more fire than his last mount, and we took advantage of the low hedges and cleared deadfalls that littered the parkland, jumping them and cantering for quite a distance. I forgot the day's tribulations in the thrill of my mare's power as we sailed over fallen trees and hedgerows, and accelerated past the thundering John, his rider's ear-to-ear grin matching mine. It was a magical place, that framed betwixt my mare's forward-pricked ears, and I existed only in the moment…no troubling past, no worrying future.

Continuing along the double-tracked road south, I asked Aminta for a walk, which she gave after only the tiniest of hesitation, John sliding smoothly to a walk beside us. I could not help but laugh when I looked at Bouchard…his cap was gone, his hair swept wildly about.

"Bouchard…you have lost your lovely cap. And it was so…distingué!"

In answer he patted his pocket. "It is here. I decided it would not serve after the first flight of birds left cover and my foolish pony thought he too could fly!"

"Oh! I daresay that was exciting."

"I kept my saddle by virtue of shameless pride…I refuse to fall off while in the company of my lovely nanny." Pulling the cap from his pocket he doffed it prettily in my direction, then pulled it gracelessly upon his head.

Acknowledging his salute, I also gave a considering look to the foamy sweat marks upon John's broad, dark chest. "Perhaps we should moderate the remainder of our ride. I am not sure we should push so hard when both horses will soon be stalled for the duration of our trip." All we needed was to have one of them colic…what a nightmare that would be while on a moving boxcar!

Growling, "Mademoiselle, if I wanted to stroll about the park, I would have left the horse at the hotel stable," Bouchard kept John to a sedate walk nonetheless.

"Then have a thought for yourself, Monsieur. It was just a day ago you admitted to feeling a tad 'saddle-worn'."

Bouchard's reaction to that was amusingly predictable. "I am tough; you need not worry for me, Madame Butler." He twisted about to cast a darkly arrogant smirk in my direction, but visibly winced when it involved far too many 'saddle' muscles.

"So I see!" I said, chortling. "Be that as it may, you might not feel so tough tonight when your three days of riding has its revenge on your backside!"

"I am not concerned, Mademoiselle. I have a nurse. I will merely request she…ah…soothe the sorest parts." His grin was positively fiendish.

I laughed helplessly, saying, "Bouchard, any decent woman would be offended. How lucky that you have me."

"Indeed, Mademoiselle. I thank God daily."

The thought of Bouchard on his knees beside his bed, hands steepled, whispering, "…and thank you, Lord, for Madame Butler…" was a compelling one. So much that I nearly missed Bouchard's next words…

"Mademoiselle, you do not read French."

Surprised at this turn in conversation, I gasped, "No!" At his startled look I added, "Nor speak it…as you have, no doubt, noticed. Why do you ask?"

Bouchard seemed to ponder John's ears for a moment, his expression puzzled. "I could not help but notice the newspapers…the articles…they were from French newspapers. Yet you do not read French…"

Ah, how well I knew that look of innocent inquiry, a façade for the sharply honed sense for intrigue or artifice of even the mildest sort. I reached across the distance between us to tap him lightly with the wide tip of my crop. "Out with it, Bouchard!"

Eyes wide, Bouchard's lone brow shot skyward. "I offered to read several of those same articles to you, and you expressed no interest. I should be hurt, Mademoiselle!" One black-leather clad hand pressed firmly against his breast.

I could not help but laugh outright at his theatrics, then explained. "Louise sent along the articles unasked, my friend. She did include translations, which were written below the articles themselves…and I am sorry I ruined them, as she included several rather clever personal observations concerning the writers. One in particular…a Monsieur Leroux, quite bedeviled her husband, and wrote most unflattering articles concerning the Paris Police before de'Carpentier's capture."

Bouchard nodded, murmuring, "He was not overly kind in his descriptions of the Opera Ghost, as I remember."

"Well, despite descriptions of the man as a 'faceless fiend' and so forth, the Opera Ghost acquired quite a following in Paris after his début performance the night he murdered the male lead in the opera, and grabbed the…was it a dancer?" I shot a questioning look at Bouchard, feeling quite bold.

"It was a member of the chorus, a singer." Offered without the slightest reaction, Bouchard seemed slightly bored.

"Yes. It was Louise's thought I might not have been acquainted with the story because I do not read French, and that I would be interested. She felt Erik de'Carpentier would prove to be…as she put it, 'an unforgettable icon in Paris' history'."

"And the articles, for which she obviously felt such distain…these supported her thought that de'Carpentier was this 'unforgettable icon'?" Bouchard's lip all but curled. "I have read those articles, Madame, and they do not describe him as anything but a murderous, ill-behaved freak!"

"Oh…but Louise knew very well the newspapers fabricated a great deal of what was offered the public concerning de'Carpentier. In fact she shared with me details her husband had told her, which do paint a very different, and most fascinating picture of the man, making him no 'faceless monster'. Further, it seems his 'home' beneath the Opera Populaire is a marvel of engineering and construction, its rooms elegantly appointed, made comfortable and livable by clever inventions and modifications." I shot a look at Bouchard, and continued. "It was also obvious he was no Neanderthal with a penchant for frightening little girls, but a man who spent a great deal of his time in scholarly pursuits…albeit solitary ones."

Bouchard's reaction was disappointingly mild. "Pillow talk…the Achilles' heel to every state secret. I am shocked to hear even the Duc falls prey to such chicanery."

"So…when I talk of Louise, you do know of whom I speak."

Bouchard's smile had a definite sarcastic edge. "I am reclusive by nature, Butler, but I did not live under a rock. Of course I know…all of Paris knows of the dogged Inspector General and his crusading wife."

Rather chastened, I could merely say, "Oh."

"Besides which 'L. Thériault, Duchess de Ventadour, was prominently written upon the empty package on your desk. So…how does her husband feel about her elevating thoughts of a criminal he pursued throughout Paris for nearly a year?"

'Well…" I shrugged. "Louise thought de'Carpentier a very interesting and gifted man, and was most impressed by his inventions, many of which she has actually seen. However, she said she believed him also to be a murderous psychopath, who deserved exactly what he got. And, indeed…what else can my friend do but support her husband's belief de'Carpentier was responsible for the crimes laid upon him."

"Your friend is wise. And what is your opinion of the Opera Ghost?" Bouchard's gaze seemed to sharpen upon my face, his lips curved with wicked amusement.

I knew this question was inevitable, but was unsure how I should answer when Bouchard could conceivably be the very man of whom we spoke. Returning his gaze, I could only be honest. Taking a deep breath, I stated calmly, "I cannot help but think a terrible mistake was made the day France put that man to death."

Bouchard held out his arm to bring us both to a halt, his expression one of surprise. "That man being…Erik de'Carpentier? Are you…serious, Butler?"

Meeting Bouchard's gaze calmly, I nodded. "We have discussed this, do you not remember? I said then the newspapers were printing only the most sensational and outlandish rubbish about the man."

"And you do not believe he deserved the guillotine for his crimes?" Bouchard's expression was that of disbelieving fascination.

Unnerved by such avid attention, I snapped, "It is of no moment what I think, Monsieur; the man is dead." Sending my eyes forward, I squeezed Aminta back into a walk, but then could not help but add, "I thought we were agreed Erik de'Carpentier could not have done one tenth of that which was laid at his feet?"

Moving John neatly alongside, Bouchard shrugged. "Then was he not still guilty, even if of only one tenth of the crimes laid upon him? Consider it French justice, Butler. No doubt his conviction conveniently cleared many open cases for the Parisian police." The look of cynical amusement had returned.

"But…what if he was not? There was no proper investigation, no trial, and therefore no justice! It was nothing short of a witch-hunt, the mob mentality raging against what is not understood. Heavily fueled, might I add, by the absolute canard dished forth by the Parisian press!"

Seeing that Bouchard had at least dropped the smirk, I continued, using my crop handle for emphasis: "De'Carpentier may have been a murderous career criminal, I do not pretend to know better, although proof was either transparently contrived or circumstantial at best. What is undeniable is he was also a man of endless talent and untapped ability, a treasure France chose to discard in lieu of offering the man the most basic of human rights.

Why, do you know that Nikola Tesla visited the underground house twice, to look at several of de'Carpentier's electrical inventions, and became most enamored of the water turbines?"

At mention of the eccentric inventor, Bouchard grunted, saying, "Tesla is another who will end his days poor and alone. Genius can be a terrible burden."

I pinned Bouchard with a fierce eye. "How fortunate neither of us carries that burden, Monsieur!"

Bouchard merely laughed. "Do not sell yourself short, my dear Aislyne."

I was now remembering the many wonders Louise had written of…the well-appointed rooms and elegant layout of the 'house' built of stone, the electric lights and gas heat, the muraled walls and ceilings, including the 'audience' painted in loving detail on the concave back wall of the concert hall. And that one amazing room with its shelves floor to ceiling with books…

Nearly cooing, I said, "I would have loved to see de'Carpentier's library! Why, the man had an entire wall on the sciences alone…an entire wall! I would have sold my…soul for that alone." If I had one…

I was aware my companion's expression had become a trifle wide-eyed. "Aislyne, my dear…this is unlike you." His voice contained that quality used to calm those who might soon become hysterical.

Tipping my chin, I demurred firmly. "Perhaps, Bouchard. Or perhaps this is exactly like me." I sighed, and patted my patient mare, seeking that necessary moment to clarify my thoughts. "I cannot say I know the full mind of Erik de'Carpentier, but I feel I do that part of the man who never stopped being a student, a scientist, inventor…a seeker of answers…that portion of the man I can say I understand quite well." I met Bouchard's wondering gaze, tapping the air between us with the crop butt. "A curious mind can be a demon, Bouchard. It has the power to drive one to…to…very strange and dark places." I stopped, straightening my gloves to cover my irrational lapse. Predictably, I flushed hotly.

For several minutes we seemed to have run the course of the topic. I fussed with my mare's mane, wishing I could be sure…absolutely sure… I was aware of my companion's gaze resting thoughtfully upon my person more than once. I patently avoided looking at anything but the path ahead.

"My dear Butler, why this sudden affection for a hideously afflicted man…a man whom you have never met?" Surprised at the gentle tone in his voice, I turned to face Bouchard, and found no amusement, no sarcasm in his intent gaze.

"Perhaps what I feel is not so much affection as it is…understanding. Quite frankly, I would have felt entirely at home in his dark, solitary world, because until I learned to…to hide everything I was, I, too, preferred the dark. I am not that different from him, I think. I have not murdered anyone, nor loved another person so that I would risk everything to keep them with me. But I imagine I would have, should I have been in his place."

I must have confounded my companion, as he turned to stare thoughtfully at his mount's ears, his expression unreadable. For several minutes we did not speak, a circumstance I could only welcome, as my clumsy confession had played hob with my emotional state. Expecting my lungs to begin seizing, I was surprised to note I felt nothing…except the slamming of my heart against my ribcage.

We rode for some time without speaking.

Eventually, Bouchard moved John close, and reached out to touch my hand. "Mademoiselle, I am sorry. Erik de'Carpentier should have been honored to have known you as well."

It took several minutes for the vast lump in my throat to subside. My only thought was how very little the man who had confessed his name was not Jerrod Bouchard, knew of his nurse-companion…

Reaching the wide turn that sent us around the outside edge of the parkland, and therefore back toward Lyon, I noted Chanson was now lost to view in the trees. "Why has Dietré chosen to ride such a distance behind, Bouchard? Are we such sad company then?"

Bouchard's expression sobered. "He is doing what he came along to do. And you know very well what that is, Aislyne."

"Oh." I fussed with my left glove, unwilling to continue the subject.

Of course, that did not mean Bouchard was of a similar mind. His voice deceptively mild, he said, "Did you think such an event would remain secret when half of the hotel witnessed your near-abduction?" Bouchard's hands flexed upon the reins. I was thankful I could not 'read' his feelings right then…

Sounding peevish even to myself, I countered, "Then you are aware I was able to fend off the drunken fools with ease. I do not require protection, Bouchard, nor do I need an armed escort in order to go for a ride. I am not helpless."

I was favored with one fierce glare, yet his voice was gentle. "You are dangerously overconfident, Mademoiselle. Plourde and Davies are cowards; the next time Abrigaun may send men who are not so easily intimidated by your bluff with a pistol."

Indignant, I snapped, "I assure you, Monsieur; it was no bluff. I would have shot Plourde, and will do so whoever tries to molest me."

Bouchard's expression was skeptical. "You have shot a man before, Mademoiselle? It is not something easily done, even when he is most deserving."

For a moment I was rendered speechless at the idea Bouchard knew exactly of what he spoke. But of course he did…and I could only agree that it would be difficult… Having never actually shot anything but paper or wood targets…never anything living…I was suddenly assailed with doubts.

"And if it were Abrigaun himself, your passionate admirer…would you actually shoot him? I expect he will try next to take you…" Bouchard's eyes swept about as if expecting the lawyer to step from the bushes bordering the path.

I laughed, and informed my worrisome friend, "He has already tried…and failed, Bouchard, two days past."

Any thought of elaborating on that statement was lost in the loud cursing that erupted from Bouchard. Immediately John blocked my path, Bouchard clutching Aminta's noseband, staring at me as if I had just blasphemed in church.

There was no mistaking that I had now seriously upset Bouchard. I held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture, nearly losing my seat as consequence.

"When did this happen? Did you ever think to tell anyone…tell Chanson, if you cannot find it in your heart to trust me?" Bouchard was literally roaring; he released my mare's head only after she began sitting back to put distance between she and the Loud Man.

My hands were then full trying to keep terrified Aminta from planting me in the nearest tree. John had gone splay-legged, having dropped his back from beneath the roaring menace perched there, nearly dumping Bouchard. I found myself more worried about the man than myself.

After an endless minute of Aminta crow-hopping about, I was able to bring the mare back to her senses, although she pinned her ears and snapped at the large bay horse as if he were directly responsible for his rider's outburst.

"Bouchard, have a care!" Gritting my teeth, I moderated my tone, as my mare spun about, now seriously contemplating a fast return to the safety of her stall, with…or without me.

Eventually, I could only say, "I did not think it important."

The man's glare was glacial, the skin over his cheekbone and forehead were red with heat. "I am beginning to see just how…thoughtless…you are, Madame! What must happen to convince you that you are not…not…" Words apparently failing him, Bouchard turned away, patently attempting to calm both himself and the bug-eyed gelding he was astride.

I turned Aminta to walk her in a circle, taking the opportunity to talk myself out expressing umbrage over Bouchard's compulsive chivalry.

I did not want to argue with Bouchard, not now. "Please, let us not bicker over something that is past. I have been rebuked for my foolishness once today. I am too old to send behind the washhouse for a lashing, Bouchard."

Bouchard's expression was that of a man beset, eyes rolling. "Oh…that option is still under consideration, my dear!"

Exasperated, I continued, "I realize I need to…to practice reasonable care, considering recent events…and I promise I shall do so. Will you please stop grinding your teeth and look at me with something less than murderous irritation?"

"Murderous perhaps towards your…lover…" There was a dark look in his eyes I could not like.

I glared back, hissing, "I resent the implication, sir! I have done nothing to encourage Abrigaun in his attempts to…to carry me away. You, however, have done nothing but convince him I am in greatest peril of having my neck squeezed for no better reason than you…dislike my age! It is no bloody wonder he feels he must rescue me!"

Making reference to our first five minutes in the carriage to Corbeil brought him up short. I allowed him a minute to fume whilst I…fumed. And, of course, I knew I could not win…because in too many ways, Bouchard was exactly right.

Eventually I held out my hand, attempting a conciliatory tone. "I am requesting we drop this. What happened this morning shall not happen again. I will remain glued to Chanson…Xavier…and you, at all times when outside the confines of our suite. I give you my word, Bouchard!"

Bouchard narrowed his eyes, but his expression assumed a shadow of satisfaction with my concession. "Aislyne Butler, I am once again convinced the only way I can save you from yourself is to throttle you."

And I laughed…his statement was so illogical, yet it made perfect sense, all things considered. I smiled at him, and patted my heavy skirt over my right thigh, where my Sheffield Six lay heavily in its holster. "I would much rather that, than being forced to shoot you, my dear Bouchard."

After a moment, Bouchard moved John close, and reaching for my hand, gently removed my glove and kissed my knuckles. "Consider the subject closed, Butler." Anything further he might have said stalled noticeably behind his lips once our eyes met. I dropped mine after the briefest moment, ashamed of the overwhelming urge to dismount and pull him from his gelding's back and…

A cough sounded from behind us; Chanson had stopped his mare but a few yards from where Bouchard and I were, yet again, stalled. His expression revealed he had heard enough of the last few minutes of our conversation to be thoroughly confused…or disgusted. "Would you like me to keep moving so that you may continue your…discussion? I am of a mind to return to the hotel before the kitchen closes for the night."

Since hours of daylight remained, his sarcasm was unmistakable.

I needed to clear my throat before speaking. "I do suppose I should be helping Anna with preparations for the move back to the railcars. Having said it, I silently cursed the idea, as returning to the hotel suite was the very last thing I wished to do. Nonetheless, releasing Bouchard's hand, I pulled on my glove, and sent Aminta into a forward walk.

Bouchard and I rode side by side for the remainder of the outing, speaking seldom, yet it felt a most companionable silence. There were no further arguments.

I spend the evening at the piano, fiddling with a piece I started several months ago while still locked in a small cell at the Rois. I weigh several tempo patterns, changing the note values, shifting between lento to andante to allegro and back, without really giving the music more than half my attention.

Chanson sits with Xavier playing cards, while Anna folds freshly ironed bed linens and bath towels with Aislyne's help. Emanuel sits in a chair by the card players, adding items to a list dictated by Aislyne. This homey scene contrasts greatly with that I knew when last I ran through these particular notes. I close my eyes and repeat the mantra, "I am a man, and I live…"

Upon opening my eyes I catch Aislyne's eye upon me, her expression anything but enigmatic. There is concern, a decided warmth. And fear... 'Do you fear for me…or for you, my dear Aislyne?' For an instant our eyes lock, and it is as a physical touch, a sensation I find as startling as it is pleasant.

"I am a man, and I love…"

Aislyne drops her eyes first, sweeping a wrist across her forehead, in effect, hiding. She has noticed that Anna is watching her, and Anna's expression is troubled.

I bend to the piano, ostensively to make a change in the notes upon the sheet I have before me, but I return Aislyne's next inevitable look with a wink.

Anna frowns. Aislyne's expression becomes sober save for one rogue dimple.

Despite the engaging byplay with Madame Butler, and the habitual pull of the sheet of notes before me, I cannot help but revisit in my thoughts Aislyne's remarkable defense of Erik de'Carpentier. I suffer a most singular pang of jealousy remembering her regret at his death…the fierce defense against his myriad accusers. And her breathless recount of the wonders of the house in the fifth basement of the Opera Populaire…why, her expression was nearly lustful when describing the library…

And that she could compare herself to the man who lived for so many years in hiding, convinced his countenance could only evoke scorn and hysteria, was disturbing. I wished to ask her what could possibly make her feel so about herself…but could not. I realize she sees herself as deeply flawed…but I cannot ask her what this would be. Who am I to question her in such fashion? Like me, her past is her own…

Atop the piano sits my completed gift to Christine and her new child…the book of cradle songs. Aislyne has written a most reasonable epistle requesting the bo…ah, the Vicomte consider it reparation for my sins against Christine.

Reaching for it, I open it to the last page, the simple words and melody making it more hymn than lullaby. Looking across the room, I find Butler's eyes, and then begin to play this, singing full voice my message to Christine: A Father's Prayer:

"A Father' prayer is simple,

he asks for simple things.

And every day he sings it in his heart…

"May you smile, may you smile

May your happiness illuminate each mile.

Down each path that Life presents you, all the while.

This I pray.

"May you love, may you love!

May your heart know all the blessings found thereof.

The greatest joy you will ever know is sharing love.

This I pray.

"May you sing! May you sing!

Such a gift that God has given must surely ring.

This above all others is the thing!

This I pray.

"A Father' prayer is simple,

he asks for simple things.

And every day he sings it in his heart…

OoOoOo

"I am a man, and I live…"