To Be Loved
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

Chapter 48
March 7, 2010

Love is like a dew that falls on both nettles and lilies. ~Swedish Proverb

The doorbell rang. Erik had been sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace, reading a book as he waited for the person on the other side of the door to arrive. Setting aside the book, he glanced up at the mantle clock. Eight o'clock sharp. He made a mental note of this. Punctuality. At least that was one factor in the young whelp's favor.

He rose from the chair and gave his jacket a tug to smooth out any wrinkles. It wouldn't do to look like a rumpled old man in front of de Chagny's boy. Making sure his hair was properly smoothed back and that his mask properly in place, he answered the door. As expected, it was Vincent de Chagny, his face hidden behind a vast bouquet of cattleya orchids.

"Yes?" said Erik.

Vincent lowered the flowers and removed his top hat in anticipation of the customary invitation of welcome. When Erik did nothing, he silently fumed in annoyance at being made to stand in the hallway but made certain he kept his smile firmly plastered in place.

"I am here for your daughter, sir," he replied obsequiously. "Perhaps you forget that I was taking her out this evening?"

"My memory is perfectly fine," Erik answered. Still he didn't move.

"May I come in?"

Erik looked around as if he'd just noticed that the boy hadn't already done so. "Of course," he said, changing his demeanor from brusque to ingratiating. Truth was he had been testing the lad, seeing how he would react to small obstacles – like an over-protective father. Once they were in the main room, they each took a seat while awaiting Aurelia's entrance.

Erik spent the next several moments giving Vincent a quick inspection. He noted favorably that the young man was nattily dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that fitted his form to a tee. At his wrists, cuff links winked merrily in the lamplight. Erik saw that they were made of sapphires set in platinum, and that they matched the young man's eyes. Nice touch, he thought. Then again, he's the son of one of the wealthiest families in France. Why shouldn't he be dressed to the nines?

"My daughter is still getting ready," he said, finally breaking the silence that had fallen over the room.

The younger man gave a knowing nod, holding the bouquet with what looked like a death grip. "Young ladies like to look their best," said Vincent, tense under the silent scrutiny, which took him by surprise. He had never backed down from anyone – not his father, nor his uncle. Why did this man who wrote romantic twaddle upset him so? Could the reason be as simple as that Erik Delacorte was Aurelia's father and that he wanted to make a favorable impression?

"You have much experience in knowing what young ladies like?" Erik asked, suggestively.

Vincent gave a good-natured laugh, suddenly feeling himself on safer ground. "But of course, Monsieur Delacorte. I have three sisters, as you may recall. I have spent more than my share of time waiting upon young ladies who are preparing themselves so that they look their best."

Erik relented and offered up a chuckle. The boy had responded well. "My apologies for making it sound as if I were suggesting otherwise. She is, after all, my daughter. On a different note, might I suggest you loosen your hold on those poor flowers before you strangle them?"

Vincent looked at the hand holding the bouquet, and was chagrined to see that his knuckles were white. "I guess you could say I'm a little nervous, Monsieur Delacorte."

Erik quirked an eyebrow. "You, nervous? What reason have you to be nervous?"

"It's not every day that I am permitted the honor of escorting the loveliest young woman in all of Paris out on a date."

"Are you trying to butter me up?"

"Me, sir? No, sir. Never!"

This time both men laughed, and at that very moment Aurelia entered the room.

"Thank goodness," she sighed with obvious relief. "I was worried I'd find the two of you at each other's throats."

Both men rose and stared, taking in the beauty that was Aurelia Delacorte. This was no parvenue before them, but a young woman possessing her own kind of classic beauty. Her wavy auburn hair was stylishly done up in a way that emphasized the graceful line of her neck, and was accented with tiny pink silk roses. On her gown were matching silk flowers decorating the low neckline. The pale blue, embroidered gauze gown brought out the color of her eyes. A matching garland swirled around the skirt below the knees, angled in such a way that the flowers dipped towards the hem in the back. Many of the petals glittered with artificial dewdrops.

The caplet sleeves of her gown were complemented by white elbow-length glacé kid gloves, and on her feet were patent-leather slippers sporting tiny buckles adorned with more jewels that caught the light as she walked, teasing the onlooker with the tantalizing promise of a glimpse of an ankle or (heaven forefend) a bit of calf. As Aurelia moved to and fro, modestly modeling her dress, Vincent admitted to himself that he enjoyed watching the way she moved and glimmered in the light.

Quite simply, she took their breath away. Even her father could hardly believe this vision of loveliness was his little girl, while Vincent could scarcely believe it was his good fortune to be escorting her to supper this evening. To her delight, both of them said as much to her, causing her to blush becomingly.

"You absolutely sparkle!" exclaimed Vincent.

"Do you like the way the silk flowers glitter?" asked Aurelia. "They're adorned with the new Swarovski crystals everyone's talking about. A new shop opened a few blocks from here, and when I saw this dress in the window, I knew I just had to have it!"

"They dazzle the eye, just as you do."

He took a step forward and presented her with the bouquet. Aurelia accepted the orchids, and noticed that in the center there was a nosegay of fragrant white roses that looked every bit as beautiful as those found in the Tuileries Garden, along with yellow oncidia orchids that bounced when they moved, resembling a cluster of tiny Southern belles wearing ball gowns with full skirts that flared when they danced.

"These are for you," he said, "though they hardly do you justice."

Aurelia inhaled the perfume of the roses. "You are too kind, sir, and far too modest. They're beautiful! Are they from your mother's hothouse? It's too late in the year for roses to be blooming otherwise!"

"Naturally," he replied, grinning like a schoolboy.

She handed the bouquet to her father, and tucked the nosegay into the ribbon that accentuated the waist of her dress. "Will you hold these while I got get a vase?"

Waiting until she was well away from the two of them, Erik laid down the law. "I may be an over-protective father, young man, but she is all I have. Not only do I expect you to return her safely to her home at a reasonable hour, but with her reputation intact." He glowered and stormed around the apartment, summoning the glory of the erstwhile Phantom into every word and gesture, doing his best to make a lasting impression on the young man.

Vincent, on his part, responded with suitable deference. "I would not dream of having it any other way, Monsieur. I treasure your daughter every bit as much as you do."

"I doubt that, since you hardly know each other."

"It's not the length of time, sir, but the quality of it that is important. Believe me; you can trust your daughter to my care."

Aurelia stood outside the room and watched the performance, enjoying the snort her father gave Vincent before alerting them both that she'd returned. "Please, Father. You mustn't fuss so. You'll work yourself into an apoplexy!" She stepped to his side and gave him a peck on the cheek. Relieving him of the flowers, she placed them in a crystal vase and set them on the mantle. When she turned her attention to Vincent, he was pleased to see that she had plucked a couple of the flowers from the nosegay and had them pinned onto her dress. "Are we ready to go?" she asked, eager for them to be on their way. She'd never been on a real date before, and she was determined to make this a night to remember!

Growling at the young man to step aside, Erik insisted on helping his daughter into her flowing white winter cloak. Once again, Vincent had to admire her choice in attire, and appreciated the way the fabric draped her figure, showing off her curves with every step. Matching snow-white fur peaked out from the hood and framed her pretty face charmingly.

"There," said Erik as he tied the cloak in place. He knew better than to lift the hood over her carefully arranged locks. He took a step back and gave her one last, long look. Tonight more than ever before, with her hair coifed and curled, she reminded him of Christine, and he wanted to burn this image into his brain.

When he thought Vincent wasn't looking, he slipped several bank notes into her hand. "Mad money,"
he whispered. She gave her father a puzzled look before tucking the bills into her evening bag. "In case…you know…you get mad at Monsieur de Chagny and have to take a cab home."

"There won't be any trouble," she said, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. "But thank you just the same." She gave him another peck on the cheek, then took Vincent's proffered arm and headed out the door.

By the time they left the apartment, Vincent was nearly quaking in his boots—or so it felt. "Think I impressed the old man?" he asked as he pressed the call button for the lift. The elevator responded with a series of clanks and groans loud enough to wake the dead.

"He's not an 'old man,' and I'd thank you not to speak of him that way," Aurelia snapped.

"You are right, of course. I stand corrected. That was rather rude of me to say, but I have a bad habit of being a little flippant when I'm nervous." Vincent pulled at his cuff. "Chilly out tonight, eh?"

Aurelia beamed at him and looped her arm through his as she stepped into the elevator. She knew he was talking of more important matters than the weather. "Oh, I expect it will warm up, once we're under way. Where are we going tonight?"

Vincent bowed. "Wherever your heart desires. All of Paris is at your beck and call."

"I've never been to a cabaret," she suggested.

"A cabaret? Really? Is there one in particular you wish to see?"

"I don't know of any. Oh, please, Vincent, don't look at me as if I've lost my mind. I've heard so much about them, and they sound like great fun. One in Montmartre will do. Any one."

"What?" he asked, astonished. "Are you sure?" He tugged at his collar with two fingers. He'd have to remember not to do up the tie so tight the next time. "Montmartre has a…a reputation. An unsavory one at that." He leaned closer and muttered, "Your father will kill me."

She snickered. "What my father doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Easy for you to say. Remember, I'm the one who had to swear on his eternal soul that I would be protecting you."

She gave him an impish grin. "Then we'll have to make sure he doesn't find out."

His face lit up with devilment. "Well, if Montmartre is what you want, Montmartre is where we'll go."

The elevator settled on the ground floor, and Vincent opened the ornate brass doors and held them while Aurelia passed through. Arm in arm, they crossed the marble foyer and descended the steps that led to the street. Waiting curbside was one of the de Chagny automobiles, a coupé with front and back seats, crest-emblazoned doors, and a uniformed chauffeur who stood at attention while holding the door open for the couple. Vincent helped Aurelia into the vehicle and glanced upwards, certain that Erik Delacorte was watching them from the window of his penthouse suite.

"Le Moulin Rouge," he said quietly to the driver, hoping that Aurelia's father did not have supernatural hearing, as some fathers were rumored to have.

-0-0-0-

Montmartre was notoriously bohemian, filled with cabarets and lowlifes of every imaginable ilk. Grifters, aspiring artists, chorus girls and can-can dancers circulated amongst the various establishments, rubbing elbows with gentlemen who had more money than sense. It was a libertine setting that let loose the imagination and spawned fine art in gutters that reeked of sin. Men and women of all classes flocked there for a glimpse of "artistic expression" that could take many forms. The most famous intellectuals and artists in Europe were patrons, and it was this reputation for creativity that attracted Aurelia.

What she had not imagined was the tawdry origin of the place. Le Moulin Rouge, now a fashionable destination for aristocratic Parisians, had not all that long ago been little more than a high-class brothel, its sensational acts were designed to be blatantly risqué and provocative. Aurelia found herself face-to-face with this startling reality the moment their motorcar entered the Montmartre, when the neighborhood declined noticeably.

"A windmill?" she asked, inquiring about the distinctive red architectural feature atop the entrance to the establishment.

"Ah, that's the famous Red Mill," Vincent told her. "It's only ten or eleven years old, but in the medieval period, windmills covered the entire area."

"Charming!" she proclaimed.

The chauffeur pulled to the curb and a doorman rushed forward. Le Moulin Rouge was packed this evening, as it was on most nights, but the crest on the door of the automobile did not escape the notice of the doorman. He sent word to the maitre d' that an important guest had arrived. "Tell him it's the de Chagnys," he whispered to his lackey. "He might want to prepare the Count's usual table."

Aurelia had never seen such a place. Accustomed to the conservatoire with its emphasis on decorum, nothing had prepared her for a cabaret such as this one. Here, the aristocracy rubbed elbows with the bourgeois. Ladies in fine garments rode donkeys in the garden, where long tables were set up in front of a stage where a line of dancers would perform a celebrated quadrille, the infamously Can-Can dance. The Queen of Montmartre, La Goulue ("the Glutton") had been the toast of Paris and the highest paid entertainer of her day, and had made the Can-Can famous by kicking off men's top hats with her toe and raising her skirt to reveal an embroidered heart on her unmentionables. Some dancers dispensed with the unmentionables, as Aurelia would soon discover.

Beside the stage stood another enormous architectural folly in the shape of an elephant, three stories tall. A line of men in formal attire stood in line, ready to pay a franc for admission.

"How whimsical!" Aurelia proclaimed. "I wonder what can be inside? Why are there no women in line?"

"Um…women aren't allowed in the elephant," Vincent said, turning a bright shade of red. Damn, but his collar was tight tonight. "There's…they say there is…a spiral staircase in the beast's leg." He pointed to a doorway where customers could enter. "In the belly, there is a special…attraction."

"A display?" she asked innocently. "Or is it that the stairs provide some sort of physical exercise that is too demanding for women?"

"You might say that," he replied, grateful for the unexpected interruption when a troupe of semi-nude dancers rushed onto the stage, distracting Aurelia's attention.

"This is all a bit much, if I do say so myself. Want to leave?" Vincent asked before they checked their cloaks. He had to practically shout into her ear to be heard above the din of boisterous music and raucous laughter.

She shook her head. "No," she insisted. "It's an adventure!" She may have come from a humble Swedish country house, but she was determined to prove that she was as sophisticated as any Parisian.

The couple was shown to a table front and center of the dance floor. The table had a grimy feel to it, as though it could use a scouring, and the floors were caked with a sticky residue that stuck to the soles of their shoes. Aurelia seemed not to notice, so entranced was she by the spectacle that was le Moulin Rouge, but Vincent noticed it, and not for the first time had begun to question his judgment in bringing her to such a place.

A flourish of long skirts, petticoats, and black stockings whirled past them as the dancers launched into their first performance of the evening. Aurelia wrinkled her nose at the dirty costumes the women wore, but when the dancers finished their gyrations by dropping to the floor in a move known as the splits, she understood where the stains came from. The floor hadn't seen a mop in years.

"Vincent!" a youthful swell bellowed. "Fancy meeting you here! Who's your friend?" the man asked as he lumbered towards them. He leaned over Aurelia's shoulder, pretending to accidentally brush against her.

She turned her face away from his wormwood-scented breath, the telltale sign of absinthe, and saw with disgust the trickle of bright green that trailed from the corner of his mouth.

"This is Mademoiselle Delacorte," Vincent said with studied enunciation. He frowned at the drunken man, clearly displeased with this turn of events. "She is a friend of my family."

"A family friend? Dare I hope…a friend of your uncle's?" He leered at Aurelia, letting his insinuation sink in, then hiccupping loudly, destroying any mood he had been trying to create. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, n'est-ce pas?" He reeled unsteadily as he signaled the waiter to bring a chair to the table.

Vincent stood as two more acquaintances gathered 'round. "We were just leaving," he announced firmly.

"We were?" Aurelia asked, surprised. "But the show is only beginning."

"Yesh, Vincent. Whass the rush?" a bleary-eyed blond asked, his words already slurring. "Don' ya want to share yer good fortune with the rest of us?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be selfish," the other acquaintance, a disheveled youth, wailed. He winked at Aurelia. "Betcha she's someone who knows how to have a good time."

Vincent turned three shades of red. "My friend is a lady, and we are leaving."

"Oh, don't go off half-cocked," the first one said, and they slapped each other on the back and gave a rowdy laugh at a joke Aurelia would never get.

"I don't understand," she protested as Vincent led her through the crowded room, picked up their coats and steered her out the door. "They've had a bit too much to drink, it's true, but that's no reason for us to leave."

He ground to a halt. "Aurelia," he said angrily. "Those chaps are not worthy of your company. Plus, I made a promise to your father. Let that suffice."

"But…I don't understand? Aren't they friends of yours?"

"They are no friends of mine. They are merely acquaintances, the spoiled sons of distant relations and business associates, people whose names I never bothered to remember. They are the kind of men who are not accustomed to seeing a lady at a place like Moulin Rouge—at least, not with a man to whom she is not married."

Finally, it became clear to her. "I see," she muttered. "They thought I am…that you and I…that we…? How absurd!"

"Exactly." He glanced around furtively, fully expecting Erik Delacorte to burst out of the darkness and throttle him at any moment. "I should never have brought you here, not to a place like this."

"Nonsense," she said sweetly. "I asked to come here. If anyone is to blame, it's me."

"Is that what we'll tell your father?"

"He need never know. Now, tell me where you think we should go?"

He brightened visibly. "You mean it? You'd really go somewhere else with me, after what just happened in there?"

"Of course," she said, patting his forearm reassuringly. "The night is young but you're right. I think I've had my fill of le Moulin Rouge. Now, what else would you suggest?"

"There are clubs that will offer you a true taste of the Paris Music Halls, without compromising your reputation," he said in all earnestness. "Have you ever heard of Le Miss—Mistinguett? They call her the Queen of the Music Halls, and she just happens to be performing at the Casino de Paris."

"I've never heard of her," she said, shaking her head, but with a charming smile upon her face. "But I'd love to hear her, if you don't mind."

"Mind?" he asked, incredulous. "It would be my pleasure."

Soon, they were walking through the doors of one of the most popular spots in the city. The Casino de Paris dated back to the 18th century as a performing venue, and unlike le Moulin rouge, it did not have a reputation as a gambling hall or a house of ill repute. The music hall was clean, bright, and pristine in appearance, as well as lavishly decorated. Judging by the gilt ornamentation and lush red velvet draperies, no expense had been spared.

Currently, the highest paid performer in the world was its star, a singer known as Le Mistinguett. Some of the best couturiers in Paris designed the costumes she wore, and the most celebrated illustrators painted her image for posters. Le Miss projected a "just beyond your reach" persona that was intriguing and beguiling, and despite the fact that she was neither a great beauty nor a good dancer, her allure was undeniable. It didn't matter that she had a weak, tremulous voice; what mattered was the courage and conviction with which she sang. She was the darling of Paris, and she knew it.

Tonight, a young vaudeville actor, mimic, and dancer named Maurice Chevalier would be appearing onstage beside the incomparable Le Miss. Although he was nearly twenty years younger than she, Chevalier was more than her co-star. He was her lover—a fact well known among Parisian cognoscenti—and he wore his affection for her on his sleeve. His trademark was a tuxedo, which he always wore onstage with a boater hat. It lent a comical effect when he stood beside Le Miss, dressed as she was in exquisite designer gowns.

As Vincent had promised, the acts were risqué without being tasteless, hinting of scandal rather than being scandalous. The rest of the night was filled with gaiety and good humor. They had even run into some of Vincent's friends – real friends, people whose names he knew – who were out in mixed company, and had a marvelous time. On the way back to the Delacorte apartment, both Vincent and Aurelia swore that their sides ached from laughing almost as much as their palms ached from applauding.

"I don't think I've ever had such an enjoyable evening," Aurelia confided.

"Me too," he replied, looking serious as they pulled up to the curb in front of her apartment building. The chauffeur stepped out of the vehicle and waited for Vincent to signal for him to open the door.

"I cannot thank you enough."

Vincent leaned close to her. "Aurelia, do you think we might do this again some time? Soon, I mean."

"I'd like that very much," she said, looking deep into his dark blue eyes. Falling into them, more like it.

A girl could drown in those eyes, as they say. She was drawn to him, leaning close enough for their foreheads to touch. A stray lock of her hair grazed his brow, and a frisson of desire swept through them both. The attraction between them was impossible to resist.

On impulse, he kissed the backs of her hands, then her cheek, and when she offered her lips to him, he kissed those, too. "Aurelia," he whispered, holding her close.

Her heart was pounding, wildly beating against her chest. He had to be able to feel it through their coats. "You'd better see me in," she replied gently and with obvious reluctance. "My father is no doubt sitting on pins and needles, waiting up for me."

Vincent reluctantly signaled the chauffeur, who opened the door for them. Exiting first, he extended his hand to Aurelia. They strolled slowly up the steps and into the apartment building, neither ready for the night to end. A dozen times, they wished each other sweet dreams, both desperately wanting one more touch of the hands, one more brush of the lips. They were barely aware of ascending in the lift and arriving at the apartment's doorstep. With great reluctance, Vincent bade her bonne nuit and ran down the stairs, clicking his heels together in the marbled foyer before disappearing into his automobile…and into the night.

-0-0-0-

Little did Aurelia know that her father had followed them on their first date, staying discreetly in the background but keeping watch over her throughout the night. He had been ready to call up the fury of the Phantom when those louts had accosted her at le Moulin Rouge, but had to admit that Vincent acquitted himself quite well. Finally satisfied that the young man was not the bounder he'd feared he would turn out to be, Erik headed back home and had barely made it inside before the de Chagny car arrived. He had paused to catch his breath from running up flight after flight of stairs (where was that lift when he needed it?) when he heard the door creak open. Ducking quickly into his study, he picked up the nearest book—a thesaurus—and pretended to have fallen asleep in his favorite chair whilst reading.

The sight of him there, sound asleep, warmed his daughter through and through. He always made her feel beloved, and here he was, having struggled to wait up for her but obviously losing the fight to remain awake. She wondered for a moment what he'd done during the day that had left him so tired, but shrugged off any further thought of the matter.

"Father?" she whispered, gently shaking his shoulder. "Time for bed. You'll get a crick in your neck if you stay like that all night."

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, doing his best to act as if he'd been roused from deepest slumber. He wiped the "sleep" from his eyes and stared up at her drowsily. He could not have missed the glow about her, the happiness on her face, and that in turn made him feel happy. When she walked, it was as if she were floating on air.

"Is that you, my dear? How was your evening?"

"Wonderful," she sighed, hugging herself and taking a little twirl around the room. "He was wonderful."

Erik scoffed. "He was?"

"I mean, it was wonderful. Our evening. It was simply splendid. We had a good time. We dined, we danced, we laughed…." She twirled again, reminding him of how she had danced on tiptoes when she had been a child and was too ecstatic for words. His little ballerina, now a budding prima donna.

"I take it this means you'll be seeing him again."

"Mmm mmm," she said, nodding. "I certainly hope so." She kissed his forehead and bade him good night, then danced down the hallway humming the signature tune that Le Miss had made famous, a song called "Mon Homme." She closed the door to her room behind her, but her voice carried all the way to the study.

Erik shook his head ruefully. "Did you see that, Christine?" he whispered to the empty room. "Our little girl is growing up."

A gentle breeze tickled the back of his neck, and he turned towards the window. It was closed, of course, but that didn't matter. He knew what the movement in the air meant, and soon, the room was filled with the fragrance of irises. Christine was with him, watching over him, helping him to be a good father—or if not a good one, then the best that he could be.

He missed her desperately, missed her so much that the longing physically pained him, but he had given up questioning his sanity when he felt her presence next to him. These interludes had kept him strong over the years and given him the will to go on living. He had promised Christine to love Aurelia enough for the both of them, and he had made good on that promise. God willing, one day Aurelia would find a love equally as strong as that which he'd had with her mother.

He only hoped that she wouldn't fall for young de Chagny.

-0-0-0-