To Be Loved
Chapter 49
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy
March 13, 2011
"If you are out of trouble, look for danger." ~Sophocles
"How did things go tonight?" Vincent's mother asked. She and Raoul had waited up for Vincent's return, both eager to learn how the evening had transpired. Raoul seemed relieved that his son had returned alive and in one piece. Based on his experience, one could never predict how Erik might react. In spite of Clementine's reassurances that the famous author was a changed man, Raoul had not been entirely convinced.
"Aurelia was everything I hoped," he replied. "Absolutely delightful!"
"Gracious. I've never seen you in such an animated state over a girl," Clementine commented.
Raoul looked up from the newspaper he had been pretending to read. "You're really taken with the Delacorte girl?"
"As a matter of fact, I believe I am, Father. Do you object?"
Clemmie interrupted and walked over to her husband. "No, your father does not object. We do not live in the Middle Ages, where blood lines must be kept pure."
Raoul shot a look at his wife, one that said he was not quite in agreement with her. "They've only known each other for a few weeks, and this is their first evening out together, my dear. Vincent is young. Let's allow him to take his time. Remember, one's first crush is not necessarily one's true love." He took her hand and kissed it gently to demonstrate his affection.
Clementine bestowed a loving smile on her husband, but returned her attention to her son. "Have you formed a serious attachment to her?"
"I'm not sure, but if things continue in the direction they're going, that would be the next logical step."
His mother nodded with understanding. "I would rather you married a woman of so-called common background but whom you loved, than marry some nobleman's daughter who has good family lines but for whom you don't give a fig."
"Do you share Mother's opinion, Father?" Since his father was being civil with him, Vincent thought it best not to rile him up and call him Old Man, as he was often wont to do.
Raoul's brows creased as he carefully considered what to say. It wasn't that he thought Mlle Delacorte was necessarily a poor choice, but that father of hers was a different matter. He wasn't sure he really wanted to be connected to his former adversary, even if the connection was a tenuous one. It was one thing to acknowledge the man publicly as a well-respected author, but quite another to accept Delacorte into the family even if only by marriage! "I think that it is too soon to be making any decisions," he finally said. "Enjoy yourself. Take the young lady out to parties or evenings at the theater, but don't go making any rash decisions."
Vincent let his father's words sink in and realized the Old Man – He could think it, couldn't he? – was trying to meet him at least half way. Besides, as he got to know Aurelia better, his father would surely come to accept the inevitable. For now, therefore, he would be patient.
"I'll consider your advice, Father," Vincent said with a grin. And then, for no apparent reason, he blurted out, "You know, sometimes you're not all that bad!"
Raoul chuckled. "I could say the same about you." He folded the newspaper and put it on the table, then rose from his chair and offered Clementine his arm and gave her a meaningful look. "In the mean time, I think it's time we old folks tottered off to bed."
-0-0-0-
He drew back into the alley behind the apartment building, and turned his face up towards Aurelia's window. The curtains were drawn and blocking his view, but light spilled out around them. No matter. The Stranger could imagine what she was doing. Undressing. Stripping off that innocent little gown. Next, she would sponge her pearl - white skin with clear, warm water and dab away the moisture with towels of Egyptian cotton. He could almost smell the scent of fine soap. Pears? No, it was the fragrance of Vinolia that he had inhaled in her room. Nothing but the best for the monster's get, bien sur!
It had been a productive evening. No one knew that he had been watching them from the time that young dandy had driven up in his fancy motorcar to their leaving, only to be followed by her father. Briefly debating what to do – follow Delacorte or stay behind and reconnoiter the place? – the Stranger chose the latter, and while the apartment was empty, the he had let himself in, using skills learned while he'd been away from Paris, skills that were not approved of by Polite Society.
Inside the apartment, he had inspected the rooms. It wasn't that he was looking for anything specific, but rather he wanted to get a glimpse of the inhabitants' personal lives. Of most interest had been Mlle Aurelia's room. He had allowed himself the luxuries of carefully going through her dresser drawers; of feeling her silken under garments; of inhaling the fragrance of her soaps and lotions; and of allowing himself to fantasize. The fact that he had been forced to hurry rankled him, but being found in the apartment was not worth the risk. Not yet. It wasn't quite time for the games to begin. And so, he had departed as quietly as he'd entered, and returned to the corner in the shadows that had been his watching post these past weeks.
At last, all the lights went all out. No doubt, they were going to bed now, but it would be best to wait a bit longer. "Such charades!" he cackled softly, pulling his ragged wool coat close around his bony frame. "Delacorte deserves what he's going to get, watching that boy when the real danger was right here, outside his apartment all the time."
He shivered with excitement as he remembered what it had been like to draw the knife across that young man's throat, how alive it had left him feeling. His heart pounded against his ribs as if it were going to explode, and his thoughts went back to a time when a young diva like Mlle Delacorte would have welcomed him to her room…even her bed. The exhilaration that the eradication of the dance instructor had given him had not lasted long enough. The Stranger had wanted to take his time, to finish this part of the job by going after the Giry bitch next, but she had fled the city and was now holed up with that aristocratic slut of a daughter. Talk about trying to make a silk purse from a sow's ear! Little Marguerite Giry? Little Meg? More like Little Whore! A baroness? Ha! What a laugh that was! But the situation had changed and was no longer his to control. They were both too far away for him to follow, and so that was that.
If he had more time, maybe he could pursue them later, but he didn't think he would be able to track them down. The disease was continuing its deadly progress, and as he slowly weakened, he would have to depend more upon cunning rather than simple brute force. Instead of engaging in a drawn out campaign of cat and mouse with Delacorte, he was going to have to step things up. Forget the sideshow; it was time instead to get to the main event.
He gazed at his own filthy claws, at his skin fissured and cracked like dried mud, and remembered the genteel furnishings that he had seen in the apartment and once again cursed the man responsible for his change in fortune. He fingered the cake of soap in his pocket — Mlle Aurelia's soap that he'd stolen from her room — and imagined how she had used it on her pale, virginal skin. His thoughts lingered over certain images that sprang unbidden from the depths of his depravity. Regrettably, there was nothing he could do about it. He could thank Delacorte for that, too: the fact that he could never again make love. The illness that was sucking the life out of him had robbed him of his virility long ago. The last time he'd engaged in carnal relations, it had been forced, brutal, and over far too soon.
Then he discovered that the mere thought of it made him harden. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't completely over. Maybe all he needed was someone fresh and young, someone unwilling. Someone who would fight him enough to excite him. Someone like that girl…or her boyfriend. Either would do for a diversion. André had been a willing lover, and the Stranger had formed an attachment to him. Poor André…driven to suicide because of Delacorte! Soon, he would be avenged.
Though well concealed in the shadows, he was concerned that the longer he stayed, the better the chance that someone might spot him. In a few minutes, the night watch would make its rounds. By now he knew their schedules, knew when he could count on them to doze off and when they would be having their tea. It was time to leave. Reluctantly, and keeping well within the dark recesses of the alleyways, he headed back to his lair.
Before long, he was safe inside his hiding place, where he concentrated on his trophy. The distinctive fragrance tickled his nostrils. Tonight, he would let the Vinolia slide over the scurf of his withered body, touching places that an innocent lamb such as Aurelia Delacorte would know nothing about. He imagined how she had used the same bar of soap on her own nubile figure (so innocent, so pure) and vowed that soon enough, he would begin her true education.
And he would teach her father a lesson or two as well.
-0-0-0-
Two days later, Erik was sitting at the breakfast table with his daughter, sharing a typical Parisian breakfast of strong coffee and a chocolate croissant. Gone were the heavy breakfasts they had enjoyed in Sweden, replaced with lighter continental fare. He scanned the headlines of the morning newspaper while absent-mindedly stirring his coffee, and sat bolt upright when a certain article caught his attention.
"What is it?" Aurelia asked.
"An arrest has been made in the murder of that young man, Rabbelais. Detective Boisneuf is quoted in the article. He says that the suspect is a former inmate of the Ste-Anne Psychiatric Centre, with a record of violence and criminal behavior." He read aloud, perfectly aping the detective's distinctive drawl and rustic regional accent. "'The lunatic proclaims his innocence,' says the detective, 'but then, they always do! All the protestations in the world cannot change the fact that we found the murder weapon in his possession. As for a motive? Who can say what compelled him to choose an innocent dancer who never hurt a soul in his life. It was what we in the profession of crime solving refer to as opportunistic. The victim was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.'"
Aurelia dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and shifted in her chair.
Her discomfort did not go unnoticed. "Forgive me, my dear," her father said softly. "I should never have mentioned this at the table."
"Oh, it's all right. It just that…that man, Rabbelais. He was one of the first people I met in Paris. He seemed so vibrant, so full of life…. What a pity to be cut down in his prime." She shook her head sadly.
Erik, however, was relieved by the news, thinking that whatever danger had been lurking about was now gone and that he was absolved beyond the shadow of a doubt. He only hoped that someone bothered to inform Mme Giry. It was the least they could do for the poor woman.
"Time for me to head off to the conservatoire," Aurelia said, a bit apprehensively. "We have technical examinations this morning."
"You'll knock 'em dead," her father said, pleased with himself for knowing the slang that the young people were using nowadays.
A thought crossed her mind. "Father, what do you think of having Vincent and his family over for supper one day this week?"
Erik almost choked on his coffee. "Pardon me? The entire brood?"
"Really, Father. There are rules in polite society. They invited us; we reciprocate. That's how it's done."
"Must we?"
"Yes, we must. Vincent says he has something important he would like to share with us!"
"Is he bringing his aunts and uncle with him?"
"No, just a small intimate supper."
"Intimate? With the six of them?"
"Not that kind of intimate. Must you be difficult? It's only supper."
"Fine. Just give me enough warning so I can take a bromide. A bottle of good single malt Scotch should do the trick. By the way, who's going to prepare this supper?"
"Why, I am, of course!" She beamed at him confidently.
"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? I want to see this!"
Aurelia rose and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. The top button of her white blouse was hidden beneath the heart-shaped pendant that Erik had given Christine long ago. "I'm pleased you have such faith in my culinary abilities," she teased. "Perhaps I'll make a classic Swedish dish."
He wrinkled his crooked nose as if a bad smell filled the air. "At least you won't have time to fix that ghastly lutfisk. I can thank my lucky stars for that, but wherever will you find caribou in Paris?"
"I have my resources," she said, giving her father a quick goodbye peck on the cheek. The first person she'd ask was Jabes. He seemed to know everything.
-0-0-0-
At the conservatoire, Aurelia found Jabes bent over his latest creation. The advent of electrical lighting had necessitated greater scenic realism, thanks to better illumination. Providing realism of spectacle was a demanding and time-consuming task, and he was forever thinking of ways to make set changes more efficient for the stage crew and more exciting for the audience.
"What brings you here?" he asked. "I thought all the first year students were being tested today."
A casual shrug of the shoulders belied her pride. "It didn't take as long as I expected."
"That's usually a good sign." He stood up and dusted his hands on his thighs. She seemed distant, troubled. "What's the matter? Was old Professor Benedetti tough on you?"
"Not at all. The test was easy. There was something else I wanted to ask you about, but it seems that the problem has been solved."
"A problem?"
"A few days ago, I thought I saw a beggar outside, watching the entrance to the conservatory. A day later, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He was standing in the shadows of the proscenium, watching the singers." Her cheeks flushed with color. "The truth is, he made me uncomfortable. I thought he was staring at me, but the moment he realized I had seen him, he vanished."
Jabes glanced around, trying to look casual as he did so. He did not want to let on how seriously this concerned him. "Did he try to talk to you? Have you seen him since?"
"No. Not at all. It's just that…he looked so hungry and cold. I was wondering if there was some way we might help him."
"If he's coming into the building, it sounds like he is already helping himself." He saw the frown on Mlle Delacorte's face and chose his next words carefully. "Don't worry about it too much. I'll speak to the night watchman and I'll personally double check the locks. We don't want any vagrants setting up camp in the cellars." He paused and added, "It's bad for business."
She smiled weakly. "I suppose it's nothing to be concerned about."
"Until I've had a chance to look around, don't wander off by yourself. Don't go exploring, all right?" The last thing he wanted to do was unduly alarm her, but the man had no business being in the building. He'd read the story in the newspaper this morning about an escaped lunatic who had committed a horrible murder. This vagrant could be just as dangerous, skulking about a conservatoire filled with several hundred young men and women attending classes on weekdays, and the weekend academy for youngsters offered yet another opportunity for mayhem. A predator would find easy pickings with such innocent and unsuspecting quarry crowded into one place. Yet here was Mlle Delacorte, feeling sorry for the man.
"I'll be careful," she promised, and then changed the subject. "By the way, my young man is coming to supper later this week, and I want to prepare some special dishes from my country. You wouldn't happen to know of a Swedish grocer in the area, would you?"
-0-0-0-
The next morning, Aurelia sent a letter to Vincent and his family, inviting them to supper this coming Saturday evening, which would allow her seven days for preparations. She made sure she explained that this would be an informal gathering, and that she would be preparing the meal herself. A reply from Clementine de Chagny arrived the following day, expressing her delight in accepting the invitation. She added that unfortunately, her daughters would not be able to attend as they were spending the weekend in the country with their aunts, and suggested that this would probably give the adults more time to engage in some much anticipated conversation.
Saturday came, and Aurelia spent the entire day in the kitchen. She wanted to make something simple yet elegant and easy to prepare, too. Her father had suggested that they hire someone for the day to help with the meal, perhaps engage the services of a caterer, but Aurelia would not hear of this. This was going to be her chance to show off her talents, so Erik relented. He did, however, help when called upon to do so, but he asked no questions and offered no further suggestions. He ran errands, picked up fresh flowers for the table, and acted as sous chef when necessary, pleased that he was still quite handy with a sharp knife. He knew how important this was for his daughter. All he wanted was for the evening to be a success.
In planning the menu, Aurelia wanted to avoid the heavy meals that were commonly served at formal and semi-formal affairs, and there definitely would not be any footmen to help with serving the meal. Mme le vicomtesse had set the tone of informality with her picnic, so Aurelia took this into consideration and came up with the idea of a traditional Swedish country supper, the kind Fru Nystrom had made for them on special occasions back home in Gamla Uppsala. After working up and discarding one menu after the other, she settled on Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam, mashed potatoes, pickled cucumber slices, and chanterelles. And for those who preferred something stronger than coffee or tea to drink with their meal, there would be vodka and schnaps. When she ran the final menu past her father, she knew she'd hit on the right idea. It seemed that she wasn't the only one missing the food of home. It would be a unique experience for her guests, offering them a taste of foods they might never have tried otherwise, and since the manner of preparation was unique to Sweden, it would offer an opportunity for conversation. For dessert, there would be Prinsesstarta, a sponge cake with custard and whipped cream covered in green marzipan with a pink candy rose on top. Afterwards, she planned to serve Swedish coffee and ischoklad, a delicate chocolate candy that would literally melt in the mouth.
Once everything was prepared and the table set just so, she slipped off to her room to change and freshen up. Cooking in the kitchen had been more work than she had anticipated, and she wanted to look her best when Vincent and his family arrived. She took a deep breath and hugged herself. The thought of Vincent being here, in her apartment, made her feel all tingly inside.
At last, the hour arrived. The doorbell rang, and Aurelia was so excited that she practically ran to the door. She opened the door and greeted Raoul, Clementine and Vincent, inviting them in and clucking over the bouquet of exotic flowers that Vincent extended to her, as well as the bottle of Tokay dessert wine that Raoul offered. Erik joined the party, and nodded agreeably when Clementine made polite comments.
"What a charming home you have," she said sweetly. Gazing at the rug in the foyer, she added, "and I do so admire your taste in carpets."
Erik chuckled, knowing that she had recognized it as the same pattern she had chosen for her own foyer, but then her attention turned to the portrait that dominated the hallway. "Oh, that's Christine. I'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. The artist captured her smile perfectly."
While the host made small talk with the vicomte and his wife, Vincent excused himself and immediately went to Aurelia's side, complimenting her on how charming she looked. "How lovely your eyes are," he said, wondering why he'd never commented on their beauty before. "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Yours are an enigma to me."
Aurelia felt both pleased and nervous, and struggled to keep from giggling. The last thing she ever thought looked good was her eyes, though people often told her they were striking. "You mean, because they remind you of a pair of mismatched cufflinks?" she asked impishly.
Her teasing manner brought a grin to Vincent's face. "No, because they remind of the beauty of the countryside. One is the color of the evening sky, and the other is like a secret glen holding hidden promises."
"Are you trying to be romantic, sir?" she said.
"Would you rather I wasn't?"
"Of course not!"
And that's when Clementine joined the two. They engaged in several minutes of lightweight banter, leaving Raoul and Erik to amuse themselves.
"They do seem quite taken with each other," said Raoul, not quite sure how to take being left out of the conversation.
Erik grunted in agreement. He wasn't too sure how he felt about Vincent speaking so…so familiarly to his daughter. One thing he knew, it did not leave him feeling comfortable. Raoul caught the subtle signs and unspoken messages being given off by the man he was speaking to and suspected that Delacorte was not yet ready to welcome a Chagny into the family.
"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, as it is certainly no reflection upon your daughter," said Raoul, "but I suggested that my son not go rushing into anything…permanent."
Erik knew exactly what the vicomte was referring to. "Don't worry, old boy," he replied, "I made the same recommendation to my daughter."
Raoul laughed, and relaxed a little. "Do you think our offspring will pay any heed to our words of fatherly wisdom?"
"Not a chance in Hell."
A sudden détente sprang up between the two men, and Raoul offered an understanding nod. "That's what I thought, too."
"Care for a drink?" Erik poured a couple of glasses of the Scotch whisky he bought the day Aurelia sprang the idea of this supper engagement on him. He handed one to Raoul. "To the wisdom of parents, and to our children who know better than we do."
"To parental wisdom, and the hope that our children will one day grasp it," Raoul added with a nod. Their glasses clinked, and Clementine chose that moment to rejoin her husband and their host.
"So, just what are the two of you up to? I was watching the both of you out of the corner of my eye, and I could have sworn you were up to no good."
"Nonsense, my dear," said Raoul. "Monsieur Delacorte and I were simply offering a toast to our children."
An eyebrow shot up on Clementine's face. "Oh? Really? Somehow I suspect there's more to it than that, but I also suspect that neither of you will admit that this is so."
Before anything more could be said, Aurelia announced that supper was ready to be served, and invited them all to the table.
The dining room was appointed with the antique furniture that was currently favored by Parisian designers, with massive chairs ornately carved with motifs of oak leaves, acorns, and the occasional sylph running through an imaginary woodland. While Raoul held the heavy chair for his wife, Erik reached for Aurelia's chair and found himself bumping elbows with Vincent, who had beat him to it. The two of them scowled at each other for a moment, but Erik graciously gave in and permitted the young man to do the honors of seating his hostess opposite her father, who returned to his place at the head of the long table.
The meal had been going well, with everyone staying on safe subjects. There were many heartfelt compliments on the food, and what a pleasure it was to eat such simple yet tasty fare. Clementine, who had been raised in constrained Victorian England, vowed that she much preferred the relaxed manners of France, which allowed for cozy suppers with enchanting new friends and succulent fare. Aurelia beamed with pride, while Vincent, who was sitting on her left, gazed dreamily into her eyes.
Clementine gently kicked her son under the table, giving a silent and subtle gesture that he should pay more attention to everyone at the table, not just the young lady who captivated him, and changed the subject by asking Erik about his next book. "I am so looking forward to your next adventure!"
Erik, in turn, promised to send her an autographed copy when it came out. She beamed at her favorite author like a love-struck teenager, while Raoul rolled his eyes in comic distress. "Did you really have to tell her that?" he said, his tone joking.
"Far be it for me to turn away a devoted reader," Erik responded, likewise in a light manner.
"I for one am interested in hearing Vincent's important news," Aurelia piped in. "Well, I am. I've been waiting patiently throughout the meal for some hint as to what it is. We've covered just about every topic under the sun, but so far we've avoided the one topic in which I am most interested."
Vincent obviously agreed, because he replied with, "Your wish is my command." Directing his words to everyone at the table, he began, "Mother, Father, Monsieur Delacorte…and Mademoiselle Delacorte, I would like to invite you all to attend my next race. Originally, it was to be a relatively short race, from Paris to Rouen. However, the organizers have decided that instead of an event that would barely last a couple of hours, there would be more interest in a long distance, open road race, and so the event will be from Paris to Bordeaux."
"Why, that's almost four times the distance," his mother exclaimed. "What reason have the organizers given for this change?"
"The idea is to provide the drivers a more demanding course. Anyone can drive fast over a short distance, but this new route will test a driver's skill as well as his racing ability."
Raoul frowned at the whole idea. He was trying to be supportive of his son, but sometimes he wondered just what kind of recklessness the boy was going to engage in next. "I thought the government had put an end to open road racing," he said. "After the fiasco last May that was the Paris to Madrid race."
"True, but certain persons of influence have gotten the powers that be to relent and allow this one race."
"No. You don't mean…"
"Yes, father. Uncle Philippe called in a few favors for us."
Raoul shot a frustrated glance at his wife. "Remind me to have a good, long talk with my brother. And soon."
"Oh, Raoul," his wife said, soothingly. "I think you are getting yourself upset over nothing. Vincent is an extremely talented driver."
"Do you remember how many drivers were injured in that race?"
"Yes…and do you bother to read in the papers every day about how many people are injured and even killed by horse drawn vehicles every week?"
Suspecting that there was no way he was going to win this argument, Raoul relented. After all, Vincent wasn't a child, and the boy had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Tell him no, and he'd go out of his way to do just the opposite. "You're right, of course," he said to his wife. To Vincent, he said, "Don't think this means I am embracing your desire to risk life and limb to drive at breakneck speeds, but at the same time, you're a young man, old enough to make up your own mind."
Aurelia and her father had been watching the discussion between father and son with great interest. Hoping to smooth things over, Aurelia said that she was looking forward to watching the race. "But what shall I do? Watch the beginning here in Paris and miss the end at Bordeaux? Or forego the start and wait for you at the finish line?"
"I have an idea," volunteered Clementine. "We'll see Vincent off, then catch the train to Bordeaux and wait for him there."
"Capital idea!" beamed Vincent. "I would appreciate it very much if you were all there."
Even Raoul agreed that this idea made sense. "So, when is this race to be run?" he asked. "I'll need to make the necessary arrangements for train tickets and rooms in Bordeaux."
"A week from today," said Vincent. "We'll be meeting at the Bois around three in the morning, and once we're all arrived, leave from there. That is, unless there are changes made between now and then."
In the end, it was agreed that the Chagnys and the Delacortes would be there to support Vincent in his attempt to win his own version of fame and glory, and the conversation drifted on to other, less contentious topics.
At last, the supper party broke up and genial conversation came to an end. While his parents prepared to say their good-byes, Vincent offered to stay. "I'd be happy to help you with the dishes," he said. Everyone knew that this was merely an excuse for the two of them to have some time to themselves, and tacitly agreed that the young people deserved a little time together, without parents hanging around.
"If we take the automobile, how will you get home, son?" asked his mother.
"I'll take a cab, if you don't mind. You and Father go ahead. Oh, and don't bother waiting up for me."
With heartfelt au revoirs, Clementine and Raoul were on their way, arm-in-arm. Twenty-two years of marriage had not dimmed their love for one another. Erik was more than a little envious of them. Suddenly feeling very much alone, he followed Vincent and Aurelia into the kitchen. "You don't really want to do the dishes, do you?"
Aurelia blushed, and Vincent found himself stammering slightly. "No, sir. I confess that the offer was made so that I could spend some time here…with you. I mean, with both of you."
A smirk showed up on Erik's face. "No. You made the offer to have more time with my daughter."
Vincent offered a sheepish grin. "Yes, sir. Guilty as charged."
Erik remembered back when he was courting Christine. He remembered the pure joy simple walks in the park had brought both of them, and he found himself softening toward Vincent. The lad wasn't really all that bad and his daughter had always shown good judgment in people. She wasn't a child any more. It was time he made it known that he trusted her. Trusted both of them. "It's quite mild for this late in the year," he said in an offhand manner. "Maybe the two of you would prefer to take a walk, to work off some of the delicious meal we had this evening."
"Really, Father?" Aurelia asked, incredulous. Could this obliging man really be her father? "What about the dishes?"
Her father replied, "I think I can handle them. It wouldn't be the first time I cleaned a kitchen."
"Then, sir," said Vincent, suddenly very serious. "May I take your daughter for a walk?"
Erik turned to his daughter. "Do you wish to take a walk with this young man, Aurelia?"
She blushed becomingly. "I'd love to."
"Well then, be on your way," he said, recognizing that this night, his world had changed. He only wished that Christine had been here to witness their daughter's emergence as a young woman in love. "Just don't keep her out too late."
"I won't, sir," said Vincent. "You have my word!"
-0-0-0-
"Father's right. It is quite mild," said the young woman. She untied the hood of her coat and let it fall around her shoulders.
"Spoken like a true descendant of the Vikings," Vincent teased, but he buttoned his overcoat to his chin nonetheless. The air was crisp and clear, with a slight chill that foretold winter's approach. It was a moonless night, sweet and calm, and the starlight shone clear and bright. A few blocks away, the golden Oriental dome of the Palais Garnier gleamed in the glow of electric lamplights, drawing them towards the grand building like moths to an irresistible flame. "What possessed you to come to Paris to study? You were already making a name for yourself in Sweden. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. If you hadn't come here, I'd never have met you."
She shrugged her delicate shoulders. "Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of singing here. I knew that if I could excel in Paris, I could go anywhere, do anything."
"You say that with such disappointment. Has it not worked out the way you expected?"
"The teachers have developed rigid technical exercises and peculiar theories about singing. Whether a method works to one's advantage or not, they expect it to be followed without question." She glanced at him mischievously. "I'll let you in on a secret. I pretend to go along with them, to make them happy, but my father's methods work better for me. The teachers take all the credit for whatever success I enjoy, but it's actually my father who has taught me everything I know about singing."
"A writer, a magician, and a voice teacher too? What else does he do?"
"He can do anything he sets his mind to. Architecture is another of his interests, for example. You should see what he's done with our little house in Gamla Uppsala. He's a genius."
"You love him very much."
"Of course I do. You love your father too, don't you?"
"I suppose. In a way. I mean, I don't really know him all that well. He was often out of town when I was young, always on family business or checking on his investments. Mother did her best to make sure we had our meals together every evening, but I went away to school when I was eight, just as my father did." He noticed a look of sadness on her face. "Oh, we spent lots of time together on Father's yacht, and he taught me to sail, hoping that I'd follow in his footsteps and enter the navy, and possibly become respectable," he confided. "The Old Man keeps a little house at Perros-Guirec, and we'd go up there whenever I was home from boarding school on holiday. He'd make sure I hadn't forgotten my way around the riggings. I ended up entering the navy, but I couldn't abide taking orders and resigned my commission."
"Perros-Guirec? I should like to go there someday. My mother mentioned it in her journal. I believe my grandfather is buried there."
"Then one day soon we shall go and visit the churchyard together. That is, if you wish. We'll open up the house and spend the weekend there…with your father, of course. Perhaps my sisters would like to come along as well. It will be an adventure."
"I'd like that very much," she said warmly. They had come quite a distance, all the way from the apartment house to the steps of the Palais Garnier. She looked towards the heavens, leaning back to see the ornate frieze surrounding the pediment of the grand building.
"Would you like to go inside?" he asked hopefully.
"But…it's closed. The performance ended long ago, and everyone's gone for the night," said Aurelia.
"Where there's a will, there's a way. Besides, there's usually a night watchman on the premises, one who will let us have a look around in return for a token of appreciation," he said, rubbing his forefingers and thumb together to indicate a bribe was in the offing.
As predicted, the night watchman was more than accommodating, once he saw the scrip in Vincent's gloved hand. "Be sure to go up to the rooftop," the man cackled, showing them the way to a seemingly endless staircase. "You kids enjoy yerselves, y'hear?" He sighed as he closed the door behind them, saying, "Young love," in a wistful manner.
The couple was more than willing to take advantage of the opportunity to see the city skyline at night. They were slightly winded from climbing hundreds of stairs, but the cold night air revived them. "What a view!" Vincent exclaimed.
They looked out over the vast expanse of rooftops. They could see all of Paris from this vantage, with the Eiffel Tower dominating the landscape. Here and there, a church stood out prominently: Notre Dame, la Madeleine, Sacre Coeur. Each one of them shone like polished ivory in the starlight, especially the latter two, with their white marble domes gleaming brightly. "It's magnificent," Aurelia agreed.
He couldn't help noticing the way her bosom rose and fell with each breath. Although the night air had been still on the ground, high above on the rooftop a breeze stirred, and when a frigid gust nearly knocked her sideways, Vincent stepped closer to shield her from the wind. "Let's sit down over here, behind this statue. Alee, as my father would say. We can enjoy the view without being blown over the edge." He spread out his cloak for the two of them to sit upon, and they huddled together on the rooftop beside the statue known as Apollo, Poetry, and Music by the sculptor Aimé Millet. It was an enormous statue, easily seen from great distances surrounding the building, and overhead, the figure of Apollo held a gleaming lyre sheathed in gold, glowing with reflected lamplight like a beacon in the night.
"My father used to tell me about all of the constellations," Aurelia whispered as she gazed heavenward. "He knows them all by name…several names, in fact. He knows what the Greeks call the stars, and what the Scandinavians call them. The Japanese, the Russians…." Her voice trailed away as she pondered the universe and its secrets.
Vincent was more practical, more grounded. "He's a writer. He must do a lot of research for his books."
"Not really," she answered. "His library is extensive and he reads constantly, but most of his stories are based on his own experiences. He travelled a lot in his youth, he says." She noticed that his attention was wandering. "Am I boring you?"
"Not at all. I thought I heard something, that's all." He looked up at the statue, half expecting to see someone looming overhead. "Silly of me. For a moment, I thought I heard a groan. You didn't hear it?" When she shook her head, he continued. "Must've been the wind. It sounded almost like a moan. Beyond sad. It was grieving, mournful."
She shivered. "That would be all we need. Some opera ghost peering over our shoulders."
"As long as it's not your father, we should be safe."
She giggled. "You don't really believe he'd spy on us, do you?"
"I think he'd do whatever it takes to protect you. Even from me. What he doesn't know is that I…," he stumbled over his words. Dare he be so bold? He did. "You're very precious to me, Aurelia. I'd never hurt you. I…I think I have feelings for you."
"I know that, Vincent. I wouldn't be here with you, like this, if I didn't feel the same way about you." Her eyes glimmered in the starlight as she turned her face to his, her lips glistening, inviting him to taste them.
While they held each other close, both were unaware that clinging to the strings of Apollo's lyre was a large black figure, eavesdropping as they confessed their love for each other. From a distance, it appeared to be a giant bird of prey peering down at them with blazing eyes, but the young lovers were oblivious to the danger it represented, and were blissfully ignorant as they kissed.
Suddenly the air was rent with a deafening sound like a thunderclap, and they fled the rooftop as if at the approach of a terrible storm. Had they looked over their shoulders at that very moment, they might have seen the Stranger climbing down from his perch, his eyes burning with hatred.
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