Chapter Fifty-one: Plans In the Making

Erik pulled out his pocket watch. The coffee was cold, the cognac was making his head light, and Nadir's French had degenerated to some bizarre half-Arabic argot that was growing too difficult to understand.

They had started with hesitating before a woman, and wound up adding several more commandments. "Do they…," Erik waved vaguely," do they have this problem as well?"

"What, women?"

"Yes."

Nadir crossed his arms on the table. "I believe so. Haven't you ever noticed when one leaves the room, they all do."

"Ah." Erik closed his watch. "Can we go get Mirielle now?"

"I must warn you of one last thing."

"Yes?"

"The wedding preparations," Nadir began. "Things might get a little confusing. She's going to have to make a lot of decisions, a lot of choices. She might get tired, and she might seem secretive."

Erik's tawny eyes seemed to glow from within. "Secretive?"

Nadir chose his words carefully. "You have been together, but this is her last chance to surprise you. She won't want you to see her dress."

Erik sat back and Nadir relaxed. The light of curiosity had fled the man. "All right," Erik replied easily. "I'll let her handle this. Women are so enamored with weddings. I wouldn't want her anxious."

Praise Allah! It was time to get him back to the apartment and check in with Mirielle. Nadir got up and took his coffee cup to the sink. "I'll just use your water closet before we go. Do you want to meet me in the boat?"

Erik's attention was centered upon the sink. "I wonder if we should stop at the market on the way back." He moved to the pantry. "We could dine out if she's tired."

"Excellent idea," Nadir broke in. "She's going to be very busy." He hastily made his way to the water closet. On the other side of the closed door he listed to Erik's front door close. Counting to ten, he cracked open the door and took a quick look.

He opened the door and sprinted down the hall to the guest bedroom. Inside a drawer was a neat stack of envelopes. Nadir smiled and lifted them out carefully, sliding them into every available pocket her had. Patting down his jacket, he sauntered out of the bedroom.


Mirielle tore the sheet of paper into thirds. Pocketing one part as Erik and Nadir picked up bags to ferry downstairs to the cab, she handed a section to Catherine.

Catherine slipped hers on the kitchen shelf. "Do you want me to give the other to Nadir?" she asked casually.

Mirielle looked at her roommate. "Are you two going to be working closely on this?"

Catherine smiled. "I hope so. Monsieur Kahn is a shy fellow."

Mirielle handed the scrap over to Catherine who read it over before adding it to its twin on the shelf. "Where are you going for your dress?"

"I thought I would go back to the Ouvard's who made my blue velvet dress. They did such a wonderful job and were so helpful."

"You know, you should talk to that de Brie."

"Oh, heavens no! Erik would have a seizure if the press became involved." Mirielle regarded Catherine as if she had just sprouted horns.

"No," Catherine lifted a hand. "He could be sure that La chance fellow is busy elsewhere. Then you would be sure that your plans don't become known!"

Mirielle grinned, looking embarrassed. "Sorry. Not thinking."

"Someone getting the wedding jitters?"

Mirielle blushed. "It would be most embarrassing if something happened between us at this point. He's met my children, and he seems happy, but you know how men are." She waved a hand. "They balk at commitment, and he is a confirmed bachelor."

"Who gave you that little slip of a costume?" Catherine prompted.

Mirielle glanced towards the door. "I suppose…."

"All's fair in love and war? Or in this case, marriage? And don't forget that adorable little Henri. I don't think that man is going anywhere without you."

"Thank you, Catherine." Mirielle gave her a hug. "I'll start arranging for the dress tomorrow. Maybe we can have lunch."


Not quite a mile away in a pleasant little apartment building, Marcelline Rameau stood by her door, indulging in a small Turkish cigarette. The clomping of heavy footsteps preceded the stooped shoulders of a man coming up her basement stairs. She dropped the cigarette in a dish and wrapped her shawl around herself. "Who was it?"

His pale eyes sought hers, then slid away. "It was Monsieur Three."

The corners of her mouth drew down in distaste. "Did anyone see you haul the body out?"

The man's name was Emile Surget, but since swearing in as a member of the Brotherhood of Brown Coats, he was known as Monsieur One. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "He was sort of spread out in a couple of bags. I just tossed him into the furnace."

"Oh, God!" Marcelline snatched up her cigarette and waved the man inside her apartment. "We have got to find another way. That's two men this week, and the last performance is coming up in a little over a week!"

Monsieur One glanced out into the hallway and then pushed her door closed. "Dynamite is the only way I know of to blow up the…you know where," he whispered forcefully.

"Not if it blows all of us up first," she spat. "Send in Number Six. Have him try to find a way into the…you know where."

"The Opera?"

"Shush!" you imbecile, she thought.

"Maybe we need a smaller bomb?" Number One proposed. "The Communards laced all the sewers with gun powder. Touch it off, and poof! No more Paris." He considered a moment. "At least not the Arrondissements…."

"We can't count on that. That gunpowder has been down there for over a decade. Surely it is worthless now."

He seemed to consider that implication. "What about gas?"

"What gas?"

"The Opera has gas mains running to it. Remember Jean, I mean Monsieur Four, he works for the city. The mains were worked on last year. They must run into the building."

"All right. Have Four and Six see about the gas." She paused and plucked a piece of tobacco off of the top of her tongue. "But I want a bomb, number One. I want to see flames, and what better way than to torch that obscene palace of gilded marble."

Number One stood straight and saluted the woman. "Long live the Communard!"

She hardly noticed him retreating from her apartment. Looking out the window, her eyes fastened upon the roof of the Garnier. After the explosion, it would become the funeral pyre denied her husband and sons after they were executed as Communards. "Tomb without a cross or chapel," she repeated under her breath.


Erik and Nadir took care of carrying in the cases that Mirielle had packed. She walked through the house, pulling the pin out of her hat, listening to the two men's voices.

Hanging her hat upon one of the open pegs of the hall tree, she turned to see Erik and Nadir looking sheepish. "Yes?"

"Mirielle, I think we have a problem," Erik said gravely.

"What's wrong?"

Erik stood staring at her until Nadir stepped closer and gave him a nudge. "Sleeping arrangements."

She'd already thought about it when Erik had impetuously asked her to never leave his side. "Yes?"

"I seem to only have one bed…."

"I know, darling. My room has the bed. Your room has a coffin in it." She tried very hard to keep a grin from rising to her lips.

Erik's thin lips became a flat line at the edge of his mask. "Our room will have a bed tomorrow," he bit out. "Nadir and I are going shopping for it."

"All right," she said airily. She slid off her coat and turned away, biting her lips to keep from laughing. She could make out Nadir's attempt to whisper and Erik's voice dropping a register in a curt reply.

"Dearling," Erik began. "I thought for at least tonight you and I could snuggle up in your bed." He walked to her side and rested a hand on the wall above her head, looking down at her. "You don't want to get cold do you?"

She felt a frisson of excitement run through her body. Standing near, his voice made her feel as if she were melting. His long fingers slid down her arm, grasping her hand and lifting it to his lips to gently brush a kiss upon her knuckles.

"You are a scoundrel."

He flashed a smile at her. "I'm your scoundrel."

"Yes," she sighed. "You are."


Marcelline is repeating part of a quote by Joules Jouy in regards to "The Wall" in the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris where 147 Communard men and women were shot. Demonstrations at the Wall have been held since 1880.

"Tomb without a cross or chapel, or golden lilies, or sky blue church windows, when the people talk about it, they call it The Wall." - Joules Jouy