Chapter 73 Covenant
Erik stood in the shadows as he watched the mail boy sort the bundle of letters, newspapers and notices in his arms into each correct pigeonhole, then hurry off. He took a few moments, once the boy had disappeared around the corner of the corridor, to listen for anybody else approaching. The silent minutes stretched before him, yet still he didn't move.
Running his tongue across his lips, he bit into the lower one, his stomach churning. What if he was wrong? What if it was rubbish? What if Reyer took one look at the sheets of music and threw them into the nearest fire in disgust? It was one thing to think he had talent where composing was concerned - but having that belief tested by another was something else entirely.
He clenched his teeth suddenly, expelling a furious breath at himself. This was ridiculous. If Reyer dismissed the music, then he'd have to swallow his pride and accept the criticism. Yet the thought that someone he respected immensely might think him incapable of composing even a simple piece for the opening of a ball made his heart race and his nerves disintegrate.
It had all seemed so simple, when he'd thought of the idea. The actual composition had taken a week, but the final product was flawless. But if this didn't work, if the belief he'd always held in his own abilities was about to be shattered, it wouldn't only be confidence he would lose. He would lose Christine too. Forever.
The seed of the idea had been planted in his mind the night of her triumph at the Gala, when she'd returned his affections so ardently. With her at his side, with her loving him - he could actually enter society and perhaps earn an honest living as a composer. He could be a man - he could be a husband - at last. But to do that, his work would have to be accepted and performed by people he'd only thought to torment and terrify throughout the years.
Once he'd come out of the darkness that had almost engulfed him, it had taken considerable time to return his home, and his person, to his former standards. But the physical labour that entailed only helped his mind regain its former sharpness and he'd rush from that to sit at his organ, scribble down ideas, then go back to his appointed task until the next part fought for creation inside him.
He'd thrown himself into finishing his score for 'Don Juan'. Day and night, it consumed him utterly. Once the manuscript was complete, laying safely in a leather binder on top of Christine's trunk in his bedroom, he put his mind to the stage and spent every waking moment designing the sets, costumes, lighting; building figurines out of wax, then moving them around the stage as the music sang in his mind, searching for the best direction to gain the maximum emotion from his words.
Every aspect of the production had to be perfect. Everything rode on the success of his opera's debut. He knew it was like nothing Paris had ever seen or heard before. Yet he had faith that they'd open their hearts and minds to the tale he'd woven around Christine's immense talent. How well he remembered their cheer when she'd been announced as a replacement for Carlotta during Il Muto. If they wished to see the return of their new star even half as much as he hoped they did, she'd be the toast of Paris for simply setting one beautiful foot upon the stage, even before she began to sing.
He no longer thought of holding his passion for her in check. Though exhausted at the end of every day, he became delirious with desire the moment he lay down to sleep, as he buried his hands and face into the velvet blankets that still held her soft scent. His nights were spent saturated with dreams of their lovemaking, as her young body wrapped around his, accepting him within her again and again.
Each morning when he woke, he would rush to draw her as she'd been in his dreams, wanton, ardent, alive with passion. In doing so he didn't think of where she was, or who she was with, but only of her return to his own arms, his own bed.
He looked down at the envelope in his hands and decided to just finish his self-appointed task. Glancing up and down the corridor again, listening intently, he moved quickly to place the envelope into Reyer's box, then back to his hiding place and straight through the wall. The corridor behind was lit with a single torch, which Erik stood beneath, to wait.
If Christine came back from wherever de Chagny was keeping her hidden without a wedding band upon her finger, her reputation would be ruined. No one would ever see her again as the woman she was - she would only be scorned as a Vicomte's used whore. And Erik would fight to the last breath in his body to see that never came to pass.
If his plan worked, if he could really get 'Don Juan' upon the stage here - or even elsewhere - and he became a composer of some renown, then no one would ever look down on her again. She may not end up a Vicomtesse, but she would be married to an immensely rich composer and that would be enough to silence any gossip regarding how she spent her years before her marriage.
They'd be together and she would be safe. Their past sins forgotten in the blaze of glory they would create; with her the star of every opera he wrote. It was the only way forward.
It was the only way he had left.
A noise in the corridor beyond the wall ahead of him broke through his anxious thoughts. He quickly pressed his left eye against the small hole in the wall to see who'd come to collect their mail and felt his stomach clench in fear as he watched Auguste Reyer begin sorting through the items in his box, only to stop short at the sight of Erik's envelope.
Reyer frowned in confusion, not recognising the penmanship, then took a sharp intake of breath when he flipped the envelope and saw the blood red seal. He lifted his head then and looked all around the empty corridor, his eyes searching fruitlessly for evidence of whoever'd placed the envelope there. Then with an exasperated sigh and a shake of his head, he broke the seal and pulled out the contents.
Erik watched, his heart in his mouth, as Reyer read the card attached to the sheets of music, then began to read the notes.
The older man scanned quickly down the page, then went back to the beginning again. One of his hands began to follow the notes then, hanging in the air as if already conducting, while his lips soundlessly worked out the tune beneath the written lyrics before him. He flicked through the pages, already lost in the music before him, his eyes growing wider by the moment. "This is…" he muttered. "My God…"
Reyer quickly strode off down the corridor, forcing Erik to follow him through the maze behind every wall. It didn't take a genius to deduct exactly where the man was going, after what Erik had written in the note. But such was Reyer's speed, he didn't have time to get close enough to the stage to hear what the maestro said to Emilie before he rushed off again and left her - looking red in the face with fury - to get back to her dance rehearsals.
Erik expelled a harsh breath of frustration. What did that mean? Had he even liked it? Had he thought it contemptible? Had he just berated Emilie for sending such inexorable drivel to him personally? Or had the very opposite been true?
-oo000oo-
Erik had almost chewed his fingernails down to the bone before Emilie finally returned to her rooms. As she strode through the door and slammed it behind her, he stood up quickly from his place on her chaise. "What did he say?" he demanded, without preamble.
"Jesus!" Emilie cried, clutching at her heart and stepping backwards in shock.
"Not quite."
"What are you doing in here?" she snapped, her fright at his sudden appearance quickly giving way to anger. "You don't have the right to come in here!"
Erik ignored her righteous fury as he walked towards her. "I don't need your permission to travel wherever I please."
"You promised me you'd never enter my rooms. How dare you break that promise now."
He caught her hand as it rose to slap his unmasked cheek. "And you promised me you'd send Marguerite to Christine if I ate a piece of cheese," he said, drawing her body up against his. "And yet she's still here, twittering inanely around the corridors of my Opera House."
Emilie's eyes widened with fury at the insult as she struggled to pull her hand free, the heat of him against her was unbearable.
"If you don't keep your word, do not expect the same courtesy in return."
"Let go of me," she said, struggling against him, pushing at his chest with her free hand, her heart beating wildly at their proximity.
"With pleasure," he sneered, looking coldly down at her. He dropped her hand as if it would contaminate him to hold it further.
Snatching it back, she moved quickly around him and over to her table, rubbing at her wrist, yet keeping the fact that he'd hurt her hidden from his eyes. "I need a drink," she said, pouring herself a large glass of red wine.
"Thank you for the gracious offer," he said, knowing full well she was about to do nothing of the sort. "But I have not come here to socialise."
"To do that one is supposed to have an invitation," she said, taking a large gulp of the wine.
"Save your etiquette lessons for someone who needs them."
"I'd say that would be you."
He dismissed her protest with an irritated wave of his hand. "As delectable as our verbal sparring can become," he said, unable to reign in his curiosity any longer, "all I wish to know is what Reyer said."
She could have used the hunger burning in his eyes to torment him further. He deserved tormenting after what he'd put her through in the last five minutes. But the need to have him gone from her sight overruled her sense of revenge. "He loved it, of course," she answered. "Was there ever any doubt?"
"Not at all," he snapped back, glancing quickly to her fire. He kept his eyes averted from hers - processing the information and trying vainly to reign in the relief flooding through him.
She knew him too well. And yet how could she believe that he'd doubted his abilities? Before Christine he'd been proud and confident in his musical prowess. So much so that he'd plagued the entire Opera House with his insufferable arrogance, belittling even the most lauded divas with notes raging at their incompetence. And now, once again, his love for her ward had reduced him to a child begging for reassurance from those he'd once scorned. 'Good God, what's become of you?' she thought wretchedly.
"And he'll play it?" Erik asked, turning back to her suddenly. "At the Bal Masque?"
"Yes, he will," she replied sadly.
"And he doesn't want to meet me?"
"I told him you lived in Nanterre and disliked travelling. If you'd given me more time - if you'd even let me know you were about to do this, I could have thought of something more - "
"Did he say anything else?" he pressed, not interested in her thoughts upon the matter.
"He couldn't believe that I hadn't recognised your talent earlier," she said, pursing her lips at the memory. "And brought your work to him the moment I knew you were a composer. He told me M. Duquesne is a 'genius' and that I am an imbecile for not knowing that fact."
"Really?" Erik felt something akin to pride began to bloom in his chest, not even noticing his actions had caused Emilie to be insulted. Reyer had always been someone he'd greatly admired. And to think he now thought of Erik as an equal almost… No, that didn't matter. All that mattered was that this gave him the opportunity to save Christine from the life of shame the Vicomte had condemned her to. He took a deep breath and nodded to Emilie. "Thank you."
"I'd say 'you're welcome', but I don't feel it," she said, moving in front of him before he could go towards her door. "But I don't understand - why you are doing this?"
He looked down at the hand she placed upon his heart, stopping him from moving any further until he'd answered her question. Had she ever touched him willingly before? The heat of her palm pressed the buttons of his waistcoat into his chest. He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing in incomprehension. Then it was gone. She pulled her hand back and curled the fingers inward, as if the touch of him had burnt her. "For Christine, of course," he snapped, moving past her and out of her rooms before she could even watch him go.