Chapter Two

The House on the Lake


It was the pain first. Éponine thought there would be no more pain, but here it had accompanied her even in death. Not only pain, but quiet. So much quiet and so much darkness—though her eyes were closed, she could sense the darkness beyond her lids.

She was breathing. The sharp pain that accompanied her every breath told her that. She was starting to think that perhaps she was not dead at all. She opened her eyes cautiously. She was in a dark room illuminated by a single candle somewhere outside her field of vision. She could see its light on the ceiling. And then she was aware that beneath her was a bed. A comfortable bed. More comfortable even than the one she had slept in back in the good days. Where was she? Where was Monsieur Marius? Was he all right—still alive, as she was? For she knew now that she could not be dead.

She tried to sit up to take in more of her surroundings but was stopped by the searing pain that exploded outward from her breast, as though she had been shot all over again. She fell back in the bed, unable to prevent a sharp scream of agony. She bit down on her lip. It wouldn't do, making a ruckus like that. Not when she didn't know where she was—or who else was around.

After what seemed a long second or two, she heard the soft click of a door opening, and she held her breath. A looming shadow on the ceiling was all that was visible to her, moving in the stealthy, noiseless way that Éponine knew as belonging to the Patron-Minette and other members of the dark underbelly of Paris, unknown to daylight.

"Montparnasse?" she gasped out, trying to still the tremor in her voice. She'd studiedly avoided him ever since that night when he had coldly stood ready to cut her throat. After she had been foolish enough to think she meant something to him. It stung more than she'd like to admit, and she'd rather not see him again now. Especially not when she was vulnerable like this.

But the man's voice that responded was not the hissing, simpering whisper of the murderous dandy—not anything like it. It was strong and commanding in such a way that she knew whatever house she was in belonged to him. But there was a softness there, too. It handled her ears delicately, lingering in the air like the last note in a song. If ever a man's voice could be called beautiful, this was it.

"No, mademoiselle. It is Erik."

She didn't know any Erik, but Gavroche has friends in the theatre, and this man's voice had that musical quality to it. Perhaps this was one of them. She didn't say anything, unsure of the situation and acutely aware that she was in no position to fight or run, a knowledge that made her body seize and stiffen.

Almost as though the voice knew her thoughts, he did not move closer, but hurriedly, in a reassuring tone, said: "Please don't be frightened. I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you—see? I dressed your wounds for you. I'm not a doctor, but I amuse myself with quite a range of skills. I won't hurt you. Do not be frightened of Erik."

Éponine cautiously felt with her good hand. Under a clean nightdress which she felt too tiny and vulnerable in, her chest was swathed in bandages. She tried again to sit, and suddenly the shadow swooped forward to help her. With extreme gentleness, the man eased another pillow behind her and helped her to sit up slightly. As he did this, she got her first good look at him.

He was wearing a gentleman's clothes. She noted a silver watch-chain swinging across his waistcoat. Well, of course he had money if he had a bed like this. What distinguished him from any other fine gentleman on the streets of Paris was the mask which covered the top half of his face, so that she could see only his mouth and his strong, defined jawline. It didn't strike her as particularly odd—after all, Claquesous always wore a mask. If this man was a little strange, that was all fine with her, just as long as he didn't hurt her.

"And what is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Éponine." She hesitated a half second. Oh, to hell with Jondrettes and Thenardiers and the rest. She wanted to be rid of the whole lot. "Just Éponine."

The room was very dimly lit by only the one candle, but what she could make out was very nice. There was paper on the walls, and furnishings. And it was warm and clean.

Thus far, he had given her no cause to be alarmed, so she ventured to ask a question. "Where am I?"

"You are beneath the Opera House." He said it simply, as though that made perfect sense. "Welcome to my house on the lake."


A/N: Feel free to comment on these early chapters to give me your thoughts as you read along! I love that so much.

Most things in this work will be drawn from Leroux's and Hugo's respective novels. However, after going back and forth, I decided that Erik's deformity will be the exception. No death's head or glowing eyes for him. His deformity is as it is in the stage musical, except that it DOESN'T extend onto his mouth, honestly just because it's easier for Éponine to read his emotions if his mouth doesn't have to be partially covered by the mask. His mask is the kind that covers the entire top half of his face (as on the poster), leaving his mouth and chin uncovered. I understand the reasoning behind the iconic half-mask for a stage production, but to my brain I just can't imagine Erik wanting to show off half of his face. Covering half of the face just makes it more obvious that he's deformed, whereas a normal mask, maybe he just wants to hide his identity.