Chapter Sixteen
Reflections on Feelings and Experiences Which Certainly Could Not Be the Start of Love
Erik had been unable to keep himself away while Éponine was recovering at the Daroga's flat. He would check on her at night, reassured by the peaceful sound of her breathing in her drugged sleep. There was a spot outside of the window, on the balcony, where a column cast a shadow just the right size for him to stand and not be noticed by passerby, unless someone happened to be looking very closely—and they had no reason to. Of course, he had to get to the balcony unseen, but that was no great obstacle for Erik. And so, sheltered by the column, he could stand there and listen during the day when the doctor came, thereby staying informed of her recovery.
Although he didn't understand why it should make any difference to him, he was worried she would not want to return to the house on the lake. Her presence there was...not annoying. But he didn't need company. There was only one person whom he had ever wanted in his house on the lake, and that was Christine. He wanted nothing to do with the rest of the human race. And yet...
And yet, he allowed Éponine to see one of the secret entrances from the street, and how to cross the lake to get to his house, and even how to open the door. If, for some unimaginable reason, she might like to come back and visit Erik after she had recovered and gone away, he wouldn't object to that.
—●—●—●—●—
He did not sleep, after she had gone to bed. During the fortnight she had been gone, the house on the lake had been emptier than it had ever been before she arrived. When he had let Christine go free to marry her little viscount, his house had not felt empty. It had felt full: bursting at the seams with the only moment of perfect happiness he had ever felt, the most beautiful compassion he had ever been shown. Filled with the love he was dying of—such a beautiful love, a perfect love. A happy end to his unhappy story. But then Éponine had come and gone, and somehow the house had become unbearably empty. Now that she was back—and back of her own accord, she had wanted to come back—he just counted the hours until she would wake up again. They had arrived back at the house on the lake around half past two in the morning, and he decided he would let her sleep until 8 o'clock. That should be plenty of time, shouldn't it? In the meantime, he was restless, and tried to keep himself busy until, finally, the clock told him it was time to wake her.
Later, when she came to join him in the drawing room, he had been quite startled by her sudden appearance next to the piano, as if out of thin air. But the suddenness had not been the only startling thing about her appearance. It's true, the dress she wore did not fit her, and the effect might have been quite comical.
But amusement was the furthest from Erik's mind.
When he had found her on the street and brought her into his house, she had looked like a dead person, and it wasn't just the blood which had drenched her boy's clothing and made its way onto her face and in her hair. Nor was it the faintness of her breathing, so that the rise and fall of her chest was hardly visible. She was mostly harsh angles and bones, with very little feminine softness. The blood was caked over dirt, and as he tried to gently clean the dirt and blood away, it seemed as though her poor, colourless skin would come with it, leaving nothing but bones. Her hair was a dark, gnarled mess of tangles and dirt and blood. But when she finally opened her eyes, even in the candlelight, there was so much life and defiant fire in them. As deathlike as she looked, she was very much alive.
The Éponine who stood before him now had little in common with that pitiful creature, other than the fire that still came from the depths of her warm brown eyes. It's true, she was still tiny and too thin. Her collar bones jutted out above the neckline of the dress, which was constantly threatening to fall off of her bony shoulders. But she had a little bit of flesh on her now, and her face was not quite so gaunt. There was colour in her cheeks. Her hair was clean and fell in waves, and in the lamplight, the brown shone with a coppery tint. There was no trace of dirt on her skin anymore, nor was she accompanied by the smells of blood and black powder.
He felt confused and irritated that she should not only sneak up on him, but then stand there looking like that, and he'd snapped at her. "What do you think you're doing, sneaking about like that?"
But she had countered, rightfully indignant, and he felt as if...was he sorry? At any rate, he took care to soften his tone.
And then she had sat next to him on the bench, so close they were almost touching. He scooted over as far as he could, but it wasn't far enough, and she was far too close and far too beautiful and alive and feminine. His brain was all muddled and confused again.
Thankfully, she had opened her mouth to sing, and her voice had broken the spell. All that could be said was that she had at least the decency to sing in tune, and it seemed she was correctly hitting the notes of whatever terrible vaudeville rubbish she had selected, but her voice was like a drunken galley slave's, all guttural and rasping and uncontrolled. It would have been an outrageous atrocity against music, but, as he would hardly call that low-brow trash "music," it fell short of insulting and was simply unfortunate. He would never voice any of this to her, though, because there was something so earnest and somewhat anxious in her manner, and something about her in general that made him never want to be cruel to her. So he quickly erased the disgust from his face and just looked at her in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.
But then she started laughing and shrugged the whole thing off, and for a split second Erik felt immense relief. It was all a joke! Except...no. Maybe not. In her laughter, there was something of shame, and there was a blush on her cheeks. So perhaps she had been earnest, and perhaps he had done a poor job hiding his distaste. She was rather too confusing to unravel. Why couldn't humans ever be straightforward—especially women?
She ducked her head slightly and gave him a soft smile. "Maybe you could teach me?"
The very suggestion. He had only one protégée, and that was Christine. Christine, with that celestial, crystalline voice, a voice that made seasoned opera devotees—who, until then, had heard the very best which Paris had to offer—hold their breath and disbelieve that their ears had held such a treasure. A voice which had enfolded the power of the sea she loved, and the incorruptibility of her father's violin, and the lessons which Erik had given her—all together with a spirit that was entirely her own. A voice that filled his dark and dismal lair with hope and brilliance and light. That voice was the only fitting vessel for his music, and he was furious that Éponine would sit next to him, fluster his brain, sing like that, and then dare to suggest that Christine's Angel of Music might teach her!
He slammed the lid of the piano shut, taking his anger out on the instrument, because as annoyed and irritated and muddled as he was, he still didn't want to take it out on Éponine. Nonetheless, he could see he had frightened her, and that made him feel... It made him feel like he wanted to take it back, to un-slam the piano lid and drown his anger before it began. And he didn't like this unfamiliar feeling. It was uncomfortable.
She really was quite adorable, with her urge to show off. Her defensive assertion that she could read and write confirmed that her singing had been earnest, and that made him feel fond and protective of her—he wanted to protect her feelings from his own cruel and inhuman self. He didn't know if he could. He felt, even to himself, like an unstoppable force of some malevolent nature, murdering all that is good. But he would give it his very best try.
Which was probably why, despite his best efforts, he ended by telling her his entire tragic love story. As he told the story, he had a certainty from deep within that she understood. That she really grasped and comprehended the events as no one else could have done. She knew. Of course, he skipped over a lot of the story, because, although there were reasons for what he had done, others seemed not to see it that way, and Éponine's understanding would probably never stretch that far. It could also not stretch to acceptance of his face, if he complied with her request that he show her.
He refused to show her his face; she stood before him and bared her very soul, pouring out her entire past—as much of it as she was able to voice. And her soul was scarred and beaten and distorted, but she was far from broken. He felt something so overwhelming, and it was not pity. One does not pity beautiful things. And Éponine's entire being was beautiful to him.
—●—●—●—●—
After Éponine went to rest, Erik sat and started to write a letter to the management reminding them (very courteously—they shouldn't need all of these reminders) that his salary was due, but also to address some matters regarding the running of the Opera which were of annoyance to him. They had not heard from him since the disappearance of Christine Daaé, and it was time, he decided, that he start taking an interest in things again and remind them of his existence. While he was writing, the bell rang.
He started to mutter to himself, "Who the—" —but, ah. He smiled grimly. He knew exactly who was there.
He peeked in on Éponine to ensure she was sound asleep, then he went out and got into his boat and rowed impatiently across the lake. Sure enough, he found an impossible booby waiting for him on the opposite shore.
"I warned you again and again, Daroga, not to enter my house. I showed you patience because of the service you rendered me. Well, that was cancelled out when you brought that viscount here. You ceased to exist, then, and would be dead now if not for Christine convincing me to save you. You saved Erik's life, but Erik saved yours. See? It is finished! You have nothing to hold over my head anymore, you booby. Now, you are only trespassing and annoying me, and it will be the same for you as it is for any stranger who trespasses and annoys me." Of course, Erik would have to admit to himself that this wasn't entirely true, otherwise he wouldn't be standing here wasting words on the man.
"Trespassing? I'm trespassing? Erik, you broke into my home and carried the young mademoiselle off in the middle of the night."
"She agreed to come with me! Do you truly think I would have stolen her away against her will?"
"Need I remind you that is exactly what you did to Christine Daaé?"
"Did I?" Erik asked innocently.
The daroga was visibly fuming. "Monster! I heard her cries myself. I saw her poor forehead bruised from where she tried to kill herself by striking her head against the wall, and her poor, raw little wrists from when you bound her! How can you stand there and ask, 'did I?' Yes, you truly are a monster, Erik."
"Éponine doesn't think so. She said she doesn't care what I've done—that I am kind and gentle."
"That poor girl doesn't know you. She wasn't there for the rosy hours of Mazandaran. And I imagine she has never seen your face."
Erik very nearly struck the insolent booby for that last comment. "Stay out of my house. Leave me alone. Do not come here anymore. Do you understand?"
"I need to speak to mademoiselle. I need reassurance that she is all right."
"Out of the question. She is resting now. But she is very happy here, and she will be allowed to leave any time she wishes. Now, shoo. I have business to attend to, and you're annoying."
"What assurance can you give me that the girl is all right?"
"Erik's word."
"Your word is worth nothing; you've said yourself that you never keep your oaths."
"It's enough for you, booby. Éponine is none of your concern. She has been hurt before, but not by Erik, and absolutely no harm will come to her while she is here. Go worry about someone else. It's a big city, full of every human misery." He jumped into the boat and began to row away. "Goodbye! I'm going now. Don't let me catch you here again, unless you feel like reminiscing about old times. Reliving them, even." He let out a terrible laugh. "I could recreate some things for your benefit, Daroga, if you're feeling nostalgic. But otherwise, keep away from me. Mind your own business. And put Éponine out of your mind."
"She may not be my concern, but you are, Erik." The booby's voice was tired. "Don't make me regret saving you."
Erik didn't answer.
—●—●—●—●—
Almost no sooner had Erik returned to his desk and picked up the pen again than Éponine awoke and once again startled him by suddenly appearing at his desk.
It seemed only logical to him that she needed new clothes which fit her properly. He was flummoxed by her suggestion that it might look like...no, those were not his intentions at all. It was just perfectly logical that she needed suitable clothing, and he didn't anticipate having to debate the matter so much and coax her into accepting. She was so incredibly guarded, even though she seemed almost to trust him—must trust him, to some degree, otherwise she would never have returned to the house on the lake.
But he had finally persuaded her to go with him to the shop, where the deception that she was his wife had risen perfectly naturally. And then Éponine—saying something embarrassing—had come and stood quite close beside him, and entwined her delicate arm around his, and she had tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes dancing with a mischievous light and her mouth grinning like they were co-conspirators, and his heart had leapt and he couldn't account for the feelings that overtook him. His reaction, as he stood waiting for her measurements to be taken behind the screen, was to squash those feelings with anger and agitation. He could hear the seamstresses giggling and whispering, and he could feel their inquisitive eyes. He tried not to picture Éponine's upturned face or the feeling of her plastered on his arm like that. He tried to think about something else so he wouldn't have to sort through whatever was happening to him.
Some perfectly respectable, bourgeois woman entered the shop with her maid, and neither could hide their immediate reaction to Erik's mask, which reaction they immediately replaced with indifferent masks of their own. That sent Erik spiralling into an even darker place, and he remained in that place until he was startled by the warmth of Éponine silently slipping in beside him again, taking his arm, and...
And she kissed him. Near his mouth. He stared at her for a moment. She didn't need to do that. Respectable married people didn't do that in public. Had she—had she wanted to do that? He quickly recovered himself on the outside, but inside he was reeling.
"The people will not forget, Monsieur. It will not have been in vain," the proprietress had said in a low voice as they prepared to leave.
Erik had to pretend he understood whatever she was talking about until they got out of the shop. Then, Éponine told him the story that she had told the proprietress, that they had both been wounded at the barricades. And the lady had believed it. And just like that, his mask had made sense. It no longer set him apart in a bad way. He was like anybody else who might have been caught up in those events and injured as a result, and he had a little wife like anybody else—a pretty wife who took his arm and gave him kisses and smiled up at him with her beautiful, warm eyes. It was all so ordinary and wonderful, and it was everything he had wanted. It was what he had pictured with Christine. Ordinary little moments like that, ordinary human moments. He wanted this happy charade to last as long as it could, so he was disappointed when she declined his suggestion that they go to a restaurant. But she was quite right, they did make a strange pair—her as much as him.
—●—●—●—●—
A sad song. She wanted a sad song—peculiar girl. Perhaps she truly did belong down here. He chose one that ought to make her weep.
If his verses could do but one thing. If his verses could do but one thing, perhaps they could persuade Éponine to remain in the company of death of her own free will. His thoughts and feelings and impressions were a complicated mess that he could not unravel. He had an idea of what love was. Christine, he had loved. It burned and hurt and consumed his every thought and waking moment. It drove him to plot and to build and to destroy. It was passion and obsession and adoration and self-loathing and jealousy and pain. Love was motive to kill—to kill a goodly number of the human race, if necessary.
That was love, wasn't it?
That was love, so whatever he was feeling toward Éponine was decidedly not love, and he didn't foresee that it ever would be. Éponine wasn't perfect, like Christine. He saw her flaws and her scarred and fragile soul, and in spite and because of that, there was something about her that made him feel protective, so that he even wanted to shield her from the cruel and inhuman aspects of his own nature, moving him to try his best at being gentle and kind. He thought he would rather lose Éponine and never see her again than force her to do anything she didn't want to do, and thereby have her declare that he was a monster. Whereas for Christine to be his, he had been prepared to do absolutely anything—because that was love, wasn't it?
So whatever he was feeling toward Éponine, whatever it was that made him feel so tenderly and urged him to want to put her feelings ahead of his own and feel like he wanted to take it back when he didn't; whatever it was that he felt when he had held her small, sobbing body in his arms, or when he pictured her upturned face with its conspiratorial grin, or when she pressed a kiss to his jaw, just an inch from the corner of his mouth... Whatever it meant that there should be a such a profound current of understanding between them, whatever had made the house on the lake seem so empty without her in it, whatever had caused him to show her how to find and enter his house, and to tell her all about Christine... Whatever it was that had his thoughts and emotions and the depths of his soul so stirred up and twisted and confused could not be love, but whatever it was was profound and powerful and almost too much for him to bear. And yet, it only caused him distress because he could not understand it. Otherwise, he felt something like...joy.
And if Éponine was perhaps feeling some degree of whatever this was, and as long as she never saw his face, which would of course ruin everything, perhaps she would want to remain with him. Perhaps, with her invented story of how they had accidentally been injured on the 5th of June, they could go out like ordinary people and go to restaurants and stroll about on Sunday afternoons in the daylight—just like anybody else. The life they might have was a beautiful picture that sprang up before him. She would have to never see his face nor learn the details of his past, but if she could only do that, he thought, they could really be quite happy. It was something they could give to each other, which neither had on their own. A happy life, where they would not be looked down on or pitied or feared. They could emerge together out of this dark abyss and into the light as ordinary, respectable people.
Enveloped by the music he made which filled the room and drowned out everything but his happy thoughts of a possible future—thoughts which were quite at odds with the sad song that he sang—he suddenly felt the air behind him shift. She was there. Quite close. And he felt her hand just barely brush past his hair...
a dio, terra; a dio, cielo; e sole, a dio.
A/N: ...and the cliffhanger still hangs.
Also, poor guy just doing his best to figure out emotions that were never properly taught or modelled for him.
