Chapter Thirty-Three

On Sharing Space and Music and Warmth

A/N: Blacheville and Listolier are two of Tholomyès's friends. I needed names for the new managers and decided to dredge up some very minor characters to make a cameo. And I thought of all the characters who might ineptly manage an Opera House, and would probably be of the right social standing to do so (and would be middle-aged by now), this little group of bland, insufferable, knuckleheaded scoundrels seemed the place to look.


After Erik left, Éponine cleaned up the breakfast dishes, figuring it was the least she could do. She brushed her hair and washed herself with her wash basin, but she couldn't get herself dressed, because she couldn't manage her corset by herself. Erik had continued helping her with it, always making quick work of it and then leaving the room without looking at her. He never gave her time to tease him, and after this morning, she certainly wouldn't dare. She coloured a little. Knowing that a brief brush of their lips had thrown him into such a state made it all the more admirable, how restrained and respectful he had remained from the very first day. He was so very self-controlled. He was a gentleman in the truest sense, and thinking about this, she would never suffer anyone ever calling him a monster—not even himself. She felt ready to fight anyone who dared.

The small hand-mirror he had brought her on Monday evening so that she might do her hair was still on her dressing table. Éponine picked it up and stared at herself for a few minutes. She looked better than she ever remembered looking. She still thought "beautiful" was perhaps too generous a way of putting it, but she wasn't ugly. She should do something about her hair other than just brush it, but she was so tired. Putting the mirror down and standing up slowly, she went back into the drawing room, poked the fire up a bit. She smiled as she walked over to a bookshelf and ran her hand along the spines. There were books on so many subjects. Science, medicine, history, far off lands, the natural world. There were also a lot of quite romantic seeming novels, which made her smile, and also made her think of Maman.

"Oh, Maman!" she whispered aloud, realising. "You would have really liked this, wouldn't you? I'm underneath the ground with the most brilliant and talented and mysterious gentleman, wearing fine dresses and going to the Opera. I really am like a heroine out of one of those silly novels now."

And with this thought, which made her feel sad even as it made her smile, she settled herself into her chair, rubbing her aching rib and letting her eyes drift closed.

—●—●—●—●—

Éponine awoke with a start to the sound of the door being thrown open. She stood up, wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around herself and then turning to see a very dismal looking Erik, who had flung his hat carelessly to land on a table, and was tearing off his gloves impatiently. He wore his mask, but she could still see the dark look on his face.

Biting her lip, wanting to make him feel better and not sure how she could, she went over to him, taking his gloves from him and setting them next to his hat. She helped him get his frock coat off, draping it over a chair. Then, she took his hand and tugged him gently toward his chair. He allowed himself to be led, seemingly so deep in thought that he hardly noticed her. She sat him down, took off his mask, and then poked up the fire a little, as it had nearly gone out while she'd slept.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked.

He muttered something that she took for a yes. Humming to herself, she went to the kitchen.

When she returned a short time later and placed a hot cup of tea in his hand, he looked as though he suddenly registered her and everything that had happened since he'd returned.

"Éponine," he sighed. "I've been very rude. You must forgive me."

She smiled and gently touched his arm by way of accepting the apology, before sitting in her own chair. It felt good to have an opportunity to take care of him a little, after all he had done for her when she was shot.

He was once again looking at her in that terrifying way. Shy, hopeful, and awe-struck. "I will never say this again unless you permit me, but you would make such a very fine wife."

Éponine widened her eyes momentarily, and then, in as even a tone as she could manage, she said simply, "You don't want me for a wife, Erik." Hurrying to change the subject: "How was your meeting?"

Another sigh.

"You could tell me?"

He stared into the fire for a moment before shaking his head. In a somewhat forcedly-bright tone, he said, "It would only bore you. Shall I show you some card tricks?"

She was taken aback, and gave him a look which clearly told him how odd she thought his abrupt shift. "What's happened? Why are you changing the subject? I'm not so easily bored. Or at least, not by things which could cause you to come in looking like someone has died." Feeling a bit of a weight in her stomach, remembering their conversation of the night before, she said carefully, "Erik, no one has died, have they?"

"No, no. Not lately. If they did, I should have to sing a requiem."

"Well then, how was the meeting?"

"Richard could not be there, obviously, but Moncharmin, as well as some of those who understand properly how my theatre is to be run, tried to tell these new fellows—Oh...Blacheville and Listolier, I believe their names are—tried to make them understand the importance of humouring my little peculiarities."

"It didn't go so well?"

"You could say as much."

"Did you speak to them?"

"No, I was merely a silent observer in this meeting. Silent, and invisible too."

Éponine bit her lip thoughtfully. "Well you know, sometimes all that's needed is to speak to some people. I have no trouble going and speaking to people, and sometimes that's all that needs doing. Someone just needs to speak to the persons involved until they can understand things properly, and everything comes out right! If you don't want to talk to them, send me."

He smiled at her fondly, but told her that was not going to help matters in this case. "But!" He said, "There's no reason why the rest of our day should be spent being dismal about these two imbeciles who will soon occupy my time. What would you like to do, Éponine?"

"I would like to get dressed, first of all," she said. "Will you help me in a moment?"

Once she'd gotten herself dressed, calling him in briefly to help with the lacing of the corset, she joined him in the drawing room again. He was idly meandering his way through bits and pieces of songs on the piano, seeming to be deep in thought. He turned and smiled at her when she came in. "I thought we might return to chess," he suggested, and Éponine agreed.

They played one game—although it was really more of a lesson. Truly a teacher by nature, he simply could not sit by and watch her make an unwise move.

"Are you certain about that?" he would ask.

The first few times, Éponine would nod, although a little uncertainly.

"If you did, then I would capture you like...this! And then, that would also leave you vulnerable here, too, do you see?"

Then, rather than tell her which move to make instead, he would let her work it out herself, giving her a very serious nod of approval if she chose well. As it went on, she started to get a knack for it. When he would ask her whether she was certain about a move, she would glance at the board and instantly see what the problem with that move would be. But she was also making fewer unwise moves in the first place.

"I told you that you would be quite good at this." He frowned slightly as he spoke, because she had gleefully captured his not-a-horse. "You have an uncommon ability to conceptualise visually, and hold where objects are located in your mind. That is why you are able to find your way around so well, as you said."

Blushing at what she felt was an undeserved compliment, she said, "Well, you're a very good teacher."

Which reminded her of something else. Before, when she had suggested that he could perhaps teach her to sing, he had quite firmly and angrily said that he didn't teach singing. However, he had subsequently revealed that he had, indeed, been Christine's singing tutor. And clearly, he had a talent for teaching. So, Éponine ventured to ask, "Do you think you might be able to teach me to sing properly?"

"Properly how? Do you mean opera?"

She nodded.

Erik cleared his throat. "Firstly—you will think I am being insincere in an effort to spare your feelings, but I assure you I am not—I must say that I find your voice—your speaking voice, that is—singularly...alluring."

Éponine would indeed have thought he was only saying that to soften whatever he was going to say next. But then he met her eyes, and his eyes were darkened in such a way that caused her to blush and know that he very much meant it. She vainly tried to bite back an embarrassingly silly grin.

"However," he continued bluntly, "that raspy, roughened quality comes from damage to the vocal instrument, which may well never be undone. I suspect from an overindulgence in drink?"

She bit her lip and looked away, shrugging. It was possible.

"Given that, while you do sing in tune, I doubt very much your voice will attain sufficient power and clarity to meet the demands of opera. Beyond that, even if I could mould your voice into what the sensibilities of the audience up there would demand to hear, it would be contrived and artificial. It would not be you."

Éponine sighed resignedly and tried for a smile to hide her embarrassment and slight disappointment.

"It's no great loss, however. Music is so much more than what those silly people up there perform to. No, I'm not speaking of the performers on the stage, I'm speaking of the ones in the chairs, who like to make such a point of how very well they understand music and art, while they watch each other in their boxes, and the ladies gossip behind their fans, and the 'gentlemen' wait for it to end so that they can run into the arms of some ballet brat." He sneered. "Opera music really is not so very complicated, nor as sophisticated as it pretends to be. It has to appeal to the subscribers, you see. But music can be so much more than that. Shall I play you some real music, Éponine? You have the constitution to withstand it. It will not burn you up and consume your soul."

While his last words were disconcerting to say the least, she nevertheless nodded her head.

He beckoned her to follow him into his room, seating himself at the organ. "I compose sometimes. I thought I had finally completed this, my masterpiece. But it is still lacking. No matter, I shall play you some of it."

He began to play, and it was indeed quite different from anything Éponine had ever heard before. It evoked the most visceral and anguishing feelings of suffering and despair. Just when she felt that she would suffocate under the weight of hopelessness, it would relent a little, showing glimpses and dreams of beauty even in an obvious hell. She recognised part of it as the music she had been woken up by after they had shared that first meal. It struck her even more profoundly now than it had done that night, when she had only related it to her somewhat selfish and extremely jealous infatuation toward Marius. There were so many more layers to this piece of music, that she, one very long month later, felt now able to grasp in a fuller and more nuanced way.

With every note that he played, Erik unfolded his soul, and rendered his suffering exquisite. There was so much longing there—but not a longing centred on the self. It reached out. It offered. And the world responded by turning away in horror. The world turned away and crammed him deeper into this black and dismal abyss that the music spiralled down into. Ah! But then: then, it began to ascend. To somewhat violently claw its way out, and then to soar recklessly and sublimely. It hesitated, and then it dared. And the entire room, the entire world, was on fire. She felt as though her heart were leaving her body, trying to soar up to meet those undaunted notes, some place above the ceiling.

It pressed on. It demanded. It pleaded. It bargained. It begged. Desperately, it offered. It reached out. It soared. And then, abruptly, he stopped playing. "There was more, but it isn't complete. It must be rewritten." He stood and turned to look at her, and there was something almost anxious or expectant in his manner. Then he said, "You are weeping."

Éponine hadn't noticed the tears streaming down her face. She rubbed them away with her fist, and then just stared at him speechlessly.

"If this music were played for the people up above, there would be rioting." He had the hint of a wry smile. "They are not capable of appreciating this—they cannot even watch an opera without having it interrupted by a ballet, which one can only suppose points to the fact that the absurdly simple plot and harmless, consonant, broadly-appealing music are too taxing on their poor brains, thereby necessitating the divertissement. No, they would never stand for these sounds in their ears."

She smiled at the thought of the fine ladies and gentlemen being deeply offended and confused by Erik's transcendent masterpiece.

"But this, still, is hardly music," he said. "There is so much more that is possible. Whatever I succeed in capturing with this, once it is complete, it will only be the smallest corner of what music is, and can be. Music is so vast and powerful. Music is life, it is the human condition. And there is much to be discovered. So, if you love to sing, then you must by all means sing, as much as you want. Discover whatever it is that your voice can do."

She shrugged. She didn't have a mind like his, and she wouldn't know where to begin. He spoke of music as though it were something that could not be created but simply was, like some vast body of water, or some element that had to be uncovered from the earth. Something that a person had to tap into or draw from or capture. Something that was still largely hidden and waiting to be discovered. It was too daunting, and she wouldn't know where to begin.

At any rate, she was starving, and she suggested that it was time to eat.

—●—●—●—●—

The next day was Friday, which meant it was time to collect her dresses from the shop. This was the last day she would have to dress in an ill-fitting gown.

"However, there are matters which I must attend to this morning," Erik said over breakfast. "So we shall go in the afternoon, if that is agreeable to you?"

Éponine nodded. He went to his desk and began to write. She smiled fondly at his concentration and the way he formed the words silently with his mouth as he wrote. He finished, and handed her the letter.

"There. Will this be taken seriously?"

She furrowed her brow. "You want my opinion?"

"I believe that is what I asked," he said impatiently.

She glanced down at the letter.

My Dear Directors, Please excuse my troubling you at a time when you are transitioning into your new roles and must, therefore, have a lot to occupy your minds. I thought it best, however, to introduce myself at this juncture, and thereby ensure that our relations henceforth can remain cordial. At the meeting yesterday, it was my opinion that MM. Moncharmin, Gabriel, and Mercier, as well as the estimable Mme. Giry did a fine job of detailing to you the perils of refusal to heed my express wishes. I should also not leave out M. Richard, although he could not be present. His absence, due as it was to physical incapacity brought on by the resultant stress and unpleasantness of trifling with me, in itself spoke volumes. It need not be for the two of you as it has been for this past administration, who refused to heed the similar warnings and instructions from their own predecessors. I was present at that meeting, and I heard your every laugh and scoff. I do not hold it against you, as what you were hearing was surely too fantastic for anyone to process in the moment, and must surely have born all the marks of a mere joke—some sort of good-humoured, traditional Opera House initiation. Now that you have had a chance to sleep on it, however, it is my sincere hope that you have come to the decision to take the matter of the memorandum book seriously. I have been assured that you are gentlemen, not only of exquisite taste, but also of serious and sensible character, and that the indiscretions and folly of your youth—you yourselves know exactly of what I speak, and if not, I am more than happy to elaborate publicly—have been left far behind. Myself, I am not at all unreasonable, as far as ghosts go. So I see no obstacle to our getting on quite well, as long as you heed the terms of my memorandum book, which I shall not waste your time by listing here, as you are, I trust, capable of reading. I remain, gentlemen, a most amiable and obedient servant, -P. of the O.

She nodded approvingly. "Do you really know the..." she glanced down at the letter again, "...'indiscretions and folly' of their pasts?"

He smiled. "Every gentleman in Paris has something in his past that he would not wish to have made public, especially when he has just become the director of the Paris Opera, about which the press loves nothing better than to speculate. The risk that I might know something should serve just as well."

"That's blackmail, you know."

"No, it is insurance. And more common than you think, even in 'respectable' business."

Éponine shrugged. That might well be so.

He stood and hunted about for his coat, mask, hat, and gloves.

"Are you going to deliver it now?"

He nodded.

"Can I come along?"

"There are draughts, and it will be a lot of walking."

"I've been resting for days," she pointed out.

He studied her thoughtfully. "Very well. But go find a shawl or something. The last thing we need is for you to be taken ill, on top of your injuries."

—●—●—●—●—

Éponine drew her shawl more tightly around her chest, and burrowed her nose into it. It was indeed cold and damp. She struggled a little to keep up with Erik's long strides. Quickening her pace until she was even with him, she took his arm and leaned into him a little.

"Are you feeling faint?" he asked, stopping a moment.

"No, I'm cold," she explained. "But you're like ice, yourself." She pushed past his cuff to feel his wrist, were his glove ended. It was stone-cold.

"Yes." She could hear a wry smile in his voice. "I'm afraid I have always run rather cold. I suppose it is part of my corpse-like appeal."

Éponine rolled her eyes. "We can continue, and I'll just shiver. Used to it. It's not so bad." Even though he didn't provide much warmth, she still hung onto his arm so that she wouldn't lose him in the darkness. Besides, being so close to him still served to warm her, even if he did not radiate much heat.