Chapter Thirty-Four
Monsieur and Madame Dine Well and Attend the Opera
A/N: I fell down a rabbit hole and learned more than I will ever be able to use regarding the early 19th century French restaurant scene.
After they had made their way through many passages, Erik helped her crawl up into a somewhat cramped little space made out of wooden boards. She started to say something, but he motioned her to be quiet. Then, he listened for a moment, and seemingly satisfied with what he heard (which was silence, unless he heard something Éponine didn't) he did something, and a trap door fell open in the ceiling of their little compartment, flooding them with daylight that seemed to be streaming through a window. Éponine blinked to clear the spots from her eyes, but Erik, with the envelope in his hand, reached up through the little trap door, quickly shutting it again.
Once they had climbed down from that little compartment, Éponine ventured to ask about whatever had just occurred.
"We were right under the desk in the managers' office," he explained. "A very handy little trap door that I installed."
"There's a lot of effort, goes into being a ghost," she said dryly. "Slow down! I can't keep up with you." She took his arm again, once she'd caught up with him. It was very dark since they didn't have a lantern, with only faint light coming in through cracks here and there. He seemed to know where he was going, but she couldn't see a thing. All of this would make a very good reason for hanging onto his arm, but that wasn't exactly why.
"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"
She scoffed. "No."
"You're cold?"
"No." She leaned her head against his arm with a contented sigh.
There was a second when she thought he was going to stop walking, but then he continued, saying nothing. And then, she felt him very timidly kiss the top of her head. She gently squeezed his arm, not even attempting to hide her smile, although the darkness did it anyway.
—●—●—●—●—
There was no sign of Erik when Éponine emerged into the completely darkened drawing room, after returning to the house and napping for a while. Taking a candle from her room, she poked her head into Erik's room, which was also dark. The kitchen, too, revealed no sign of him. There was one more door off the drawing room, which she had never seen behind, but upon trying it, she found it locked. She went back to the kitchen and found some bread and cheese to eat, and had just lit a few lamps and settled herself to wait in the drawing room, when Erik returned.
"Did you have a good rest?" he asked pleasantly.
She nodded. "I didn't know you were going out again."
"I had something to attend to. Boring business matters."
Éponine decided not to press further. She didn't know why, but still in her mind was some element of, the less I know, the better.
"I wonder if you might like to wear your green dress, and after we go to the seamstress's shop, we might dine at a restaurant? Then, return in time to catch tonight's performance from box five. Would that be agreeable?"
It actually sounded a bit tiring, but then, the best way to recover and not be so weak and fatigued any more was probably to push through. She had been lying around entirely too much, and that could only make her weaker. Pushing aside her other big concern, which was that she might embarrass herself at a restaurant, she smiled and told Erik that it was a wonderful idea.
—●—●—●—●—
As she walked into the shop on Erik's arm, Éponine thought she looked respectable enough. She wore her exquisitely-fitted green silk dress, with a lace pelerine that covered the shoulders and décolletage, and a large-brimmed bonnet, and gloves on her hands. Even though she still felt out of place, the hope that her appearance—while still likely not enough to fool anyone—was much less conspicuous than the last time made her feel a little less uncomfortable.
They wanted her to try on the dresses to ensure that the fit was good. The formidable proprietress was helping another customer, so it was just Éponine and the seamstress behind the screen. Éponine asked the seamstress her name (it was Marie-Anne) and unwittingly opened up the floodgates of conversation.
"Your dress is so beautiful, madame!" Marie-Anne exclaimed. "This green is a wonderful colour on you."
"Oh, thank you. My husband had it made for me. To wear to the opera."
"He must love you very much!"
Éponine merely laughed awkwardly.
Lowering her voice to a whisper, Marie-Anne asked, "You said last time, about what happened to your husband's face..."
"Yes?"
"Is he very frightening to look at?"
"I don't mind it at all," she answered honestly. "It doesn't frighten me because it's just part of him. And I..." she bit back a silly grin. "You know. He's my—husband. But," she continued gravely, "other people have been very unkind, and that's why he wears the mask. It would be horrifying, I suppose, on a stranger."
Whether Marie-Anne understood or not, she nodded as though she did. "Do you have any children, madame?"
Éponine shook her head.
"How long have you been married?"
"About a year?" She didn't mean to say it as though it were a question, but they hadn't really decided on the history of this ruse.
"Oh, and your husband said you had been very ill, I forgot. And then you were shot, right? What a difficult first year of marriage. Well, don't worry, madame. Now that you've recovered, I expect you shall be blessed with children soon enough! Especially with a husband who loves you so much." She gave a teasing smile.
Éponine went pale.
All three dresses fit perfectly, and they were so very beautiful. To own four dresses, when a month ago she hadn't even owned a single one! Just a torn chemise and a tattered skirt. It was overwhelming.
—●—●—●—●—
"Are you all right?" Erik asked. "You seem distracted."
Leaning into the table and dropping her voice, Éponine admitted, "I feel a little out of place. I'm sure to make some embarrassing blunder or other. No, probably I've already made ten of them between walking in the door and sitting down."
She had struggled not to let her mouth drop open at the high, elaborate moulded ceiling and columns, the glittering chandeliers, the elegance of the people, the bright, tinkling, clink of silver and china, and the comfortable, soft conversation and tasteful laughter that wafted through the air. As she listened for a moment, not all of these conversations were French. She recognised English, and there were other languages too, all melding together in a convivial ambiance. And such smells of food! What had Erik been thinking, bringing her into a place like this?
They were both as well dressed as the people at the tables, save the bizarre detail of Erik's mask, but there was so much more to it than that. Just as the criminal sort she hung about with had their own language, their own manner of movement, and certain things they all just knew without having to be told, these people surely did, too. How could she even attempt to copy those telltale signs if she didn't know what they were in the first place? There were things which people who knew just knew, and she might have been one of them if her father had actually run his inn respectably and perhaps put his money in a bank. But such was not her life, and she felt that like a brand upon her skin or a cloud that clung around her, and if any of these people were to fix their gaze upon her, they would know it instantly, too.
"You could never be out of place. You're beautiful." Erik slid his hand across the small table, almost to where her own hand rested, but stopped short of touching it.
"You forget what I am," she said darkly, hardly above a whisper.
"I don't forget. I simply disagree as to what you are."
"You have a better imagination than anyone else does."
"Éponine, anyone who might otherwise play detective as to your background will be far more interested in my mask."
She slid her hand so that their fingertips met. They didn't speak again until the smartly dressed waiter appeared, handing Erik a carte. Éponine kept her head bowed demurely, letting her bonnet shield her from the waiter's view, lest he be able to tell that she didn't even belong scrubbing the floors of a place like this. But the man appeared politely disinterested even in Erik's mask, wearing his own mask of supreme indifference.
"Let's see. We will start with the consommé, then partridge, after that sole, and then roasted duck with vegetables. And a bottle of wine, please?"
Éponine was grateful that her bonnet shielded her wide-eyed expression.
"Very good, monsieur. One moment." The waiter left, returning with the bottle of wine and two glasses.
Erik poured her glass and then his own, and in a low voice said, "Please—"
"I know," she responded tersely, somewhat offended. She was making absolutely every effort to comport herself properly, and fully intended to virtuously sip at her wine as though she really preferred the taste rather than the effect.
"I'm sorry. I confess that I am rather nervous."
She reached across the small table and laid her hand on his wrist, giving him a soft smile. "This was your idea."
"Yes. With you, I can dare do things I never would have done on my own."
"I'll embarrass us both so no one notices the mask," she said dryly, as she brought her glass to her lips with her other hand.
"No. You could never do that."
Hoping to dispel the effect of the way he was looking at her, she quipped lightly, once again, that he had a very good imagination. Then, the waiter brought the steaming hot soup, and the meal commenced.
—●—●—●—●—
"I'm going to die," Éponine sighed as he offered her his arm after paying the pretty, fashionably dressed lady who was presiding over all upon her raised seat behind a railing. At the sight of the Napoléon that passed from Erik's hand, Éponine had to lower her head and allow her bonnet to shield the fact that her eyes almost fell out of her face. Twenty francs. How long her family could have eaten with that—had it not been gambled away or all drunk up, of course. She felt all manner of guilt and gratitude and mixed-up feelings. But she was soon distracted by the discomfort of her near-bursting stomach.
"You didn't have to eat everything, you know. I told you."
"I wasn't going to let it go to waste!"
He hailed a fiacre and helped her inside. She hid a yawn, and as the vehicle started to move, she curled herself up on the seat and used the parcel of dresses as a kind of pillow. After all of this, they were going to the opera. She was so tired.
They went first to the house to deposit the parcel, and she also ditched her bonnet and pelerine. They then had to make their way through all the passages up to the hollow column. Éponine could already hear the strains of the orchestra. She was about to ask Erik how late they were, but he abruptly motioned her to be silent. He was looking through one of his little concealed peepholes, and then he turned to her. In the shadows, she could just make out his grim smile. He whispered: "Yes. Those fools are in my box."
