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Chapter 14: Jealousy
Isabelle turned out to have a much stronger voice than Erik had anticipated at first. Her initial shyness on meeting him and singing to him for the first time wore off within the first few lessons, and he was astounded at how well she could really sing when she wasn't so shy. He had not expected her to lose the countenance of her shyness. Yet, lose it she did. At first, she reminded him just a little bit of Christine, and how she had been when he first saw her.
Yet, soon there was a very different personality that she let free whenever he taught her. It was a side of her that he was quite certain she didn't share with anyone but him. He didn't know why. There seemed to be no reason that she let on to which would let him understand her growing change. Her voice was reaching heights he never believed the frail girl he'd met could ever achieve, and within only a few weeks, she was actually mastering difficult pieces that it had taken Christine much longer to learn.
"Maestro Erik, how old are you?" She asked boldly one afternoon, when he was packing up to leave for the afternoon. He was about to go downstairs and collect his check for the past month - a tidy sum of 24,000 francs for a months worth of lessons. The question took Erik quite by surprise, but he turned to look at her politely. He wondered what his answer should be. No one had asked him that in a great many years, and now he couldn't very well tell her the truth about being fifty-one!
"Well, Mademoiselle . . . how old do you think I am?" He asked curiously, lowering himself to sit back down on the piano bench. Isabelle shrugged slowly, stepping closer to him. Her eyes were really quite brilliant in the sunlight. They truly looked as though they were made of amethyst. Her pale, auburn hair was let loose today, so that it was let loose down her back, the ends of the strands brushing the bottom of her waist. He'd been right about the length. It was very long . . . and very, very soft looking.
"Twenty?" She asked quietly. "My mother insists that you must be at least forty to sing like you do. Then again, she cannot see you. I suppose it's understandable for a blind woman to think a man of such accomplishments to be older."
"Yes, that's perfectly understandable." Erik agreed softly. "I'm twenty- three, Mademoiselle. Twenty-three."
She smiled, obviously pleased that she had been very close to guessing the 'correct' age. Erik watched her for a long moment. Her new boldness enhanced her beauty, he found himself thinking. His thoughts still had nothing to do with love. Yet he found nothing wrong whatsoever in acknowledging the beauty of another human being. She looked back at him, straight in the eyes, as though knowing full well what he was thinking, and smiled.
"My mother wants to speak with you when you collect your check." She finally said, breaking the moment of quiet. "I just thought that I would warn you."
"All right." He said, finally standing up once more, taking his portfolio of music under his right arm. "Have a delightful evening, Mademoiselle. I shall see you on Saturday afternoon."
She didn't reply, and he walked out of the room without expecting her to. As he took a left and moved down the carpeted staircase, he could hear her light footsteps behind him. Yet when he turned into the study, her footsteps stopped. Erik smirked quietly, knowing full well she planned to eavesdrop on his conversation with her mother. Madam Develõngê stood in the same gown in which he'd first met her, staring out of the window as the sun set behind the property. Of course, she couldn't really watch anything. Yet, she could feel and sense the light as it dissipated.
"Monsieur . . . your check is on the desk." She said without turning her head towards him even a fraction of an inch. "Would you please have a seat, Monsieur? I would like to speak to you about my daughters lessons."
"Of course, Madame." Erik lowered himself into a leather chair slowly, reaching out to pick up his check of 9,600 francs - what she owed him for the month. "Might I ask, are you pleased with her progress."
"More than you might imagine, Monsieur." She replied quietly, finally turning so that her body faced him. She tilted her heads towards where she thought his voice had come from, and he found himself looking at her eyebrows. "This has to do with where her lessons take place. You see . . . My husband and I have realized that it takes a great deal of time out of your week, to come all the way out here and tutor Isabelle. So we were wondering if there was any chance we might be able to have her go to your home, and be tutored there? That way she might be there earlier in the day, at your earliest convenience after rehearsals, and then might leave earlier as well."
Erik considered this for a long moment. Certainly having Isabelle in his very own home in such an arrangement would be time saving. Yet, there were so many trivial things that might cause complications. The number one complication being the fact that Marguerite almost never left the house unless it was with him, and that she would finally meet Isabelle with her very own eyes.
"Do you trust me enough with your daughter for her to be alone in a house with me?" He asked softly, his voice lightly teasing. "Granted, there are always others at the home, but they are usually just the children of the woman I have on as a ward."
"Isabelle trusts you." Madame said easily enough. "I trust her judgment. She's learned your true character more than I have this past month. Besides, undoubtedly the mother of these children you've mentioned will be home as well during at least most of her lesson, oui?"
"Oui, Madame." He replied quietly. "Don't worry. You truly can trust me. Of course Isabelle is welcome to be tutored in my home . . . but if I feel it is causing stress to the family staying in the building with me, then I shall have to move them back here, or to the Opera House."
"Oh, now that is an idea!" Madame exclaimed suddenly. "I'm willing to bet it would be a great inspiration for Isabelle to be taught among the great singers!"
"Perhaps. For now, I think we'll start in my home." He agreed. Slowly, he stood from the chair, and her eyes seemed to follow the movement. Yet she had no idea how tall he was. "Is that all, Madame?"
"Yes, Monsieur . . . Thank you. Adieu."
"Adieu, Madame." Turning, Erik moved out into the hall to see Isabelle perched on the bottom step of the very near staircase. She was smiling at him brilliantly, obviously pleased that he'd agreed to her mothers' arrangement. Nodding, she reached out to take his hand and squeeze it. That was one thing she'd never done before - touch him. Erik watched her a moment, confused, and then bowed to her before walking out of the house without another backwards glance.
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"No!" Marguerite yelled, in an absolute fury. "No, she can't come here! Home time is *our* time!"
Erik sighed, reaching out to grab the porcelain doll he had recently bought her, plucking it out of the air as she hurled it across the room. She rarely had fits like this, but this was truly a colossal one. He'd just learned that Isabelle would be coming to their house that very evening, within twenty minutes, and did not like it. A stranger coming into their home, with Erik, seemed to frighten her quite badly.
"Ma Cherie . . . please don't." He sighed, placing the doll carefully on a chair by the door. "Listen to me. She will only be here for her singing lessons. You're more than welcome to watch if it pleases you. You know I would never shut you out of the room."
She looked up at him with defiant anger, and he sighed once more, taking a step across the room towards her. She made an angry sound of warning, folding her arms over her chest, and turning to face the window so that her back was to him. Obviously, she didn't want him going anywhere near her. Erik stopped walking, and shook his head.
"Marguerite, you're being childish." He scolded. "You used to be a fine young lady."
"I am not a child!" She yelled, turning to scream the words at him.
"Then do not behave like one." He reasoned pleadingly. "My darling, you know it upsets me to see you unhappy. I'm not trying to make you unhappy at all. I was given the opportunity to teach her here so that I could spend more time with you on the evenings that I meet with her."
She seemed to consider this for several minutes, and then her arms unfolded, hands dropping lifelessly into her lap. Erik let out a long breath of relief. Her tantrum was passing. He wouldn't have to worry about her smashing the only doll she had as of yet. If she'd broken any of the other toys in the room, he would not have cared. Yet, the doll she had thrown was a very expensive piece - irreplaceable. He knew she would have been crushed at the thought of its' demise once she calmed down, if it had been broken.
There was a knock on the door from downstairs, and he heard Madeline call from the parlor that she would answer it. She already knew that Isabelle would be arriving, so wasn't surprised at the knock. Marguerite, however, straightened her shoulders defiantly again, already knowing that it was her 'papa's' pupil. Erik held out a hand to her gently.
"Would you like to meet her?" He asked softly, in a coaxing voice. "I think you'll like her. She's very pretty and very nice. Just like your mama . . . though not quite as old. She's about Christine's age."
Marguerite nodded reluctantly, and climbed down from the bed to accept his hand. Smiling, he leaned down to kiss the crown of her forehead, and then led her downstairs to meet Isabelle. Only halfway down the stairs, he felt a tug at his hand, and he looked behind him to see Marguerite absolutely glaring. Erik turned and followed her gaze.
Isabelle was watching them come down the stairs, her chin lifted as it became only in his presence. Her eyes watched him and the child, scrutinizing how they looked together. Her light auburn hair was pulled back into a thick braid that was piled up on her head, and she wore a pretty dress of a dark forest green with gold buttons and black embroidery along the hem of her skirt.
"Papa, I thought you said she was pretty." Marguerite piped up abruptly. Erik turned to stare at the little girl incredulously, dreading that the tone of her voice was about to become even nastier then it already sounded. "I don't think she looks very pretty at all!"
"Marguerite, behave yourself!" Madeline appeared from the back of the house where the kitchen was located, wiping her hands on a towel. The sounds of supper cooking followed her, although the smells were very faint at the moment. "I'm very sorry, Mademoiselle. She is the jealous type. To think of Erik so much as being friends with any woman other than me and Mademoiselle Daaé at the Opera enrages her."
"I am *not* a child!" Marguerite insisted furiously. She then looked up to Erik pointedly. "Papa, am I a child?"
"No, of course not." He promised softly. "You are usually the perfect little lady. Now . . . I need to go into the parlor and give this woman her singing lesson. If you would like to watch, you may. But you must say nothing else that is mean, and you have to apologize to Mademoiselle Isabelle for being so rude."
Marguerite looked at Isabelle with an uncertain gaze, sizing her up with her jealous eyes. Isabelle only smiled at her quietly, reassuringly.
"I'm sorry." The girl finally hissed insincerely. Erik was about to scold her again, but Isabelle held up a hand.
"How about Marguerite and I go and talk by ourselves for five minutes?" She suggested. "Would that be all right with you, ma petite? Would you let me talk to you for five minutes?"
Again, Marguerite sized her up, trying to decide whether or not being alone with this strange woman was a good idea or not. Yet, then Erik put a strong urging hand on her back, and nodded for her to finish walking down the stairs. Isabelle held out a hand to her, and led her into the parlor, closing the doors behind them. Erik stood in the hallway chatting idly with Madeline until again, the doors opened, and Madeline hurried into the kitchen. Isabelle peeked out into the hall, and nodded for Erik to come in.
"I think we've handled things." She said, motioning to Marguerite, who sat quietly on the bench in front of the piano keys, knowing that Erik was going to sit beside her when he began Isabelle's lesson. Erik smiled softly.
"What did you say to her?" He whispered so that Marguerite would not here. Isabella stifled a laugh.
"I told her that I had no intentions of stealing you away from her. I was just here to sing, and that would be all." She smiled at Erik, and then he sat at the piano, ready to begin the lesson. Before he did, though, he leaned down to kiss Marguerite's cheek. She smiled up at him pleasantly, and was perfectly quiet through the entire lesson.
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"I think that was a very sweet thing you did for Marguerite." Erik told Isabelle as he walked her outside to the waiting carriage that would bring her home. "She does really have a very intense crush on me. I think that once she gets used to me being here as a father, it will fade away. Right now, though, she's clinging. Her mother says I'm the first man she's connected with since the death of her father."
"That really is a pity." Isabelle said sincerely. "She's a sweet little girl. It's good she has someone like you to look up to."
Erik almost blushed, but nodded, kissing her hand briefly before she stepped up into the carriage.
"Erik, will you have a seat saved for me at the Opera tomorrow night?" She asked, poking her head out before the carriage could pull away. "I understand that you let the children sit in Box 5. Aren't those seats the best in the house?"
"Yes." He said quickly. "Yes, I'll have a seat saved for you. Yes, they are the best seats in the house. I'm sure Marguerite won't mind sharing a box with you for one evening."
They both laughed as the carriage pulled away, and he turned to return to his home, his little family, and supper.
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Chapter 14: Jealousy
Isabelle turned out to have a much stronger voice than Erik had anticipated at first. Her initial shyness on meeting him and singing to him for the first time wore off within the first few lessons, and he was astounded at how well she could really sing when she wasn't so shy. He had not expected her to lose the countenance of her shyness. Yet, lose it she did. At first, she reminded him just a little bit of Christine, and how she had been when he first saw her.
Yet, soon there was a very different personality that she let free whenever he taught her. It was a side of her that he was quite certain she didn't share with anyone but him. He didn't know why. There seemed to be no reason that she let on to which would let him understand her growing change. Her voice was reaching heights he never believed the frail girl he'd met could ever achieve, and within only a few weeks, she was actually mastering difficult pieces that it had taken Christine much longer to learn.
"Maestro Erik, how old are you?" She asked boldly one afternoon, when he was packing up to leave for the afternoon. He was about to go downstairs and collect his check for the past month - a tidy sum of 24,000 francs for a months worth of lessons. The question took Erik quite by surprise, but he turned to look at her politely. He wondered what his answer should be. No one had asked him that in a great many years, and now he couldn't very well tell her the truth about being fifty-one!
"Well, Mademoiselle . . . how old do you think I am?" He asked curiously, lowering himself to sit back down on the piano bench. Isabelle shrugged slowly, stepping closer to him. Her eyes were really quite brilliant in the sunlight. They truly looked as though they were made of amethyst. Her pale, auburn hair was let loose today, so that it was let loose down her back, the ends of the strands brushing the bottom of her waist. He'd been right about the length. It was very long . . . and very, very soft looking.
"Twenty?" She asked quietly. "My mother insists that you must be at least forty to sing like you do. Then again, she cannot see you. I suppose it's understandable for a blind woman to think a man of such accomplishments to be older."
"Yes, that's perfectly understandable." Erik agreed softly. "I'm twenty- three, Mademoiselle. Twenty-three."
She smiled, obviously pleased that she had been very close to guessing the 'correct' age. Erik watched her for a long moment. Her new boldness enhanced her beauty, he found himself thinking. His thoughts still had nothing to do with love. Yet he found nothing wrong whatsoever in acknowledging the beauty of another human being. She looked back at him, straight in the eyes, as though knowing full well what he was thinking, and smiled.
"My mother wants to speak with you when you collect your check." She finally said, breaking the moment of quiet. "I just thought that I would warn you."
"All right." He said, finally standing up once more, taking his portfolio of music under his right arm. "Have a delightful evening, Mademoiselle. I shall see you on Saturday afternoon."
She didn't reply, and he walked out of the room without expecting her to. As he took a left and moved down the carpeted staircase, he could hear her light footsteps behind him. Yet when he turned into the study, her footsteps stopped. Erik smirked quietly, knowing full well she planned to eavesdrop on his conversation with her mother. Madam Develõngê stood in the same gown in which he'd first met her, staring out of the window as the sun set behind the property. Of course, she couldn't really watch anything. Yet, she could feel and sense the light as it dissipated.
"Monsieur . . . your check is on the desk." She said without turning her head towards him even a fraction of an inch. "Would you please have a seat, Monsieur? I would like to speak to you about my daughters lessons."
"Of course, Madame." Erik lowered himself into a leather chair slowly, reaching out to pick up his check of 9,600 francs - what she owed him for the month. "Might I ask, are you pleased with her progress."
"More than you might imagine, Monsieur." She replied quietly, finally turning so that her body faced him. She tilted her heads towards where she thought his voice had come from, and he found himself looking at her eyebrows. "This has to do with where her lessons take place. You see . . . My husband and I have realized that it takes a great deal of time out of your week, to come all the way out here and tutor Isabelle. So we were wondering if there was any chance we might be able to have her go to your home, and be tutored there? That way she might be there earlier in the day, at your earliest convenience after rehearsals, and then might leave earlier as well."
Erik considered this for a long moment. Certainly having Isabelle in his very own home in such an arrangement would be time saving. Yet, there were so many trivial things that might cause complications. The number one complication being the fact that Marguerite almost never left the house unless it was with him, and that she would finally meet Isabelle with her very own eyes.
"Do you trust me enough with your daughter for her to be alone in a house with me?" He asked softly, his voice lightly teasing. "Granted, there are always others at the home, but they are usually just the children of the woman I have on as a ward."
"Isabelle trusts you." Madame said easily enough. "I trust her judgment. She's learned your true character more than I have this past month. Besides, undoubtedly the mother of these children you've mentioned will be home as well during at least most of her lesson, oui?"
"Oui, Madame." He replied quietly. "Don't worry. You truly can trust me. Of course Isabelle is welcome to be tutored in my home . . . but if I feel it is causing stress to the family staying in the building with me, then I shall have to move them back here, or to the Opera House."
"Oh, now that is an idea!" Madame exclaimed suddenly. "I'm willing to bet it would be a great inspiration for Isabelle to be taught among the great singers!"
"Perhaps. For now, I think we'll start in my home." He agreed. Slowly, he stood from the chair, and her eyes seemed to follow the movement. Yet she had no idea how tall he was. "Is that all, Madame?"
"Yes, Monsieur . . . Thank you. Adieu."
"Adieu, Madame." Turning, Erik moved out into the hall to see Isabelle perched on the bottom step of the very near staircase. She was smiling at him brilliantly, obviously pleased that he'd agreed to her mothers' arrangement. Nodding, she reached out to take his hand and squeeze it. That was one thing she'd never done before - touch him. Erik watched her a moment, confused, and then bowed to her before walking out of the house without another backwards glance.
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"No!" Marguerite yelled, in an absolute fury. "No, she can't come here! Home time is *our* time!"
Erik sighed, reaching out to grab the porcelain doll he had recently bought her, plucking it out of the air as she hurled it across the room. She rarely had fits like this, but this was truly a colossal one. He'd just learned that Isabelle would be coming to their house that very evening, within twenty minutes, and did not like it. A stranger coming into their home, with Erik, seemed to frighten her quite badly.
"Ma Cherie . . . please don't." He sighed, placing the doll carefully on a chair by the door. "Listen to me. She will only be here for her singing lessons. You're more than welcome to watch if it pleases you. You know I would never shut you out of the room."
She looked up at him with defiant anger, and he sighed once more, taking a step across the room towards her. She made an angry sound of warning, folding her arms over her chest, and turning to face the window so that her back was to him. Obviously, she didn't want him going anywhere near her. Erik stopped walking, and shook his head.
"Marguerite, you're being childish." He scolded. "You used to be a fine young lady."
"I am not a child!" She yelled, turning to scream the words at him.
"Then do not behave like one." He reasoned pleadingly. "My darling, you know it upsets me to see you unhappy. I'm not trying to make you unhappy at all. I was given the opportunity to teach her here so that I could spend more time with you on the evenings that I meet with her."
She seemed to consider this for several minutes, and then her arms unfolded, hands dropping lifelessly into her lap. Erik let out a long breath of relief. Her tantrum was passing. He wouldn't have to worry about her smashing the only doll she had as of yet. If she'd broken any of the other toys in the room, he would not have cared. Yet, the doll she had thrown was a very expensive piece - irreplaceable. He knew she would have been crushed at the thought of its' demise once she calmed down, if it had been broken.
There was a knock on the door from downstairs, and he heard Madeline call from the parlor that she would answer it. She already knew that Isabelle would be arriving, so wasn't surprised at the knock. Marguerite, however, straightened her shoulders defiantly again, already knowing that it was her 'papa's' pupil. Erik held out a hand to her gently.
"Would you like to meet her?" He asked softly, in a coaxing voice. "I think you'll like her. She's very pretty and very nice. Just like your mama . . . though not quite as old. She's about Christine's age."
Marguerite nodded reluctantly, and climbed down from the bed to accept his hand. Smiling, he leaned down to kiss the crown of her forehead, and then led her downstairs to meet Isabelle. Only halfway down the stairs, he felt a tug at his hand, and he looked behind him to see Marguerite absolutely glaring. Erik turned and followed her gaze.
Isabelle was watching them come down the stairs, her chin lifted as it became only in his presence. Her eyes watched him and the child, scrutinizing how they looked together. Her light auburn hair was pulled back into a thick braid that was piled up on her head, and she wore a pretty dress of a dark forest green with gold buttons and black embroidery along the hem of her skirt.
"Papa, I thought you said she was pretty." Marguerite piped up abruptly. Erik turned to stare at the little girl incredulously, dreading that the tone of her voice was about to become even nastier then it already sounded. "I don't think she looks very pretty at all!"
"Marguerite, behave yourself!" Madeline appeared from the back of the house where the kitchen was located, wiping her hands on a towel. The sounds of supper cooking followed her, although the smells were very faint at the moment. "I'm very sorry, Mademoiselle. She is the jealous type. To think of Erik so much as being friends with any woman other than me and Mademoiselle Daaé at the Opera enrages her."
"I am *not* a child!" Marguerite insisted furiously. She then looked up to Erik pointedly. "Papa, am I a child?"
"No, of course not." He promised softly. "You are usually the perfect little lady. Now . . . I need to go into the parlor and give this woman her singing lesson. If you would like to watch, you may. But you must say nothing else that is mean, and you have to apologize to Mademoiselle Isabelle for being so rude."
Marguerite looked at Isabelle with an uncertain gaze, sizing her up with her jealous eyes. Isabelle only smiled at her quietly, reassuringly.
"I'm sorry." The girl finally hissed insincerely. Erik was about to scold her again, but Isabelle held up a hand.
"How about Marguerite and I go and talk by ourselves for five minutes?" She suggested. "Would that be all right with you, ma petite? Would you let me talk to you for five minutes?"
Again, Marguerite sized her up, trying to decide whether or not being alone with this strange woman was a good idea or not. Yet, then Erik put a strong urging hand on her back, and nodded for her to finish walking down the stairs. Isabelle held out a hand to her, and led her into the parlor, closing the doors behind them. Erik stood in the hallway chatting idly with Madeline until again, the doors opened, and Madeline hurried into the kitchen. Isabelle peeked out into the hall, and nodded for Erik to come in.
"I think we've handled things." She said, motioning to Marguerite, who sat quietly on the bench in front of the piano keys, knowing that Erik was going to sit beside her when he began Isabelle's lesson. Erik smiled softly.
"What did you say to her?" He whispered so that Marguerite would not here. Isabella stifled a laugh.
"I told her that I had no intentions of stealing you away from her. I was just here to sing, and that would be all." She smiled at Erik, and then he sat at the piano, ready to begin the lesson. Before he did, though, he leaned down to kiss Marguerite's cheek. She smiled up at him pleasantly, and was perfectly quiet through the entire lesson.
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"I think that was a very sweet thing you did for Marguerite." Erik told Isabelle as he walked her outside to the waiting carriage that would bring her home. "She does really have a very intense crush on me. I think that once she gets used to me being here as a father, it will fade away. Right now, though, she's clinging. Her mother says I'm the first man she's connected with since the death of her father."
"That really is a pity." Isabelle said sincerely. "She's a sweet little girl. It's good she has someone like you to look up to."
Erik almost blushed, but nodded, kissing her hand briefly before she stepped up into the carriage.
"Erik, will you have a seat saved for me at the Opera tomorrow night?" She asked, poking her head out before the carriage could pull away. "I understand that you let the children sit in Box 5. Aren't those seats the best in the house?"
"Yes." He said quickly. "Yes, I'll have a seat saved for you. Yes, they are the best seats in the house. I'm sure Marguerite won't mind sharing a box with you for one evening."
They both laughed as the carriage pulled away, and he turned to return to his home, his little family, and supper.
