Unexpected Song
The following day, Angelique hurried through her work excitedly. She was much too distracted to even think of writing her music at that moment, and Mme Lafours noticed that she was acting rather odd.
"What is the matter with you today, Mlle DuBain?"
"I'm so excited, Madame, I'm going to the opera tonight!" Angelique fixed another bead to the dress with a smile, and the woman gave her a strange look.
"People go to the opera every day in Paris, there's nothing new about that," Mme Lafours grumbled as she walked into the front of the shop. Angelique continued working on the wedding gown, and resisted the urge to make a comment.
Before long it was time for her to leave, and she hurried down the street to buy some new gloves and shoes for the opera. She had decided that one of her old dresses would have to suffice, but the one she wore the least was by far the prettiest. However, she didn't know if she could stand going into that magnificent building wearing such old shoes and gloves.
Her purchases made, Angelique hurried to her apartment. While she boiled the water for the bath, she inspected her hair. There wasn't enough time to have it styled, but when she unbraided it, she was sure it would be quite wavy. That would have to do, but perhaps she could put some nice combs in it to make herself look a bit nicer.
Carefully, she lay the clothes out on the bed and took another look at them before taking the lint brush she had borrowed from the back room of the sewing shop out and beginning on her cloak. Once she had finished with it, the cloak looked almost new. Holding it up to the light, she noticed a small tear in the satin lining. Angelique frowned, not remembering catching her cloak on anything. This bothered her, as she had spent a great deal of money on this cloak when she had left her aunts house.
Angelique opened the drawer to her small dressing table and fished out the needle and thread, all the while thinking about the opera. She almost couldn't believe that she was going to be seated in one of the magnificent boxes that she had admired most of her young life. The managers had said Box Five like it was a curse, but she could have cared less where the seat was. She smiled as she knelt beside her cloak to sew the inside back together. Even if it was cursed, it might be interesting to see what would happen.
Ever since she had seen the first article in the paper, one of her favorite stories had been the legend of the Phantom of the Opera. After that she had read each and every piece the paper had put out on the mysterious man. If he really did exist, Angelique had to admit that she thought that it might be interesting to meet him. Some of the articles had said that he was nothing more than a crazy man who lived in the catacombs beneath the theatre, and others claimed that he was a brilliant musician and composer. If indeed he was the latter, she couldn't help hoping that he might still be hanging around the theatre. Maybe she would even get a chance to poke around in the cellars after the opera was over. With each thought, she was getting more and more excited about the evening.
The rip wasn't at all serious, and she carefully put away the needle and thread as she headed for the bathroom. With all the excitement, she had almost forgotten it was her birthday. But as she poured the hot water into the tub, Angelique laughed softly. Perhaps this year she would save the money for when she really needed it, since this mystery man had given her a much better gift than she could have possibly afforded herself.
Stepping into the tub, she realized that it was hotter than the night before. Feeling rather like a vegetable in a stew, she went about the business of getting clean. While she scrubbed her skin with the rough sponge she had bought, her mind began to wander.
Angelique hoped that her patron would be at the opera. She so much wanted to meet the man who thought her music was good enough to purchase. For a moment she considered taking some more of her work to show him, just in case he did show up, but decided against it. She didn't want to seem too eager right away, and what if he thought she just wanted more money? Shaking her head firmly, Angelique resolved to herself that if she did meet this man tonight, the topic of money would not come up. Unless of course, he brought it up. Then it was a different story.
Snapping herself back to reality, she found that she had been scrubbing her skin until it had turned a bright pink. Angelique hadn't realized that she had been so rough, and tossed the sponge aside into the steaming water.
Closing her eyes, Angelique lay her head on the rim of the tub. The heat of the water was making her a little dizzy, and the cool porcelain surface of the tub kept her from falling asleep. More than anything, she hoped that she wouldn't do anything to embarrass herself that night. She wanted to enjoy this opera, and she was determined to do so if it was the last thing she did.
* * *
At the same time, Erik was still debating whether he wanted to go to the opera that night. He knew that the composer of that beautiful piece would be there on his invitation, but with the way he had been feeling whenever he set foot into the opera house lately he was unsure about even going there.
In fact, he was beginning to think that this new venture was a bad idea. It was obvious that he wasn't getting any younger, and he didn't know if he should take on any new students.
Erik stared out over the lake. A light mist was rolling over its surface, and he took a moment to admire its beauty. If he listened carefully, he thought he could hear Christine singing. But he knew all too well that it was nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him again, and he turned to go back to the house.
As he did, he suddenly felt as if this were an important day. He didn't know why this feeling had struck him, but it was a nagging feeling that couldn't be stopped. Though he wanted nothing more than to just disappear into his house and not come out, Erik suddenly felt obligated to go to the theatre.
Walking up the few steps to his house below the ground, Erik decided to dress as nicely as possible for the opera. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to meet this composer. Perhaps she would enjoy talking to him, and he to her. A conversation about music, albeit from behind the wall, might take his mind off the melancholy thoughts he had been prone to more and more often lately.
Pulling out the finest tuxedo he had, Erik realized that he hadn't worn it in quite some time. However, his cloak was as fine as ever, and as he fastened it around his neck, he smiled. No matter how unhappy he might be, he couldn't quiet his curiosity about this woman.
These thoughts gradually filled his mind, taking his thoughts away from the sadness of the past. As he climbed into the boat to start across the lake, Erik smiled. Perhaps he would enjoy the opera after all.
* * *
From the moment Angelique walked into the Opera Populaire, she knew she was in a whole other world. Her eyes darted from one thing to another as she walked along the richly carpeted hallway towards the grand staircase. Slowly, she descended the red carpeted stairs as she took in everything around her. No amount of imagining had prepared her for this, and her heart soared over and over again as her eyes fell onto another beautiful object.
Many a night she had dreamed about walking down this very staircase, dreamed about how lovely she would look in her fancy dress and how everyone would gaze at her. They wouldn't be able to take their eyes off her, and she would simply smile at them and continue on her way down the stairs. Now, here she was already at the bottom of the magnificent staircase and she hadn't even noticed.
Out of nowhere, a glass of wine was pressed into her hand, which she sipped as she walked along, marveling at the plush carpet beneath her feet. Everywhere she turned, it seemed like there were important people talking and laughing. Angelique was sure she even saw a governor, and suddenly she wanted to find her box and hide in it.
Before she could, however, she managed to literally bump into MM Andre and Firmin, who were accompanied at that time by their wives.
"Good evening, Mlle DuBain," M. Firmin greeted her with one of the most artificial smiles she thought she had ever seen in her life. "Are you enjoying our opening night gala?"
"Is that what this is all about? I can't say I've ever seen such a splendid display in my life! Now if you'll just excuse me, I must be getting to my seat." Smiling politely, she tried to go around them. However, M. Andre managed to catch her arm as she did so.
"Just one moment, Mademoiselle. Surely you wouldn't want to go without your escort, would you?" At his words, Angelique's heart began to thunder in her chest. Could this be? Was she finally going to meet her patron? Out of the millions of things she might have said, all she managed to choke out was two words.
"My escort?" As if on cue, an older woman appeared out of nowhere with a stern look on her face. This woman was wearing a black dress and carrying a large stick, both of which worried Angelique to no end. M. Andre smiled at the woman.
"Good evening, Madame Giry," he said, bowing slightly to the woman. Mme Giry, however, did not even pretend to acknowledge the feigned cheer in his voice, but simply glared at him as well as M. Firmin.
"I'm glad to see that you are listening to his commands for once instead of standing around and trying to figure out how to cheat him out of his salary," she said quite icily to the managers. Then she turned her gaze to Angelique. "Come with me." Leaving no room for discussion or argument, she started towards the small staircase which led to the box seats. Angelique had to quicken her step to catch up with the woman, causing her to wonder just what that stick was for.
"Pardon me, Madame, but just who is this…" A programme appeared before Angelique, and she took it. She was really beginning to like this woman.
"This is Box Five. It is undoubtedly the best seat in the house, and if you should need something during the show, please ring the bell and I will be up here at once." With that, she turned and went back down the stairs, leaving Angelique feeling as if she had just witnessed a spectacular performance of a different kind.
A bit nervously, she pushed aside the heavy curtain which led into Box Five and went inside. With a slight bit of disappointment, she noticed that there was only one chair in the box as she hung her cloak on the rack that was near the exit. She supposed that this meant she wasn't going to meet her patron after all, and her heart sank a little.
Still, she was lucky to be here at all, and Mme Giry was right. It was the best seat in the house, judging from the view. Cheering up a bit, Angelique moved to the front of the box and looked out over the main theatre. Hundreds of people were milling about the floor, talking to one another as they tried to find their seats.
The buzz of their voices as they all spoke at once was a comforting sound, almost as soothing as a mother's heartbeat, but Angelique shook her head. No doubt most of the people who were greeting each other one moment would gladly stab one another in the back as soon as they turned away, and she could just hear their practiced laughter as they pretended to be interested in one another's lives.
Looking away from the rouged women and pompous men, she drank in the beauty of the opera house itself. The massive chandelier, still lit with candles and dripping with crystal beads, the lushly upholstered furniture and painstakingly carved statues all melted together to create Garnier's masterpiece of a stage on which magnificent living works of art were to be displayed nightly.
Across the stage, the immense length of red velvet that made up the curtain was drawn, but every so often the surface of the curtain would ripple and sway as some careless dancer or stagehand bumped into it. Angelique decided that she was in love with this place, and even if she never saw her patron's face she would be forever in his debt for bringing her there on her birthday, of all days.
Turning to sit down, Angelique noticed that there was a single red rose lying on the seat of her chair. Exhaling softly, she reached down to pick it up. It was the most perfect rose she had ever seen, and she brought it to her nose and breathed deeply of its scent. Angelique had never been given fresh roses before, but the smell seemed so familiar. As the unique perfume of the rose filled her senses, images flooded into her mind so fast they made her a little dizzy.
Darkness.
The far-off sound of a music box.
Laughter.
Sinking into her seat, Angelique closed her eyes. Although she knew that certain scents and sounds had the power to send a person back to a previous time in their mind, it just didn't seem right. No matter how hard she tried she couldn't remember when she might have had roses. She knew her parents had never given them to her, so it would have had to be sometime before she was with them. It would have had to be before she was two…but people couldn't remember that far back. Could they?
A deep voice rang out from below, on the stage, and she looked up. While she was thinking, the opera had begun. Hoping she hadn't missed anything, Angelique took a peek into the programme. This man was called Jacques Bruler, and he was a lead baritone singer. Still, no matter how much she tried to focus on the stage, all she could think about was where she had smelled roses before.
Trying to put these thoughts out of her mind, Angelique shook her head. This was the opera she had been waiting most of her life to see, and she wasn't going to allow anything to distract her again.
* * *
Unbeknownst to the woman in the chair, someone was watching her. Just as she settled into her chair, the pillar in the corner of the box opened a crack to allow a pair of eyes to look out. The view from the pillar, however, only permitted Erik to see the back of her chair, and he moved along behind the wall to a different place that gave him a better angle from which to finally see this Mlle DuBain.
The moment he saw her, Erik was speechless. From the start, he supposed he had possessed a certain picture of her in his mind, but it was shattered the instant his eyes fell over her face. Much to his surprise, this lady composer who had captivated him with her music was a young woman.
At that very moment, her chin was resting on one of her hands while her eyes were fixed on the stage. The fingertips of her other hand absently stroked the petals of the rose he had given her as her gaze followed the male lead across the stage, but what Erik noticed more than anything was the color of her eyes. They were like two polished jewels glittering in the dim lights of the theatre, and were a blue he had never witnessed before in his many years.
The face that the beautiful eyes were set in was also remarkable in its own way, but Erik noticed her figure first. Not so much that it was attractive, but that she was quite thin. He had never even considered that she might be poor, and he suddenly found himself wishing that he had given her more money for her piece.
She looked so serious while she watched the opera, as if she was studying it, but he could tell right away that she was barely older than twenty. He wanted more than anything to ask where such a lovely young woman could have learned to write such beautiful music, but she was so completely enveloped by the music that it would have been nothing short of blasphemy to take her from it.
Just moments later, the silence in the box was broken by a soft laugh which sounded like music. Erik frowned for a moment, then realized what she was laughing at. In this scene, the tenor lead had a solo within which Ruffino had cleverly hidden a pun on an obscure Italian story. He noted with no small measure of pride that not only had she caught the pun, but also understood the allusion it made to the literature.
Most of the imbeciles who came to his theatre didn't understand enough of the Italian language to translate half the opera, much less get the pun. In fact, Erik suspected that a great deal of them wouldn't even know how to find their way around their own homes without their servants to guide them. But she had known right away, and this only made her all the more attractive in his eyes.
Normally, Erik would have gotten tired of standing behind the wall and taken measures to get rid of the person in what he usually thought of as his personal place. Tonight, though, he was content to keep his distance and simply watch her.
Everything she did, every tiny little mannerism from the way her lapis-toned eyes followed everything and nothing on the stage to the way she bit her lip at intense moments in the music was captured like a painting in his mind and stored away for future reference. Whenever the diva hit a high note, she seemed to hold her breath until the note was over, then beamed with excitement at the inevitable triumph of the woman on the stage. She was so absorbed in the opera that Erik doubted she would notice him no matter what he did or said.
All too soon the opera was over, and Mlle DuBain sprang to her feet. Her face was glowing as she clapped for each one of the performers, even the ballet dancers who had flailed about like dying calves. When all the applause had ended, she waited until the very last person had vacated the main theatre before putting on her cloak and hurrying out of the box.
Mlle DuBain's heel had barely passed through the doorway when Erik emerged from within the wall. He placed Mme Giry's nightly tip on the shelf of Box Five, then slipped into the panel behind the hollow pillar.
From his place within the walls of the opera house, he could hear the patrons commenting on the performance and various other things. Only halfway listening to the conversations, he made his way down the staircase that was built into the wall and into the first cellar. Although they had sealed up the entrance they thought he used to get into the opera house, there were many others that wouldn't be found until the opera house fell.
His mind was on Mlle DuBain as he passed through the shadows of the cellar, but his sharp ears picked up on a very soft sound in another part of the room. Ducking quickly into the abundant shadows that lined the walls, he looked around to see who was down there. Accustomed as he was to the darkness, it seemed that there was no one there. Removing his Punjab lasso from within his cloak in order to dispatch this uninvited guest, Erik pulled the thin rope taut between his hands as he waited for them to walk past.
Only a few feet away from him, the person stepped out of the shadows and into the light given off by one of the torches affixed to the wall. Erik was but a moment from springing onto the figure when he realized who it was.
Not knowing just how close she had come to being throttled by a man who could have killed her before she would have even perceived the threat, Mlle DuBain continued to creep deeper into the darkness. Her pretty face was nearly hidden by her hood, but he knew it was she and put away the weapon.
Again, she disappeared into the darkness, and Erik wondered just what she was looking for. He followed close behind her, but she rounded a corner which was directly under a light, and while he was taking the long way through the darker part of the cellar, he heard her scream ring out through the darkness.
Still concealing himself in the Cimmerian depths of shadow, he ran to where he had heard her cry out. The scream was followed by a cracking sound, and Erik rounded the corner. He couldn't let anything happen to her. But as suddenly as she had screamed, her indignant voice rang through the cellar, and Erik stopped in his tracks.
* * *
"How dare you!" Still trying to catch her breath, Angelique was almost afraid to see who she had slapped. Hoping against hope that it wasn't the Phantom that she had caught across the face, she turned to see M. Andre behind her. "You!"
"I might have guessed it was you," he grumbled, rubbing his face. "What do you think you're doing down here? This place is off-limits to guests, you know."
"Since when have you ever treated me like a guest?" Angelique laughed as she spoke. The very thought of the managers making her feel welcome in the opera house was ridiculous to her, and she turned away from him.
"That's no excuse! Besides, what do you think you're going to find down here?" As he spoke, a rat lazily scuttled across the floor and through the light. Angelique raised an eyebrow at M. Andre.
"Besides vermin?" Shaking her head as she turned and went towards the door, she didn't get to see M. Andre's face turning a bright shade of red. Figuring she had won her battle for the night, Angelique went up the cellar stairs and headed for her apartment, a huge smile on her face.
* * *
Laughing, Erik stood in the shadows. Not only was she educated and lovely, but she had a mind of her own. This Mlle DuBain was becoming more and more intriguing by the moment. But why had she ventured down here, into the darkness? A thought struck him suddenly; perhaps she was looking for him.
Surely she wouldn't just come down there for no reason, though…she had to have been searching for something.
Hesitating for just a moment, Erik turned around and slipped up the stairs. Ever since he had first played her music, he had wanted to meet her, to know her. For reasons best known to himself, he had not spoken to her during the opera. But if he waited now, he may never see her again. For all his knowledge, he didn't know where she lived.
Erik emerged from the theatre into the street, his cloak blending easily into the darkness of the night. Angelique had already gone, but a set of tiny footprints in the snow caught his eye. Knowing she would probably not have a carriage with which to return home, he followed the prints to the door of a bakery. Above his head, a small window sat in the middle of the wall. He supposed this was her home, and waited outside for a few minutes, even though he saw no light in her window.
Silently, he moved up the stairs and opened the door with ease, for her lock was a simple one. The room he found himself in was depressingly small, furnished with only a dressing table, a very small stove which appeared not to be functioning at the moment, and a bed in the corner from which he could hear her breathing. A pair of small boots had been casually tossed on the floor next to the dressing table, and the dress she had worn that night hung over the back of a beat-up chair which sat pointlessly nearby.
Erik hadn't imagined that the woman who had so captivated him with her music could be so destitute. He was further confounded by the fact that she did not possess a writing table, much less a piano or instrument of any sort. How, he wondered, could she write music without these things?
Assured that she was asleep, he followed the sound of her breath to her bed and looked at the sleeping woman. It was a moment before he noticed the way she was sleeping, another thing which was rather odd. Covers pulled up to her chin, she was curled into a little ball under a ragged blanket, and Erik suddenly became aware of the chill in the room. On a second inspection of the place, he saw a large crack running up the length of the window. Through this, a cold wind was blowing directly onto the bed. He was used to this sort of frigidity, but how on earth did a thin, frail-looking little woman like that survive?
Without notice, Mlle DuBain moved a bit in her sleep, and for a moment he thought she was going to wake up. But her eyes remained closed, and he supposed that she must have been dreaming. For her to have fallen into such a deep sleep so quickly, he knew that she must have been exhausted, and he wondered if she had another job. If she did, it couldn't possibly pay much.
Beside him was a small, rather lopsided nightstand on which sat a little oil lamp and a book. Intrigued, he picked up the book and examined its cover. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Apparently the lady was a mystery fan, and Erik set the book back down in its place. Nearby was her programme from the opera, and the rose he had left for her was lying on top of it. The single flower seemed out of place in her drab little room, nothing more than a splash of red and green among the infinite shades of gray that enveloped her room. Erik suddenly found himself wishing he had brought her more, if for no other reason than to liven up her apartment.
Mlle DuBain suddenly shifted again in her sleep, this time rolling onto her other side, and Erik stood perfectly still so as not to attract attention to himself. Once again she did not awaken, but he decided that it was probably as good a time as any to return to his own home. Taking one last glance at the sleeping figure in the bed, he went back out into the winter air.
As he made his way down the darkened street to the Opera Populaire, Erik figured that, now that he knew where she lived, he could always come back. No sooner had this thought come into his mind than he pushed it out again. Of course he wouldn't go back to her apartment. There was no reason for him to return.
Then it struck him.
Surely there was more of her music in that room. If he returned, he could not only look for the music, but also make sure that Mlle DuBain didn't freeze solid in that deathtrap of an apartment she lived in.
But, of course, the most important thing was the music.
* * *
Somehow, in the days that followed her night at the opera, work didn't seem quite as interesting as it had been. Although she finished the wedding dress quite ahead of schedule, it had failed to delight her as she thought it would. When the bride picked it up for the wedding, she had complimented Angelique mercilessly about the beauty of the job and the detail of the beading.
Though she knew she should have been flattered, Angelique had felt more unfulfilled than anything. It wasn't a mystery to her why she was feeling this way. It had been nearly two weeks since the opera and she still hadn't heard anything from her patron. She worried that perhaps he had found that the music wasn't to his liking after all, and had found another composer to support.
And according to the calendar in the corner of the sewing shop, in another few days it would be Christmas. While she didn't harbor any special feelings towards or against the holiday, she couldn't forget that it was a time when people got together with their families and friends. The day on which the whole city celebrated peace and togetherness only served to remind her that she had no family. She could still remember her mother laughing as she opened Angelique's handmade presents, and her father letting her have a whole glass of wine during Christmas dinner instead of her usual two sips. But these thoughts only made her more depressed, and the more she tried to forget her parents, the more she remembered about their Christmases together.
On top of all this, she had a cold. It had plagued her for nearly five days so far, and she was looking forward to getting rid of it. This seemed to make everything worse, and it was becoming costly to heat her room at night. Luckily, the worst of it was over. All that remained of what had felt to her like an unending bout of pneumonia was little more than a cough and the occasional sniffle. But thanks to this, she hadn't been sleeping too well. The past two nights, she had been having the strangest dreams.
Looking up at the clock, she noticed that she only had a little longer until she could go home, and Mme Lafours came over to her table.
"Are you feeling better today?" There was, for once, genuine concern in the woman's voice as she handed Angelique the envelope with her wages in it. For two days Angelique had been unable to come to work, and Mme Lafours didn't want to lose the one girl she had who could actually sew.
"Yes, Madame. Although I'm still not sleeping well, I am feeling much better." As she spoke, she slipped the pay package into her pocket. "Such strange dreams…" Mme Lafours nodded.
"Fever dreams," she diagnosed, arms folded. "You may not know it, but you probably still have a fever at night." Her face suddenly became stern again, and she looked closer at Angelique. "You're still reading those mystery novels, aren't you?"
"Of course, but I don't think…"
"That is precisely your problem, Mlle DuBain, you neglect to think about what kinds of thoughts those things put into your head! Why, in my day…" While she talked, Angelique let her mind wander elsewhere. She often tuned her employer out, especially when the old grouch started talking about how 'those books' were ruining her mind.
The very moment the clock struck eight, Angelique sprang up from her seat at the sewing table and put on her cloak, despite the fact that Mme Lafours was still chattering away at her. She smiled broadly as she nodded, edging closer and closer to the door with every word the older lady spoke.
Soon, she was back in her apartment with a small bundle of wood and some food. Taking off her shoes and dress, Angelique crawled into her little bed, totally forgetting about the food she had set on the dressing table. Before long, she was asleep again, and the little package of food sat there forlornly through the rest of the night, watching her sleep. It didn't realize that it wouldn't be the only one.
* * *
Darkness fell over the city like a blanket, and for the first time in several days, Erik found himself standing outside the door of Mlle DuBain's apartment. He was quite angry about the whole thing, as he had resolved almost a week earlier to never return to her home. Still, he was there. Although he still wasn't completely sure why.
For five nights after the opera, Erik had waited until he was certain she would be asleep, then crept up to her room. At first, he had fully intended to look for the music. But somehow, he would always end up by the side of her bed, watching her sleep. Of course, he would go through her room a little, finding out little things about her, such as the fact that she enjoyed horror stories as well as mystery, but he would always end up in the same place. He had no idea how he could spend an entire night watching a woman sleep, but somehow he ended up spending an entire week of nights in this way.
As a result, he had forbidden himself to return. This sort of thing could only turn out one way, and he had no intention of allowing it to do so. Still, he thought about her all the time. When he wasn't playing her music, he was wondering what she was doing. Several times, he had even begun writing her a letter. But each time he did so, an image of Christine would appear before him, and he tore the letter into pieces.
The most worrying thing of all was that the more he thought about Mlle DuBain, the less he thought about Christine. While this seemed on the surface to be a good thing, Erik wasn't entirely sure he wanted to stop thinking about her. For quite some time, Christine had been the main focus of his life. Every part of his being had belonged to that one woman, and when she had rejected him it was as if she had torn out his heart. Even now, he thought about her. And even now, her memory was painful. This was because he always started out thinking about the times she had come to him without fear, when she called him her Angel of Music, the times he was truly happiest. But inevitably his thoughts would return to the present, and she was gone.
After six days of these thoughts, he had found his mind mercifully returning to thoughts of Mlle DuBain. He wanted more than anything just to see her, to take his mind off the past. The silence of his house threatened to drive him mad, and before he realized it he found himself before the bakery.
Now, there was no sound in her room. He slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. This time, he didn't hesitate for a moment in going to her side. The instant he saw her, his mind seemed to be at ease. As always, she slept placidly beneath her frayed covers. But tonight, there was something wrong. It looked as if she was having trouble breathing, and with every exhalation he could hear a wheezing sound. Concerned, he looked a bit closer, then noticed at once that her face was flushed. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and the peaceful look on her face was disturbed by a wrinkle that crossed her entire brow.
It looked as if it was taking great effort for her to breathe, and he was struck by the sudden urge to touch her. Reaching out to the obviously ill woman, his fingertips hung in the air over her face unsurely. He had never been in a position to comfort someone before, and he wasn't certain if this was correct.
Making a small sound in the back of her throat, Mlle DuBain rolled onto her back. As she did so, the covers slipped down off her shoulders. One small hand found its way out from under the blanket and rested near her face on the pillow. Unable to control himself, Erik reached out and placed his hand on her cheek. Belatedly, he realized that his hands were probably cold, but it didn't seem to matter to Mlle DuBain. Her face relaxed, and she seemed to press her cheek closer to his hand. Although she was burning with fever, Erik noticed that her skin was very soft.
As he tried to figure out what to make of the situation, her other hand reached out from beneath the covers to reflexively touch his. For a moment Erik wondered if she were dreaming about something. The moonlight glinted off something on her arm, catching Erik's eye. When he saw what it was, though, his blood froze.
Realizing at once what it was, Erik pulled away from her as if he had been burned. As he backed away from the bed. Mlle DuBain frowned again, her little hand searching for the larger one which had been there a moment before.
His eyes were fixed on her wrist and as he moved away from her, his arm bumped the edge of her dressing table. Her hairbrush fell from its edge with a clatter, and Mlle DuBain's eyes fluttered open just as Erik darted out the door.
Thinking that she must have been dreaming, Mlle DuBain went back to sleep.
* * *
Morning light streamed in through the little window in the corner, and Angelique woke up slowly. Pulling herself out of bed, she rubbed her eyes. Her hairbrush wasn't in its usual place, and she frowned. It didn't take her long to find it, however, and she looked in the mirror as she slowly began to brush her hair. She was pleased to find that the dark circles under her eyes were shrinking, but as she looked at herself in the mirror she couldn't help but think about the dream she had.
For the first night in almost a week she actually felt rested, and it was a good possibility that the lack of nightmares was responsible for this. Although her dream had been odd, she was grateful that it wasn't as frightening as some of the other dreams she had been party to in the last week.
In the dream, she had been sailing on a tiny boat in the middle of the ocean. Suddenly, her boat was overturned by a wave. Angelique had been certain she was going to drown, but out of nowhere a hand had reached down to help her. The next thing she knew, someone was holding her in their arms. But she couldn't see who it was, and before she could find out, they were already gone.
With a sigh, Angelique selected a dress to wear to work and began to put it on. Even if it was only a dream, and even if she had no idea what it meant, it made her feel a little better. Grabbing her cloak from the chair, Angelique hurried down the stairs and down the street towards the sewing shop.
Perhaps the dream meant that this would be a good day.
* * *
Hours later, Erik was still awake. He should have known from the start who she was. Her face, especially her eyes, hadn't changed much in the past twenty or so years. But when he had seen the bracelet, there was no room for doubt.
Sitting alone in his home while the rest of Paris worked at their little lives, Erik thought for the first time in years about the day he found a small child, abandoned, in the darkness of his world. A child who had ended up staying for almost two years. He hadn't intended to keep her as long as he did, but he couldn't stand the thought of letting this baby rot away in an orphanage.
When she was a child, he hadn't given her a name for several weeks. He felt there was no reason to, since they did not have the need to speak to one another. But when she fell ill quite suddenly, he had become quite frustrated with her. As a last resort, he told her that she was simply not allowed to die and that if she lived, he would give her the best name he could think of. Miraculously, the child began to get well. Once it was evident that she wasn't going to pass on anytime soon, he gave her the name Angelique, in reference to her quiet disposition.
For quite some time, she hadn't spoken. At first Erik thought she was retarded, but hadn't worried about it. She didn't seem to have any interest in speaking, it seemed she was content to sit and watch him write and play his music for hours on end. Until one day when she looked up and asked him what was the difference between the white and black keys. Carefully, he had explained to her the concept of a keyboard, and she nodded her understanding. She had never asked his name, or anything about his face. In fact, she hardly spoke at all.
Erik remembered that was why he had given her away. Besides the fact that he wasn't exactly the fatherly type, he didn't think it was healthy or fair to make such a pretty child live under the ground with him. She really did deserve to have a nice family, so under the cover of darkness he had carefully deposited her on the step of a pretty little house near his home. It seemed to break the child's heart for him to leave, but he had never regretted it. No one, especially a child, should be condemned to his fate.
And although he was fond of her, he hadn't cared for her like people care for their children. This was mostly because he didn't know how to care for a person in that way. But he had taken care of her because he felt a bond to her…they were both alone, unwanted by even the people who had given them life.
It was because of this bond that he had given her the bracelet. The bracelet that had once belonged to his mother, Madeleine. And although she hadn't felt much for him besides fear, he supposed he had loved her on some level. When she had died, her bracelet was one of the last pieces of her that he possessed. Even if he concentrated as hard as he could, the only image he could summon of her was blurry at best. This wasn't painful; he supposed if she was alive, she probably wouldn't think about him at all. Although Erik truly hoped that she wouldn't remember him, he wanted to leave a piece of himself with her so that she would know that she wasn't alone.
Ever since he had fled her apartment, he had wondered just why he had done so. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing her again after so long, and realizing that she had grown from a crying child into such a beautiful woman. Or maybe it was that he…
Silencing the voice of his mind, Erik took a piece of paper and some ink from the writing desk in his sitting room and began to write a letter. He knew he had to see her again, if just to hear more of her music. And her voice.
* * *
"What's this?" Angelique knelt down onto her floor to pick up the envelope that she had very nearly stepped on as she walked through the door. The front of the envelope was blank, and she turned it over and over looking for something that would tell her who had sent it. "I wonder who this is from," she murmured softly as she looked at the letter again. Realizing that she was only talking to herself, she shut the door behind her. Tossing her cloak over the chair, she sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter.
At once, she recognized the handwriting. As her eyes ran over the red-inked words a second time, she laughed delightedly. Her patron hadn't given up on her after all