To my readers: When I looked at the last version of this chapter, I
noticed that it STANK. Why didn't you tell me that? Anyway, I tried to
incorporate all of your suggestions in this version. Hopefully, it will be
better. Thank you for your reviews, and tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: I own Lyra, Old Theo, the street rats, and anyone else you don't recognise. If you do recognise anybody, they belong to the people that created them. The song is from The Unsinkable Molly Brown, by Meridith Wilson.
As always, lines mean that the point of view changes. If this is confusing, just tell me and I'll fix it up.
The withdrawal came quickly. It sort of eased in, but when it finally hit, it hit terribly hard. Nadir came to check up on me, and he found me practically biting my nails off in the parlor. I somehow managed to convey to him that Father had made less and less sense over the last few days, until he had stumbled in there last night with the firm, if hazy warning that I was not to follow. Needless to say, I was terrified, and when I say terrified I mean gut- wrenchingly, "I just found a father and now he's gonna die what in the world am I supposed to do what can I do to help oh please not now!" terrified. I had seen druggies in the streets, goodness knows, but the thought that my Papa could have stooped so low was utterly foreign to me. Nadir charged into Father's bedroom and I was right behind him. We found Papa draped across the bed, mumbling into it and covered in vomit. Nadir finally found out that the only way he could calm me down was to make me useful. Together we cleaned off the bed, and Papa, then placed him back in, a little more comfortably.
The two of us sat by his bed (I later found out that a real bed for himself was another of the things he had purchased that night.) and took care of him. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. He would scream things about angels and gypsies and cages, and then he would get really quiet, which was sometimes even worse. Sometimes he would thrash around, nearly breaking the bed, and then he would just lie there for hours. I lost track of how long it was that we sat there. It could have been a couple of days, or nearly a week, we never did find out. Once in a while, either Nadir or I would fix some food or fall asleep, but it was an as needed situation.
I remember, once in that time I tried to ask about the past and how Nadir had met Papa. It didn't go very well. I learned that the daroga had been sent to find him by someone in Persia, and then he shut up, refusing to tell me anymore.
"If you really must know, ask Erik when he gets up!" he said. "He's the one who knows the whole story, not me!"
Of course, I couldn't do that. Papa was wonderful, but I didn't want anyone mad with me. I couldn't bear to lose this home too, and I had a feeling that the past was just something you didn't ask about. But I let it go.
----------------------------------------------------------
She had been raised in a gutter, I know, but Erik's life was a veritable horror story. It was not mine to tell. Besides, I didn't want to scare her away from Erik. On the other hand, she didn't need to think that he was, well, angelic. We had seen where that went. I finally decided to tell her some of the truth, and then lost my nerve. I suppose that I blew up at her, but so it goes.
Really, it scared me. As we talked, I found that she was far beyond her years mentally and emotionally. Anyone in my place would have been wary. Just the situation in general was enough to make me nervous. I mean, here is this man who I assumed was unique in all of the world, and then this girl shows up who not only looks like him and has a voice to rival his, but is also as brilliantly intelligent. I knew that, though she was mild- mannered now, she could also grow lofty and develop a temper. Those conversations were enough to make me decide that I would try and help Erik bring her up, although he had never harbored any doubts. ---------------------------------------------------------
When Father finally woke up, he didn't come all the way out of his stupor. He'd float in and out of consciousness, sometimes looking up and recognizing exactly what was going on, sometimes crying out in horror when he woke, and sometimes staring around and murmuring, in a voice that cracked and broke, "Christine?" Then Nadir would sit up and look at him with this really strange expression, kind of like sorrow, but mostly pity and anger, and say, "No Erik, Christine's gone." That was the only time I saw Father cry for years. Nadir wouldn't tell me who Christine was, so I put her name at the top of a list in my mind. I knew that it would be and important list, so I set it up carefully. Eventually, I had it so well memorized that all I had to do to examine it was close my eyes. The title of the list was simply "Clues." If Nadir wouldn't tell me about the past, I'd figure it out for myself. -----------------------------------------------------------
The process of grounding on the shores of sanity was much harder than slipping away. I felt everything I had ever experienced pounding through me, even, no especially, (say her name, da** you Erik, say it) Christine. Christine. Even her name sent me reeling back into the past. It was only her, Lyra, and -well yes- even Nadir that kept me connected to this world. I would have fought even without them, this was not how I wanted to die. I have to admit, though, that I probably would have died, or gone insane, without them. For the first time in my life, I thought that I was lucky, with my daughter and my sometime-friend there, but I always wished that there was another person as well, with the title of my wife.
-----------------------------------------------------
When Father was able to sit up and talk lucidly for more than a few minutes, Nadir decided that it was time for him to leave. Frankly, nobody's personal hygiene was very good at the moment, and we all knew that Father and I could get along all right. Mother had left me alone for enough time that I knew how to make stuff that was at least edible, and so I figured that we at least wouldn't starve. Father , promised that he would be up in about a day (though he was the only one to believe that), and one person was all he could stand fussing over him. Nadir left, and was back in about an hour, saying that he hadn't imagined that it was the twenty-second and he had to catch a boat so we had jolly well better be able to take care of ourselves. He deposited a hissing, clawing cat, Ayesha, on Papa's bed and ran out. That was the last time we saw him for years.
In the meantime, I set about trying to take care of Father, as he set about trying to take care of me. This worked pretty well after a while, and we soon set up a system. I would take care of the food and the house, and he would make sure that I was taking care of myself as well and try to compliment my cooking, although he wasn't very convincing. Contrary to what he had promised, Father wasn't able to get up for about a week, and then he was pretty unsteady. He saw this as an utter failure on his part, and I still had to do a lot of the work, but I didn't mind. I wouldn't have minded anything. This was the first time in my life that I had been treated as anything more than a bug. Now, I was an equal, or nearly so. I had an almost equal say in my life, and that was more than enough for me. So, by the time he was fully recovered, we had already set up a schedule, and that is what we kept to.
In the afternoons, after we had done all of the chores, like housecleaning (which was a disaster for the first few weeks) we would do lessons. These consisted of reading, writing, mathematics, science, grammar, history, music, and anything else either of us thought worthwhile. He had bought me some beginner-reading books, and he taught me how to read with those. I soon found those disgustingly simple, so he began to read harder works with me, explaining some things as we read. We covered everything from Dickens to Homer in the first year.
He also began to teach me to sing. He believed firmly that real conditioning should not start until the voice matures, so it was all basically learning easy little songs, some by the masters, some just popular, and some by him. The first lesson in that was hilarious. He told me to sing any song, so that he could see where to start, and I sang the first one that came into my head. It was a tune I had learned from Old Rocs, a drunk from Grimmerie Street. The lyrics were something like
Belly up! Belly up to the bar boys! Better loosen your belts! Only drink when you're alone Or with somebody else!
Belly up! Belly up to the bar boys! Let your money be seen! Only drink by day or night, Or somewhere inbetween!
There were about six more verses, but Papa stopped me there. There is no way to describe the look on his face, although if I had to, I would say it was something like amused horror.
"Is that all you know?"
"Well, the only people who really sang much on Grimmerie were either drunk or stoned. I know a lot of songs like that, but I think that I know six verses of "The Ballad of the Bloody Bloody Sailor Boys."
That was when he started to teach music appreciation. Soon, I hummed Mozart and Beethoven, with only an occasional bawdy song inbetween.
We also worked on reading music, which I found just as easy, and piano, organ, flute, violin, and many other instruments. In fact, music was the main subject in our school, although we covered everything else exhaustively. The basics were there along with anything he thought that I should know or I took a fancy to. So I learned, over six years, architecture, art, ventriloquism, English, Spanish, Turkish, German, Russian, self defense, pick pocketing (which was totally my idea and father tried to turn into slight of hand), first aid, dancing, animal training, sewing (his idea, which I violently protested), gardening, and basically anything else you can think of. We both loved school. He had someone to teach, and I had something to learn, which was totally new for me at first, and then just as much a part of me as breathing. And when we sang together, even simple little bits of doggerel, or did duets of any kind, life was perfect.
Then, after we were tired of lessons, we would go exploring. At first, we stayed in the opera house, which I soon knew like the back of my hand. Then, when that became boring, we went all over Paris. Sometimes he was as impressed by the things we saw as I was. I was sure that he hadn't seen them either. I added this to my incredibly small list of clues.
Life was perfect.
---------------------------------------------------
When I taught Christine, it had been a heady kind of bliss. I had reveled in the pure talent that unfolded in our lessons. Now, it was completely different. It was not bliss, but pride that charged me with every new accomplishment. Lyra's voice was not the extent of her talent, but one part, like a facet in an unflawed jewel. I found that conversation, and knowledge, was just as rewarding as song, in a different way, if you found the right person to talk to. My music wasn't as needed anymore, because I didn't have anything to escape from. I still worked on it, whenever I had the chance, but it wasn't everything anymore.
I found myself wanting to think about my past, as if I couldn't go foreword without going back. It was not a wonderful feeling, in fact it brought nightmares that I have never rivaled since. But, in time, I got the idea of writing it all down. At first, I thought to set it to music, but it threatened to become another Don Juan Triumphant, brooding, painful, mad, and dark. Then, I wrote it down as a narrative and left it in a secret safe in my room. Somehow, years later, I found out that odd pages had disappeared, which was soon explained in Mssr. Leroux's twisted narrative.
Neither of us wore a mask, because it wasn't needed. Everything was so much easier, and better, without a mask, that I began to dread putting it back on when we went places at night. Lyra hated hers as well, and we eventually decided that we'd just wear cloaks except for on occasions where the mask was unavoidable. The first disaster we encountered was due to this.
I had promised Lyra that we would visit Notre Dame. So we donned our cloaks one rainy night and set off. We were pressed for time, I had to set up a new agreement with the managers, and I had planned to start of negotiations that night. So, I was planning that, and walking fast, and not really paying much attention to anything. I was about half way there before I realized that Lyra wasn't with me.
I turned, swearing in several languages, and went back over the path. --------------------------------------------------
I was walking after Father, truly I was. But then I saw something in an alley. I figured that I would be able to check it out and then go after him. I turned into the alley, and the shape separated into a group of boys. In the middle, crouched and shaking, was a little old man. Even in the dark, I could make out the cuts on him, and the knives in the hands of the boys.
"What are you DOING?!"
"Th' old man's a witch. We're doin' th' cumminity a fav'r. Ai'n we gang?"
"Thas' right!"
"Witches are women, you ingrates! Let him go!" I knew the man, it was crazy old Theo. True, he was strange, but he had never done anyone harm.
"Why're you so worried? Who are you?"
They had slowly come up around me, and now one reached out and grabbed at my hood. I gasped and tried to catch it around me, but I couldn't do it.
Even in the storm, they could see enough.
The leader swore. "She's a demon he's called up! Can't be anything else!"
"He's not to strong then, is he?"
"Don't look like much of a demon to me. Maybe she's a spook!"
"Is it a she? I think it's just an it."
"Whatever she is, she'll squeal.
"We can take her Creeny!"
The knives suddenly had a new target, and I was it. I drew my own dagger from my belt, it was my favorite weapon at that time, and plunged in. -----------------------------------------------
By the time I got there, the fight was in full swing. There were seven boys all told, four with wounds of some kind. They broke up as I entered the alley. On the ground, there was an old man, and Lyra. I pulled back my hood, angry as I hadn't been since that last night, after Don Juan. Then I pulled out my gun. The fools would probably just laugh if I brought out the lasso.
"Listen. I will only say this once. Get out of here. Run. If, in five seconds, any of you is in range, so help me I will shoot you." I was surprised at my own voice. It was a cold, hard sound, not like it was usually when I was mad.
They ran. I shot anyway, knocking brick shards onto their heads. Then I bent down, to Lyra. -------------------------------------------------------- I was already sitting up. I had a few deep cuts in my torso, and a long, shallow one across my face. I looked a mess, but I knew I'd be fine.
"Check old Theo! I'll be fine, but he's really old!"
Father bent over him. "He'll be all right. We'll drop him at the hospital on the way home. You need to be treated."
I was quiet all of the way home. My cuts didn't hurt as much as the comments of the boys. In the slum, no one had noticed one more deformity. This experience was completely new to me, and it hurt a lot.
"Are you really going to be all right?" asked Papa.
"Yeah, I'll be fine." That was a lie, but oh well. --------------------------------------------------------
I put off, going back up to speak with Messrs. André and Firmin for a few days. This time I decided to do it in a more, diplomatic manner. I told them that, unless they wanted me to cause even more trouble, they would resume paying my salary, but at double the former amount. They tried to fight, but it was futile, and they knew it. Finally, they agreed, and in return I made semi-frequent appearances, just to keep the people coming to the shows. After all, it was my opera house. If it went broke, I'd be out of work!
So we lived, for almost seven years, in relative peace. That's not to say that the incident in the alley was not repeated in different forms, it was bound to. But, mostly, life gained a kind of normalcy. By day we worked in our house, and by night we explored Paris, and helped the opera. Then, Nadir came back and our carefully structured world was shattered.
Disclaimer: I own Lyra, Old Theo, the street rats, and anyone else you don't recognise. If you do recognise anybody, they belong to the people that created them. The song is from The Unsinkable Molly Brown, by Meridith Wilson.
As always, lines mean that the point of view changes. If this is confusing, just tell me and I'll fix it up.
The withdrawal came quickly. It sort of eased in, but when it finally hit, it hit terribly hard. Nadir came to check up on me, and he found me practically biting my nails off in the parlor. I somehow managed to convey to him that Father had made less and less sense over the last few days, until he had stumbled in there last night with the firm, if hazy warning that I was not to follow. Needless to say, I was terrified, and when I say terrified I mean gut- wrenchingly, "I just found a father and now he's gonna die what in the world am I supposed to do what can I do to help oh please not now!" terrified. I had seen druggies in the streets, goodness knows, but the thought that my Papa could have stooped so low was utterly foreign to me. Nadir charged into Father's bedroom and I was right behind him. We found Papa draped across the bed, mumbling into it and covered in vomit. Nadir finally found out that the only way he could calm me down was to make me useful. Together we cleaned off the bed, and Papa, then placed him back in, a little more comfortably.
The two of us sat by his bed (I later found out that a real bed for himself was another of the things he had purchased that night.) and took care of him. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. He would scream things about angels and gypsies and cages, and then he would get really quiet, which was sometimes even worse. Sometimes he would thrash around, nearly breaking the bed, and then he would just lie there for hours. I lost track of how long it was that we sat there. It could have been a couple of days, or nearly a week, we never did find out. Once in a while, either Nadir or I would fix some food or fall asleep, but it was an as needed situation.
I remember, once in that time I tried to ask about the past and how Nadir had met Papa. It didn't go very well. I learned that the daroga had been sent to find him by someone in Persia, and then he shut up, refusing to tell me anymore.
"If you really must know, ask Erik when he gets up!" he said. "He's the one who knows the whole story, not me!"
Of course, I couldn't do that. Papa was wonderful, but I didn't want anyone mad with me. I couldn't bear to lose this home too, and I had a feeling that the past was just something you didn't ask about. But I let it go.
----------------------------------------------------------
She had been raised in a gutter, I know, but Erik's life was a veritable horror story. It was not mine to tell. Besides, I didn't want to scare her away from Erik. On the other hand, she didn't need to think that he was, well, angelic. We had seen where that went. I finally decided to tell her some of the truth, and then lost my nerve. I suppose that I blew up at her, but so it goes.
Really, it scared me. As we talked, I found that she was far beyond her years mentally and emotionally. Anyone in my place would have been wary. Just the situation in general was enough to make me nervous. I mean, here is this man who I assumed was unique in all of the world, and then this girl shows up who not only looks like him and has a voice to rival his, but is also as brilliantly intelligent. I knew that, though she was mild- mannered now, she could also grow lofty and develop a temper. Those conversations were enough to make me decide that I would try and help Erik bring her up, although he had never harbored any doubts. ---------------------------------------------------------
When Father finally woke up, he didn't come all the way out of his stupor. He'd float in and out of consciousness, sometimes looking up and recognizing exactly what was going on, sometimes crying out in horror when he woke, and sometimes staring around and murmuring, in a voice that cracked and broke, "Christine?" Then Nadir would sit up and look at him with this really strange expression, kind of like sorrow, but mostly pity and anger, and say, "No Erik, Christine's gone." That was the only time I saw Father cry for years. Nadir wouldn't tell me who Christine was, so I put her name at the top of a list in my mind. I knew that it would be and important list, so I set it up carefully. Eventually, I had it so well memorized that all I had to do to examine it was close my eyes. The title of the list was simply "Clues." If Nadir wouldn't tell me about the past, I'd figure it out for myself. -----------------------------------------------------------
The process of grounding on the shores of sanity was much harder than slipping away. I felt everything I had ever experienced pounding through me, even, no especially, (say her name, da** you Erik, say it) Christine. Christine. Even her name sent me reeling back into the past. It was only her, Lyra, and -well yes- even Nadir that kept me connected to this world. I would have fought even without them, this was not how I wanted to die. I have to admit, though, that I probably would have died, or gone insane, without them. For the first time in my life, I thought that I was lucky, with my daughter and my sometime-friend there, but I always wished that there was another person as well, with the title of my wife.
-----------------------------------------------------
When Father was able to sit up and talk lucidly for more than a few minutes, Nadir decided that it was time for him to leave. Frankly, nobody's personal hygiene was very good at the moment, and we all knew that Father and I could get along all right. Mother had left me alone for enough time that I knew how to make stuff that was at least edible, and so I figured that we at least wouldn't starve. Father , promised that he would be up in about a day (though he was the only one to believe that), and one person was all he could stand fussing over him. Nadir left, and was back in about an hour, saying that he hadn't imagined that it was the twenty-second and he had to catch a boat so we had jolly well better be able to take care of ourselves. He deposited a hissing, clawing cat, Ayesha, on Papa's bed and ran out. That was the last time we saw him for years.
In the meantime, I set about trying to take care of Father, as he set about trying to take care of me. This worked pretty well after a while, and we soon set up a system. I would take care of the food and the house, and he would make sure that I was taking care of myself as well and try to compliment my cooking, although he wasn't very convincing. Contrary to what he had promised, Father wasn't able to get up for about a week, and then he was pretty unsteady. He saw this as an utter failure on his part, and I still had to do a lot of the work, but I didn't mind. I wouldn't have minded anything. This was the first time in my life that I had been treated as anything more than a bug. Now, I was an equal, or nearly so. I had an almost equal say in my life, and that was more than enough for me. So, by the time he was fully recovered, we had already set up a schedule, and that is what we kept to.
In the afternoons, after we had done all of the chores, like housecleaning (which was a disaster for the first few weeks) we would do lessons. These consisted of reading, writing, mathematics, science, grammar, history, music, and anything else either of us thought worthwhile. He had bought me some beginner-reading books, and he taught me how to read with those. I soon found those disgustingly simple, so he began to read harder works with me, explaining some things as we read. We covered everything from Dickens to Homer in the first year.
He also began to teach me to sing. He believed firmly that real conditioning should not start until the voice matures, so it was all basically learning easy little songs, some by the masters, some just popular, and some by him. The first lesson in that was hilarious. He told me to sing any song, so that he could see where to start, and I sang the first one that came into my head. It was a tune I had learned from Old Rocs, a drunk from Grimmerie Street. The lyrics were something like
Belly up! Belly up to the bar boys! Better loosen your belts! Only drink when you're alone Or with somebody else!
Belly up! Belly up to the bar boys! Let your money be seen! Only drink by day or night, Or somewhere inbetween!
There were about six more verses, but Papa stopped me there. There is no way to describe the look on his face, although if I had to, I would say it was something like amused horror.
"Is that all you know?"
"Well, the only people who really sang much on Grimmerie were either drunk or stoned. I know a lot of songs like that, but I think that I know six verses of "The Ballad of the Bloody Bloody Sailor Boys."
That was when he started to teach music appreciation. Soon, I hummed Mozart and Beethoven, with only an occasional bawdy song inbetween.
We also worked on reading music, which I found just as easy, and piano, organ, flute, violin, and many other instruments. In fact, music was the main subject in our school, although we covered everything else exhaustively. The basics were there along with anything he thought that I should know or I took a fancy to. So I learned, over six years, architecture, art, ventriloquism, English, Spanish, Turkish, German, Russian, self defense, pick pocketing (which was totally my idea and father tried to turn into slight of hand), first aid, dancing, animal training, sewing (his idea, which I violently protested), gardening, and basically anything else you can think of. We both loved school. He had someone to teach, and I had something to learn, which was totally new for me at first, and then just as much a part of me as breathing. And when we sang together, even simple little bits of doggerel, or did duets of any kind, life was perfect.
Then, after we were tired of lessons, we would go exploring. At first, we stayed in the opera house, which I soon knew like the back of my hand. Then, when that became boring, we went all over Paris. Sometimes he was as impressed by the things we saw as I was. I was sure that he hadn't seen them either. I added this to my incredibly small list of clues.
Life was perfect.
---------------------------------------------------
When I taught Christine, it had been a heady kind of bliss. I had reveled in the pure talent that unfolded in our lessons. Now, it was completely different. It was not bliss, but pride that charged me with every new accomplishment. Lyra's voice was not the extent of her talent, but one part, like a facet in an unflawed jewel. I found that conversation, and knowledge, was just as rewarding as song, in a different way, if you found the right person to talk to. My music wasn't as needed anymore, because I didn't have anything to escape from. I still worked on it, whenever I had the chance, but it wasn't everything anymore.
I found myself wanting to think about my past, as if I couldn't go foreword without going back. It was not a wonderful feeling, in fact it brought nightmares that I have never rivaled since. But, in time, I got the idea of writing it all down. At first, I thought to set it to music, but it threatened to become another Don Juan Triumphant, brooding, painful, mad, and dark. Then, I wrote it down as a narrative and left it in a secret safe in my room. Somehow, years later, I found out that odd pages had disappeared, which was soon explained in Mssr. Leroux's twisted narrative.
Neither of us wore a mask, because it wasn't needed. Everything was so much easier, and better, without a mask, that I began to dread putting it back on when we went places at night. Lyra hated hers as well, and we eventually decided that we'd just wear cloaks except for on occasions where the mask was unavoidable. The first disaster we encountered was due to this.
I had promised Lyra that we would visit Notre Dame. So we donned our cloaks one rainy night and set off. We were pressed for time, I had to set up a new agreement with the managers, and I had planned to start of negotiations that night. So, I was planning that, and walking fast, and not really paying much attention to anything. I was about half way there before I realized that Lyra wasn't with me.
I turned, swearing in several languages, and went back over the path. --------------------------------------------------
I was walking after Father, truly I was. But then I saw something in an alley. I figured that I would be able to check it out and then go after him. I turned into the alley, and the shape separated into a group of boys. In the middle, crouched and shaking, was a little old man. Even in the dark, I could make out the cuts on him, and the knives in the hands of the boys.
"What are you DOING?!"
"Th' old man's a witch. We're doin' th' cumminity a fav'r. Ai'n we gang?"
"Thas' right!"
"Witches are women, you ingrates! Let him go!" I knew the man, it was crazy old Theo. True, he was strange, but he had never done anyone harm.
"Why're you so worried? Who are you?"
They had slowly come up around me, and now one reached out and grabbed at my hood. I gasped and tried to catch it around me, but I couldn't do it.
Even in the storm, they could see enough.
The leader swore. "She's a demon he's called up! Can't be anything else!"
"He's not to strong then, is he?"
"Don't look like much of a demon to me. Maybe she's a spook!"
"Is it a she? I think it's just an it."
"Whatever she is, she'll squeal.
"We can take her Creeny!"
The knives suddenly had a new target, and I was it. I drew my own dagger from my belt, it was my favorite weapon at that time, and plunged in. -----------------------------------------------
By the time I got there, the fight was in full swing. There were seven boys all told, four with wounds of some kind. They broke up as I entered the alley. On the ground, there was an old man, and Lyra. I pulled back my hood, angry as I hadn't been since that last night, after Don Juan. Then I pulled out my gun. The fools would probably just laugh if I brought out the lasso.
"Listen. I will only say this once. Get out of here. Run. If, in five seconds, any of you is in range, so help me I will shoot you." I was surprised at my own voice. It was a cold, hard sound, not like it was usually when I was mad.
They ran. I shot anyway, knocking brick shards onto their heads. Then I bent down, to Lyra. -------------------------------------------------------- I was already sitting up. I had a few deep cuts in my torso, and a long, shallow one across my face. I looked a mess, but I knew I'd be fine.
"Check old Theo! I'll be fine, but he's really old!"
Father bent over him. "He'll be all right. We'll drop him at the hospital on the way home. You need to be treated."
I was quiet all of the way home. My cuts didn't hurt as much as the comments of the boys. In the slum, no one had noticed one more deformity. This experience was completely new to me, and it hurt a lot.
"Are you really going to be all right?" asked Papa.
"Yeah, I'll be fine." That was a lie, but oh well. --------------------------------------------------------
I put off, going back up to speak with Messrs. André and Firmin for a few days. This time I decided to do it in a more, diplomatic manner. I told them that, unless they wanted me to cause even more trouble, they would resume paying my salary, but at double the former amount. They tried to fight, but it was futile, and they knew it. Finally, they agreed, and in return I made semi-frequent appearances, just to keep the people coming to the shows. After all, it was my opera house. If it went broke, I'd be out of work!
So we lived, for almost seven years, in relative peace. That's not to say that the incident in the alley was not repeated in different forms, it was bound to. But, mostly, life gained a kind of normalcy. By day we worked in our house, and by night we explored Paris, and helped the opera. Then, Nadir came back and our carefully structured world was shattered.
