Authors note: What to say? Not very many reviews sadly. Where are all the terriffic people who read my first chapter? Vanished from the face of earth? Anyway, I am an upstanding girl. So here I go. Still own and owe noone! Oh and excuses for possible wrong sentences in the court, I am neither a lawyer nor someone who studies to be such. And I decided to give Madame Giry a first name.
I saw Firmin. He was standing in front of me, tall and strong, powerful, a statue, the way he had always seemed to me. The flames which were leaking at his clothes seemed without effect on his skin. But he kept staring at me, out of these unreadable eyes, which were cold and dead, as they had never been in life. And then he said: "It is your fault I had to die, Giles. I could have lived. I should have lived."
My own shout wakes me up. I find myself in that somewhat cozy little room. Just a dream, I try telling myself. But it feels so real, I can still see him standing there.
"You could have done nothing to save him. He was long dead before you reached him." But Madame Girys matter-of-fact voice can not fully reach me. Psychologists would tell me not to blame myself for his death. But I do. And I will, for the rest of my natural life span.
It will always be there, this nagging and neverending questions: "Could I not have noticed earlier, that he was gone? Could I not have gone looking for him more systematically? Could I not have told him in advance how little those damned papers really mattered?" But worse were the answers to those questions. The "yes, yes, yes" resounding in me head. The knowledge of what I could have done and did not do.
Carlotta rushed in. She seemed to be in some sort of rage, well, even more so than usual. "Look this!" She held todays newspaper in her hands and gestured at the leading article. Of course, the burning down of the famous opera, had been top news for the last week. But what was so special about this article. "Read!" she threw the paper onto me and quickly said some italian curses.
"The burning down of the opera populaire – all planned and about money?
Yesterday morning our office received some new insights on the fire last week. So far the mystery of the phantom of the opera, who was said to be the cause for the tragic "accident" has been on everybodies minds.
But how about a more factly reason? Our informant, who wants to remain anonymous, told us that he saw Monsieur Giles André, the other former owner of the opera populaire, standing quite untouched next to his dead colleague Monsieur Richard Firmin. Trustable sources have informed us about the security papers for the opera, with a sum of 1 000 000 000 Francs, which had been in Richard Firmins hands, shortly before his death. This sum was shared by both of the owners, but in this case, thanks to the death of his partner, Giles André is the owner of the whole sum. Which throws up the question if this is not rather the case of murder due to greed instead of an usolved mystery or phantomable accident?
This is the accusation Giles André will see himself confronted with on the following Monday, the 16th of July. Let us hope that the court will make an unbiased decision and not let cold-blooded murderers continue running freely around or beloved Paris and burn down our ancient buildings!"
Two pictures were left and right to the article, "Richard Firmin – deceased" stood under the left one. "Giles André – murderer?" under the right.
The newspaper fell onto the floor. What was he to feel? Sadness? Anger? Hate? Fear?
He tried staring onto the wall, not wanting to face Carlotta, Madame or Meg Giry, who looked at him and expected some sort of reaction.
He had never before been accused of anything. Although some of Firmins and his business affairs surely had not always been strictly legal and by the law. And now he had been accused of murder.
How could they believe him capable of that? If it had been out of rage or panic, but what they thought he had done was cold-hearted, bloody and planned murder. How could anyone look at that goof on that photograph and think he could do that? But the outer appearance never mirrored the inner features, he knew that. And those redacteurs, those newspaper-readers, they did not know him. Only the three women in this room knew at least a part of him.
"None of us told them, I swear" Meg suddenly said, looking indeed sorry. And he believed the girl. He had not even been asking himself that question before now. But when he thought about it. Trying to remember was hard, but then he found the young man in his mind. The man who had been inside the burning opera house and had stolen some of the golden paintings. Whom he had left to take parts of his opera! And that had been his gratefulness.
It was the second paiful wound, his optimism had received in the last week and he felt it break away. He wondered how much more he could take until he would become a bitter, hateful man.
And he had learned another lesson. The one that most people are treachourus and selfish. That it is better to trust noone but yourself. And that others like stabbing you into your back, rather than facing you in a duel. A valuable lesson, learned very late in life, but learned only the hard way.
"We will do everything we can, to help you." The girl surely meant it sweet and encouraging, but it did not help. Neither did the look Carlotta gave him, one that would have looked like pity on anyone elses face. But it could not be possible – La Carlotta only pitied herself.
But Madame Giry looked as stern and strict as always and simply said "Those false accusateurs do not know you." And he hoped she was right.
As all days we fear come, this one also came way too soon, too early, too fast. And he could have done without the police escort to the palace of justice, without the hundred onlookers, without the judges that gave him icy stares, which seemed to condamn him to death.
"They have no proof" Madame Giry had told him. It was his mantra. But he was not sure if he actually believed in it.
It was his fault after all, he thought. Maybe he deserved all this.
"Rise, Monsieur André." He stood up, still feeling weak and wondered if he would fall. "You have been accused of murdering Richard Firmin." He flinched. "What do you pledge?"
"Not guilty" my voice wavered much more than I wanted it too. I hated all their eyes on my, of all the public speeches I detested, this was definitely the worst. Weakness was what I felt and about as harmless as a grasshopper.
The judge eyed me suspiciously. "First witness – Madame Magdalene Giry" It was the first time I ever heard her first name. She came through the door and walked straight towards the witness table. "Swear that you will tell the truth and nothing but the truth." "I swear"
"Your are not related to the accused?" "No" She gave me something that might have been a reassuring glance. Unfortunately the judge seemed to have his eyes everywhere.
"Which kind of relationship do you entertain with the accused?" I wondered if I would ever be a person, a man again, simply something else than "the accused". I must have been really desperate, but her simple answer of "Friendship" gave me some sort of hope.
"When you found Monsieur André, was Monsieur Firmin already dead." Truthful answers are required. "Yes" "So the accused could have murdered him, before you appeared?" What did that judge have against me? I had never seen him before and neither did he know me. And still he seemed quite keen on putting me into jail for the rest of my days.
"I do not regard Monsieur André" she decidedly pronounced my name, making clear I was not just "the accused" to her, "as capable of murder." The representative of those who accused me, shot up to intervene: "Personal statement – irrelevant to the case." "There were no signs of a fight or a death caused by a person instead of the fire." Madame Giry, or Magdalene, gave him an icy glare.
"Thank you" the judge seemed not too pleased with her answers. Good for me. She stiffly walked out, but I caught her eyes a moment before she was out the door. Hope!
"Next witness – La Carlotta Guidicelli". Making quite a scene, she walzed in, a doorkeeper vainly trying to rid himself of her pudels teeth which were sunken into his right leg.