A/N: Three more to go after this!
XXVI. "time will tell, this bitter farewell"
His parting from her was no sweet sorrow; no, it was sorrow laid bare and screaming. But now the screams have fallen silent, and like a hushing wind he steps out onto the streets of Paris. Still he is unsure of where he will go. London, perhaps, or Vienna – any large city where he can lurk behind the curtain and remain a ghost forever. He thinks that he may like to have some of his work performed, simply send it to the opera houses never seen. People then will wonder who this mysterious, invisible composer is. He thinks he might publish it anonymously, although there would be no harm in using his real name. Or, he fancies, he would prove to all those of the ruined Opera Populaire that he is still alive, and use a pseudonym – with the simple initials O.G.
He walks the dimly lamplit streets, going to purchase a carriage so he can go where he will, no longer bound by walls or desire. Where that place will be and what it will entail only time will tell.