Okay, so we are nearly caught up on Erik's character and how he came to be the way he is at the moment. This chapter caps off his meditations in the cemetery, showing how his dispassionate reaction to Christine evolves into an essentially nihilistic world view – which is the point where past Erik and present Erik merge.
Also, (as allegratree predicted), since we are now up to speed with the character, we get a little jolt along the plotline in this chapter as well. The story after this point is undergoing a major overhaul at the moment, so unfortunately it may be a little longer than usual before the next part is up.
11. Grave Thoughts for Midnight
He returned to his hiding place in the mausoleum and stayed there as the churchyard became deserted and darkness fell once more. Around him the night breathed softly, comfortingly. Insects hummed and chirped in the bushes, oblivious to mankind's troubles, while the wind lazily threaded its way through the trees. The moonlight illuminated row upon row of monuments – some small and elegant, others monstrous creations depicting angels and icons and crosses and every manner of thing. It was as if someone had waved a wand and turned a menagerie to stone. Erik breathed deeply and leant his head against the coolness of the wall behind him.
It was as if the haze he had been living in so far had lifted, and for the first time he saw the world with clarity. Things were this way because it was the only way they could be. In the past, he had tried to interfere with the natural order, and it had come to nothing – all he had succeeded in doing was heaping misery upon himself. She was with Raoul now … and they would live together, happily, raise some babies, perhaps, then die, just like everybody else. Erik's intrusion into her life had been nothing more than a slight aberration, and now that he was gone her path would continue as it should. He would slowly fade from her memory – perhaps he was already gone – and to the world he would become just another strange tale, to be taken out and aired when amusement was wanting. He had left no mark on her, it was as if he never existed. But then … everyone's lives were like that. He thought of the daroga. The daroga was gone … and … nothing. The world would go on, pretty much as it always had, not knowing he had even lived.
He looked at the graves around him. Who were these people? He didn't know, but a sense of calm washed over him as he realised it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, in the end. People were born, and then they died – soon he would die, just like the daroga had, and so would Christine and Raoul, and none of them would be any better off than the people buried here.
At that moment, in the darkness, surrounded by the evidence of life's impermanence, Erik made a decision. He would waste no more time wallowing in fruitless, useless passions, raging against the universe and its ways. Up until now, he had been behaving like a petulant child, playing foolish games, demanding things that were just not his to demand, and all it had brought him was ruin. That world of beauty and light was not for him and never had been. Observing Christine today had proved that … he did not know her, he didn't know the world she appeared to fit into so perfectly.
From now on, the martyr he had envisioned himself to be was gone – he had no obligations to anyone but himself. He would live in the world as a mere observer … enjoy whatever material comforts he could, and laugh right back at the fates, who had been so unkind to him. Let all those insipid creatures he had seen that morning go on with their little lives. All those happy people – he didn't need or want any of them, just as none of them cared a jot that he existed either. None of it really mattered, in the end.
It was all one big long joke, this period between birth and death, and as long as he remembered this and used his head, he was invincible.
ooo
In the morning, he watched as the men dug the daroga's grave, six feet down. Eventually, the coffin appeared, accompanied only by Darius and a priest. Erik emerged from his place to join them as the blessings were said and the daroga was lowered into the ground. He stood next to the servant, head bowed, hood covering his face.
When the ceremony was over, Erik turned to leave, but Darius caught him by the arm.
"Monsieur, please wait." He pulled something from his satchel and held it out. "Here, the Master himself instructed me to give this to you personally if I should ever see you again. I don't know why, but I had a feeling you would be here today, so I brought it."
Suspiciously, Erik took the object and unwrapped the cover: it was the painting he had returned so many months ago.
"He wouldn't let me sell it," Darius continued. "Not even to pay for the proper ceremony I knew he wanted. He was determined that you should have it, as a keepsake."
"Thank you," said Erik brusquely, as he turned on his heel and stalked away, back home.
A few days later, he asked Gaspard to find the name and details of the collector who had been interested in the piece before. Together, they sold it behind Jacques' back, and even minus Gaspard's five percent, Erik earned a great deal of money out of the transaction. He hid the thick wad of bills away for safekeeping … but only after extracting a couple of notes to buy the fine brandy had long been craving.
A thunderclap brought Erik back to the present, in the hotel room, his supplies still spread around him. The thick grey sky outside was churning. It was about to rain.
That night in the churchyard had been a turning point for him – it had made him see things the way they are, without the muddling swirls of emotion that had plagued him before. He was calmer now, more controlled. Stronger than he had ever been. He was carrying a secret that was beyond the grasp of all the ordinary people he walked among – he knew that nothing was really important. Love, art, companionship, truth, beauty, even music: these were all just things people – all those common people – invested themselves in and hid behind to make the emptiness of living, the pettiness of living, the pointlessness of living more bearable. He was better than that. He didn't need such fabrications to comfort him anymore. Surviving from one day to the next was all one could do, and if you managed to do so in physical comfort and taste the finer things in life, so much the better. But it was ridiculous to let one's passions become all-consuming.
He looked down once more his paintings. After the cemetery, he had slowly worked his way through all the pictures of Christine and eliminated them. He had not done anything pointlessly destructive like breaking them or burning them – this would be silly waste, for they were good canvases. Instead, he had leisurely painted over each one, replacing her image with something inane but decorative and saleable. The only exception was this large one – the picture of the dancing girl. With all the inlays and the special features, it had been impossible to do a complete painting-over. He had had to settle for changing the face, which he had altered as much as possible.
Another rumble of thunder, closer now, made him look up. The storm was well and truly upon them and rain began to pour down noisily outside, thick and stifling. Erik put down the canvas and went to the window: everything was a grey, humid wall of mist as silver slivers of rain pelted the ground. Shouts were coming from below as people scattered, looking for cover. Among them was the captain of the ship he had booked, who had apparently been walking on the street below. Erik receded behind the curtain … he didn't want the man to look up and see him. He had not told the captain where he was staying, just as a precaution.
The man seemed to be waiting for somebody to catch up, waving his hand, beckoning. A younger man came running up behind him, covering his head with his coat. Erik saw this person's face and froze. It was Gaspard.
What the hell was he doing here? His mind began to work quickly, rifling through all the questions, all the possibilities, and any options he had. He had not expected this – not nearly so soon, anyway. The boy had been talking to the captain, so they must surely know his plans by now. How had they found him so quickly? More importantly, what was to be done now?
Erik's heart began to beat quickly. Leaving by ship was impossible now – apparently they were keeping an eye on the outgoing vessels, and anyway, everything would remain at a standstill until the weather passed. But he couldn't just stay in this room, either; if they were looking for him, they would know to search all the places travellers stay … inns, hotels, boarding houses. It wouldn't be hard to track down the strange man with half a face.
He would have to get out of this town. Obviously he could not by ship … and they had already managed to track him by train. Perhaps he should hire a carriage – but even that was risky, they would be expecting him to do that. Eventually they would find the driver who had taken him to wherever he was going, then they would simply move onto that town and check out the travellers' accommodations there, and he would be no better off than he was now. What he really needed was a hiding-place they wouldn't expect … one they couldn't access.
His thoughts turned to the good Henri Baccour, the man from the train. What about hiding right in the thick of things? In a gentleman's home? Perhaps he should go to Nice, at least for a while – it wasn't very far, and may be his best bet for some short-term safety.
The little man was rich, he could tell, and although the invitation had only been "to call", Erik thought he might be able to weasel an offer of accommodation out of him. Rich men always liked showing off their riches. Though it was a pity he had been so curt with the fellow on the train – somehow, he would have to undo the imposing impression he had made, if he was to get what he wanted. But it still seemed feasible … especially when his other options appeared to be so limited.
A gentleman's house would be the perfect place to hide – there he would be insulated by the man's position, and even if they discovered where he was staying, they would have a hard time reaching him. Unless Baccour himself was some type of underworld figure, they would not come brazenly knocking on his door, no matter what. Once Erik was inside, he could easily fake illness or something of that sort in order to prolong his stay and avoid any social obligations.
However, one little thing nagged at him, marring the perfection of his plan: according the newspaper, the De Chagnys would be in Nice at the same time. Was there any chance …? His fingers twitched as he thought it through.
No, he concluded, more out of necessity than logic. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a part of him was apprehensive about the way in which things seemed to conspire to bring them to the same town at the same time … but he quickly stamped the notion out before it could gather any speed. Anyway, he reasoned, he was sure a meeting could be avoided somehow, if the situation arose. It was not his own reaction he was concerned about, of course – he knew what it would be. He knew he would be able to behave with perfect equanimity if he saw them again. But he feared what they might do – make a fuss, hand him over to the authorities, try to kill him on the spot … whatever it was, it would definitely be something … unpleasant.
Erik shook his head and began to pack up his belongings once again. He had no time for this indecision; he had to leave. His only concern now was self-preservation – the sole doctrine he had lived by for the past two years. Looking at things rationally, Baccour's house seemed to be the best option, so he would take his chances there … and if his pursuers tracked him still … or if he could not get an invitation to stay … or if, God forbid, the Vicomte discovered him and set the police on him … he would just be back to running, as he was now.
At any rate it was worth a try, not the least because visiting to a rich house promised some comfort and good food for a while. With a wry smile, he noted that if it all came to nothing and he was cornered anyway, it would be far better to be hauled off with a belly full of champagne and caviar than the dirt they served in hotels.
He hastily returned the last of the supplies to his trunk and snapped it shut, then went in search of a carriage to bear him away.