15. Bravissimo
Erik had the driver drop him off at the train station in Nice. This served two purposes – first, he would be able to leave his trunk at the baggage check while he found Baccour, and second, when they managed to find out his destination from the driver (as they eventually would), it would perhaps fool them into thinking he had left again by train.
His heels clicked on the flecked tiles as he walked purposefully across the floor. He hated stations. People everywhere – bored people, waiting. In such places his plaster bandage mask received even more looks than usual. He could see the unuttered questions forming bubbles over their heads: "What happened to that man? Is he ill? Should he be walking around like that?" Resolutely, he ignored it all and turned his mind to the business at hand, obtaining a map from the information desk. Rue Blanche is what Henri had said. They lived on Rue Blanche … well, according to the map, the street was not more than half an hour's walk away. He set off at a brisk pace, plunging into the town and taking little notice of the people and buildings that streamed past him: it was almost as if, by keeping his eyes forward and not seeing them, they wouldn't be able to see him either.
Soon he found himself in the correct area, and a shiny letterbox inscribed with the name "Baccour" identified the house for him. It was big. Erik stared up at the building, set some way back from the street, behind a dense, springy green lawn and gravel drive. It had a huge, imposing façade, where stone and iron filigree work mingled discordantly. The decorative touches the building possessed were slightly ridiculous: it was as if someone had tried to dress up an elephant with frill of lace – they did nothing to soften the powerful lines of the structure.
Erik, with his architect's eye, curled his lip back in distaste. Well, if nothing else, it would have been expensive to build. That was good – the man appeared to be richer than he had thought. Surely, if Erik made himself halfway polite and dropped the appropriate hints, they could give him one room in this monstrous palace.
Before walking through the gate and ringing the doorbell, he steeled himself for the task ahead. It had been so long since there had been any need to be … pleasant … to anyone, socially. In his life before the Opera House he had of course had to deal with people: living in Eastern palaces, protocol was necessary, and even after moving to Paris his contracting work had required him to cultivate business relations. But all of that was so long ago. For the many years he was in hiding, he had observed society mingling in the Opera House, and found he could never stomach the inanity that passed between people under the heading of 'manners'. The most he had done was parody such things for his own amusement, in his notes to the managers and so forth. But he was no longer some trickster ghost, and he was no longer in the slums, dealing with criminals – he would have to play the social game with these people, if he was to get what he wanted.
After ringing the doorbell and giving his name to the butler who opened the door, he was ushered into the parlour. He walked around and examined the décor as he waited. The lady of the house was obviously fond of ornate bric-a-brac, as it adorned every available space. Rich fabrics were used for the upholstery and drapes, and the furniture was expensive, but none of it quite worked in harmony. All in all, it was a room decorated by one with a large budget, but a conventional and hesitant sense of style … Erik smirked a little. These were exactly the type of walls his ridiculous paintings were made to hang upon. Perhaps that would be useful.
Soon Henri Baccour and his wife bustled in, with grins that were just slightly too wide.
"Ah, Monsieur Angebeau!" The man held his arms out as he walked towards Erik. "Truly a pleasure to see you again. We are so glad you have come." They shook ands and the visitor did his best to smile pleasantly (though he had the distinct feeling he looked more like a crocodile than a man when he did so).
"Thank you for the welcome, Henri." He turned to the lady. "And this must be your lovely wife." Erik did his best impersonation of the fops he had observed at the theatre.
The woman blushed when she heard his voice – so beautifully melodious, so deep and soothing.
"Yes, yes. This is Vivienne." Henri held a hand out to her, presenting her. "And Vivienne, this is Monsieur Erik Angebeau."
The lady curtsied, and Erik bowed gracefully. He could see curiosity flickering in her eyes, but she hid it well and consciously ignored the mask. No doubt Baccour had told her about the man on the train, the one who had been wounded in battle. "An honour, Madame."
They took their seats on the cushioned furniture.
"So, Monsieur," Henri began, his hand draped over the armrest. "When I last saw you, you had no idea where you were headed."
Erik nodded calmly. "Yes, that is true. But you spoke so tenderly of Nice that I found myself longing to see it, and since I had a few days to spare I could not refuse your offer of a visit." He looked to Vivienne. "Your husband is indeed a remarkable salesman, Madame."
They laughed agreeably. "Oh I'm sure he is, Monsieur Angebeau. His business depends on it."
Erik chuckled along with them. He felt like a fool, but it seemed to be working. "Ah, yes. Steel and mining, wasn't it? How is that industry going?"
Monsieur Baccour's eyes lit up, pleased that the man had remembered their conversation. "Why, it has been very rewarding of late …" He launched into an explanation of the situation in Africa, and how it was affecting the market – Erik nodded, and appeared to engrossed in the topic. Vivienne, however, was beginning to be embarrassed by all the shop talk, and steered the conversation in another direction as soon as possible.
Henri was beginning to become excited " … Count Plachere is another with an interest in the venture, and he thinks that if we can just …"
"The Count is a lovely gentleman, isn't he Henri?" Vivienne interrupted gently. "And his wife is absolutely charming."
"Why yes, my dear," said Baccour. He turned back to Erik. "Very decent fellow, the Count is," he continued, nodding.
"We have had them over to stay any number of times," Vivienne informed their guest. "And they are always so gracious. They have been to the finest and most noble houses in the country – they even stayed at the Palace once – and yet they say they always feel most at home here."
Erik smiled and nodded some more. "Your arrangement here does seem to be very comfortable," he said, indicating their surroundings. So, the wife has a weakness for the nobility? That could also be useful.
She blushed prettily. "Thank you, Monsieur."
"Indeed. It has been a long time since I saw so elegant a house." He sighed and looked away bitterly, as if confessing some secret. "My father apparently cared little for such things … he squandered our family fortune in a most imprudent manner until we were forced to sell both our home and our title." Ha. Impoverished nobility. Perfect.
"Oh," breathed Vivienne. Both husband and wife regarded the stranger with compassion – Henri because the man had lost his fortune, Vivienne because he had lost his title.
Henri then spoke, sincerely. "That is indeed most unfortunate, Monsieur. Wretched luck. I – suppose that is why you entered the military then?"
Erik nodded. "Yes, I needed an income to support myself and my parents, until they died. I did enjoy it though, it was very good for my health – a man likes to be active and out in the fresh air, you know." Henri agreed vigorously, though his wobbling double chin leant doubt to the idea that he had ever acted on such feelings. Erik continued. "But then, as you can see" – he vaguely indicated his bandages – "I was forced to leave the service."
The pair of them nodded sadly. Inside, Erik was laughing … as if they had any clue what lay under the mask …
"So what is it you do now, Monsieur Angebeau?" Vivienne queried softly. Henri shot her an apprehensive look, remembering how the man had been reluctant to speak of his occupation on the train, but Erik seemed undisturbed.
"Well, at the moment, I make my living by painting."
"Oh," the lady exclaimed, surprised. "You are an artist, then?" He could see approval in her eyes – struggling artists, particularly ex-nobles, were exactly the type of thing to appeal to rich young ladies like herself.
Erik shrugged. "Of sorts."
"Why, that is wonderful!" Henri said with jollity, relieved that the uncomfortable portion of the conversation had passed. "You must allow us to see some of your work."
"I would, gladly. But my trunk is still at the train station. I have not yet checked into a hotel."
"A hotel?" Henri scoffed. "Nonsense. There are so many tourists around at this time of year you'll never find a room. You must stay with us while you're in town."
"Oh … no, good Henri … I couldn't impose …"
Vivienne grabbed her husband's arm and looked at the visitor – tears of compassion were beginning to form in her eyes as a result of his pathetic story, and the effect was so comical to Erik he had to work hard to keep a straight face. Her voice was pleading. "Please, Monsieur, we insist. You must stay with us. I couldn't bear to think of you staying in some awful hotel by yourself."
He sighed. "Well, if the lady insists …" he bowed his head and made a gracious gesture of defeat.
"Excellent!" Henri clapped his hands and rubbed them together, and a dazzling smile appeared on Vivienne's face. Baccour called the maid, who appeared in an instant. "See to it that Monsieur Angebeau's things are brought here from the station … Erik, do you have your check-ticket?" Erik retrieved it from his pocket and handed it to the maid. She accepted it with a curtsey and left the room.
Together, the three of them went to the dining room to have lunch – Erik was feeling rather pleased with himself.
ooo
By the time they finished eating, the trunk had been recovered and Erik was obliged to show them his canvases.
Vivienne gasped and squealed with delight as each new piece was brought out. There was a country cottage, a picture of a lake at sunset, some boys fishing and so on … she adored them all, and had some paintings of this style hanging up already, though not half as fine. Henri knew nothing about art, but was pleased because his wife was pleased.
"Oh Erik! These must be the prettiest pictures I have ever seen!" She spoke with excitement and awe as she examined each one.
Erik smiled graciously. "Thank you so much. It makes me glad to know you like them. Let me make you a gift … which would you like?"
"No, no … that is too generous. I will buy, but I won't accept it as a gift. You can't af…" She was about to say 'afford', but caught herself in time, afraid it would wound the man's pride.
However, Erik appeared to take no offence. "No, I insist. I shall be quite offended if you don't accept my present. Think of it as repayment for your hospitality."
"Very well then, but you must choose – you can't make me do it."
With a sly grin, Erik brought out the large, unusually thick canvas from the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in cloth. Henri and Vivienne leaned in curiously. "Alright Madame, this is the one I wish you to have." With a dramatic air, he slowly unwrapped the piece to reveal the girl dancing. Vivienne couldn't stop an expression of confusion and slight disappointment crossing her face. This was nothing like the others – if she hadn't known better, she would have thought it was done by a different artist. The colours and lines were strong and dynamic … she couldn't imagine where in the house she would put it.
"Thank you so much, Erik!" she said. "What an interesting work it is …"
"Wait," he returned. "You haven't seen all its secrets yet." Mysteriously, he reached around the corner of the painting and appeared to press some mechanism there. As he did, a beautiful melody began to float out from somewhere behind the canvas, just like a music box. The sound was slightly tinny, but the tune was composed of such rich, immensely satisfying notes that it stole one's breath and tempted your eyelids shut. However, closing one's eyes was not an option, for even more amazingly, the rosebud in the girl's hair began to ripple, along with some of the highlights in the fabric of the skirt – what was in fact happening was that the inlays inside the canvas were moving, and the spaces in the painting where they had showed through were being filled by a procession of different shades of red glass. The overall effect was that the rosebud was blooming and the skirt was twirling as the music played.
The Baccours watched, hypnotised. Finally Erik pressed the mechanism again, and the music and movement stopped. He waited for their reaction.
Finally, Henri breathed. "Monsieur, that is indeed extraordinary. I have never seen anything like it! You are a gifted man." Erik dipped his head with his usual grace.
Vivienne, still with a look of awe on her face, found her tongue. "Are you sure you want to leave it with us? It is such an incredible work …"
"I am quite sure Madame. That is, if you like it."
"Oh yes!" Vivienne was in raptures. What a novelty! No-one in Nice had anything like it. "You must present this at the dinner party on Friday. I'm sure our friends will be stunned."
"I beg your pardon?"
She turned to him eagerly and took his arm. "You'll still be here, won't you? We're having a small dinner party on Friday – I'm sure you'll get on well with everyone, we'll have some of the best people there. Some from around here, and a few from out of town." She began to chatter excitedly. "We will have the Baroness Duvall, and the Vicomte De Chagny and his wife, and the Baron Richard …"
His eyes widened briefly, then settled back once more. "Well I don't know, Madame … I shall have to see how my plans unfold." No, he wouldn't be there.
"Oh, I will be so disappointed if you can't …"
And she chatted away until everyone parted for the night.
ooo
Later, alone in the sumptuous guest bedroom, Erik collapsed into an armchair and removed his mask. The whole day of role playing had been mentally exhausting, his patience had begun to wear thin by the end of it all. It would have been all too satisfying to take each of them by the hair and knock their two idiotic heads together. But at least he had achieved his objective – he had found himself a safe place to stay. Unfortunately it seemed the arrangement would be very short-lived. He would have to leave by Friday. All this work for nothing!
He still couldn't believe it – Christine and her husband here? He had known they would be in Nice, but in this house? It had to be some cruel joke … would they never leave him in peace? Erik had scorned the fates once, and it looked as if they were repaying him in kind. He gripped the arm of the chair.
Obviously, he couldn't meet them – they would recognise him in an instant and throw him to the police. That was a given. He would have to be far away from here by Friday. But he was worried about the painting. He didn't know why he had given the Baccours that one. Well actually, yes, he did – it wasn't very saleable. It could probably have earned a small fortune compared to his other works, if he found the right buyer … but the right buyer had been hard to find, even for Gaspard and the others. It had been annoying his consciousness for months, in the same way a coin can burn a hole in one's pocket, so he had taken the first available opportunity to rid himself of the thing. Furthermore, he had to admit he had been after some amusement to numb the excruciating boredom of the afternoon: he could see that Vivienne liked his other works, and he had relished giving her the one he knew she would despise initially.
But now he regretted his lack of forethought. He didn't know if the De Chagnys would see anything in it, or even if there was anything to see, but he felt apprehensive. Though he wouldn't stay to see the results. He would get away before then.