Erik peeped out of the window, at the building across the street. It was advancing at a good pace, now that Messieurs Menand and Boitard had overcome the difficulties with the stability of the terrain and the thefts in the building site. Monsieur Boitard could be harsh and short tempered while dealing with the masons and labourers, but he knew his trade well; Monsieur Menand was young and inexperienced, but he was a good architect. The design he had made for the structure was airy and yet firm. The proportions of the building were elegant and sober. The apartments would be reasonably big and, telling from the space allotted for windows, warm and well lighted. It would make a good place to live in, he thought. They could maybe move to the other side of the street, he mused. Then he chided himself. There was no way he could afford to buy one of those new apartments.

His economies were enough to sustain him and Gracie, to pay the rent and Françoise's salary, but the money he had saved from his time with the Shah-in-Shah and underneath the Opera was not everlasting. He had, in fact, gone over his accounts with Nadir, and had found out that it would be enough to hold their living style for about ten years. Erik didn't expect to live longer, but he didn't want to leave Gracie bereft, and lately he had been wondering how could he start making some money again.

Haunting the Opera House was out of the question, he thought scornfully, and then surprised himself by considering, in earnest, how impossible that thought seemed to him. That he had ever preferred to live in a cellar, away from the sun and the changing seasons; that he had considered himself an animal, or something less than an animal, only safe in its lair; that he had thought extortion and threat and deception his only viable means of human contact; that he had believed life would never be better, no matter how hard he tried, seemed now to him the delusions of a madman. He knew, he had cruel physical reminders of the kind of humiliation, cruelty and rejection that had driven him to lead that sort of existence, but his present life made such a sharp contrast with the one he'd led underneath the Opéra that he recalled those times as if they had been lived by another man.

Erik heard the sound of the front door as it opened. He spun around and opened his arms to gather the rush of energy and motion that was Gracie, still winded from her way back from school.


Erik stiffened when he heard the knock at his front door. He lifted his eyes from the newspaper. Gracie, who had been doing her homework on the dining table, lifted her pencil from the paper and stared at him, alarmed. Erik smiled at her, wondering at how she had been smitten by his fear of intruders in their home. He made a soothing gesture and silently stood up. He stood by the door to the hall, half hidden by the jamb. Françoise came from the kitchen and glanced at him questioningly. He nodded. She opened the door a crack.

It was Monsieur Menand. Erik heard their strained exchange of niceties with a half smile, and shook his head disbelievingly when the young architect braved Françoise's sternness once again to request seeing him. One could say almost anything about Monsieur Menand but that he was not persistent. Poor fellow. He just couldn't get into his mind that he could not get past Françoise. Erik cringed when he anticipated the slam that would resonate as Françoise closed the door. And then one of Menand's phrases caught his attention.

"I have some blueprints here. I would like to consult with him. . ."

"Impossible, Monsieur." Françoise's words were final.

"Françoise," Erik whispered, almost inaudibly.

With a look of surprise, she turned her head and stared at him.

"Let him in."

Françoise's mouth fell open, her eyes widened in disbelief. Erik would have laughed if he hadn't been so acutely aware of the presence on the landing, behind the door.

"But. . . But Monsieur," she stammered. Then she turned abruptly around and faced the architect.

"Wait here," she instructed, and closed the door.

She turned around, once again her face composed.

"Monsieur, you need not trouble yourself. Monsieur l'Architecte can leave his papers and you can have a look at them and write him a letter," she whispered.

"I will see him, Françoise."

"But. . . But Monsieur, your. . ."

She made a vague gesture with her hand and reddened. She was now staring intently at the floorboards.

Erik kept still for a second. Years ago, any mention of his face would have cast him into a rage, but Françoise's deep embarrassment didn't aggravate him. In fact, her concern for his convenience was rather touching.

"He will not see my face," he said softly. "You didn't see it the first time we talked, did you?"

She shook her head, still looking at the floor.

"Only when you. . . When you stood up, Monsieur."

"There you go," said Erik.

His non sequitur finally made her look up.

"I will not stand up this time," he added with a wink.

Her eyes flashed in understanding, but she was still too troubled to smile.

"Bring me the plaid blanket from my bed," he ordered.

He turned around to face a stunned Gracie. She was gawking at him with the most puzzled expression he had ever seen on her face. Erik couldn't help but snicker.

"We're playing a charade, Gracie. Come on, help me. Close one of the counterpanes," he instructed, with more enthusiasm than he really felt, for her sake.

Erik's curiosity had been stung by the mention of blueprints and another architectural problem to solve. Besides, he knew that facing the obstinate young man would be the only way to get rid of him. But that didn't mean he expected the encounter with joy.

He moved his armchair to an angle where it would keep his face hidden in shadows while Gracie closed the counterpane and drew the curtains. The room was soon darkened and Françoise came in, carrying the blanket and his slippers.

"I thought. . . It would. . ." she stammered.

"Better suited for an invalid than these, aren't they, Françoise?" he helped her, pointing at his polished shoes.

Françoise nodded, apparently relieved. She moved a small table to the side of the armchair and fussed about the room while he changed his shoes and cast the blanket over his knees. When he'd finished, there stood a tea stained cup, his folded newspaper, a bell, a spoon and one of the many flasks of his medicine cabinet on the table. Françoise handed him a couple of pillows which he used to prop himself on a slightly skewed angle. Erik smiled. She was exceedingly good at this. She would have made a great set designer at the Opéra. Françoise gathered his shoes and unceremoniously cast them into a closet down the hall. Then she went to open the door.

Gracie, who had been watching their preparations with a curious, but still alarmed look, stood frozen by the table. Erik beckoned her with a gesture, and she came close.

"Don't worry," he whispered, trying to soothe her. "Everything will be just fine."

She leant on the arm of the chair, closer to him, worry reflected on her eyes. He winked playfully, and then he sensed a presence in the room. He looked up. There in the entrance, straining his eyes to adjust to the twilight, stood Monsieur Menand.

Louis couldn't make out a thing when he was ushered by the maid into the dark sitting room. A fire burned low in the grate, and the heavy curtains let in only the dimmest light. He could barely discern the contours of some furniture. He squinted, feeling exposed, knowing Monsieur Devaux must be there, taking stock of him.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Menand. Have a seat. Please excuse me if I don't stand up to greet you," an incredibly melodious voice came from the deep recesses of the armchair by the fire.

Louis advanced towards the couch. He spoke to the shadows, in the general direction where the voice had come from.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Devaux. I'm happy to meet you. . ."

"At last?" the voice from the armchair finished for him.

Louis had to clear his throat to hide his confusion. He busied himself with arranging the scrolls he had brought with him on the coffee table.

"Well, yes," he admitted.

"You'll have to excuse Françoise's rudeness. She's being overprotective, but she means well."

Louis nodded and leant back on the couch. That voice held a trace of warmness that made him a little bit more at ease. He hadn't expected to meet cordiality on his first visit. In fact, he had imagined Monsieur Devaux as a grumpy old man who'd bark at him to leave him alone the moment Louis came into the room.

"This is my daughter, Gracie," continued the voice. "Come on, Gracie, greet our guest."

A girl advanced a step from the shadows and curtsied briefly. Louis took in her beautiful auburn curls, and the soft contour of her face. He bowed his head.

"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle."

He was stunned when he met her eyes. They were hostile, giving out an animosity that only children dare to display openly. She leant on the arm of the chair, by the plaid blanket that must be covering Monsieur Devaux's legs. Louis barely swallowed a grin. It seemed that Françoise was not the only protective one around the place. A long, graceful hand rose from the shadows and landed on the shoulder of the little girl.

"Go to your room, Gracie," the voice ordered.

The girl turned slightly towards the occupant of the chair, hesitant. The hand squeezed her shoulder lightly and released her.

"Go, now."

She remained a second longer, and then, half-heartedly, she detached herself from her leaning spot, curtsied again and went out, carefully eyeing Louis the whole time, as if measuring what kind of menace he would pose to her father.

"She's a beautiful little girl," commented Louis politely.

"She is, isn't she?" wondered the voice. "She is my life, Monsieur."

Louis was taken aback by the undercurrent of emotion that ran in those few sentences. He hadn't expected such an open statement on his first visit. But of course the company of his daughter should be one of the few joys of an old, infirm man, confined to the boundaries of his home.

"But you didn't come to discuss the merits of a child with the proud father. Would you like something to drink? Some tea? Or perhaps something stronger? A glass of cognac?"

"Cognac would be fine, thank you."

The hand emerged from the shadows once more and rang a bell that stood on a table by the armchair. Louis noticed the cup, the medicine flask, the folded newspaper. Monsieur Devaux didn't seem to move much from that chair. The maid appeared at the entrance.

"A cognac for Monsieur Menand, Françoise, if you please. Tea for me."

She left. There was a short silence. Louis felt compelled to speak.

"Monsieur, I would like to thank you for the enormous help you gave me."

"I doubt my help was enormous. It was just a couple of pieces of advice from a man who's got plenty of time to meddle in his neighbour's business."

Louis had to smile at that.

"Without you, I wouldn't have been able to get rid of all that water. I wouldn't have completed the building."

"Yes, you would. You're a very competent architect. You just lack some experience."

Louis sighed, accepted the glass the maid gave to him, waited until she had replaced the empty cup on the table with a steaming one and the hand had taken the cup and made it disappear in the shadows. He had a sip of what turned out to be a superb cognac.

"I'm afraid I'm here to draw from your experience again, Monsieur Devaux."

The cup made a soft clunk against the plate.

"Yes?" the voice was now cautious.

"You see, I've got a commission inspecting a project for government buildings. I've got the planes and the quotations for the materials and the work. Something seems amiss, but I really can't place my finger on what's wrong with the project."

Monsieur Devaux shifted slightly on his chair. The springs screeched and the plaid blanket moved a little.

"Do you have the documents with you?"

Louis was surprised at the richness of shades that Monsieur Devaux's voice displayed. Now, besides the cautiousness, there was a certain interest in it.

"Yes. If you would feel like it. . ."

"Please."

Louis leant forward and extended the blueprints over the coffee table.

"There are four buildings. They're supposed to hold offices. . ."

Three quarters of an hour later, Louis was making his way down the stairs, slightly inebriated after his second glass of cognac. He had forced himself to leave after he had finished it, although Monsieur Devaux had offered him a third one. Louis had declined, reminding himself that the man was infirm and that he shouldn't overstay his welcome. Their talk had been interesting and animated. Monsieur Devaux had listened attentively to the explanations about the buildings Louis was inspecting and had bid him to leave the documents, so he could examine them in the morning.

Then they had drifted towards other topics of conversation. Louis had told him about his studies in the faculty, the teachers and the difficulties of establishing himself as an architect. Monsieur Devaux had sympathised. He had also tried to establish himself independently in his days. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to retire early.

Louis had nodded, a bit embarrassed. By then, his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light in the room, and he had blurrily begun to distinguish Monsieur Devaux's features. Apparently, the right side of his face wasn't moving. Louis had also noticed that his right arm remained still on his lap, and that his body slouched slightly to one side. A stroke, perhaps? Louis remembered his grandfather, who'd survived two years after suffering apoplexy, half of his body paralysed. It had prompted Louis's immediate sympathy for Devaux, who had immediately steered the conversation away from himself.

They had spent quite a long time comparing their favourite modern buildings. Devaux had seemed pleasantly surprised at Louis's praise of the Opéra Populaire, and amused at Louis's critique of the proportions of its façade. He had carefully outweighed Louis's opinions, and when they had differed, he had explained his own preferences rationally, not expecting Louis to agree with him immediately, like the more established architects Louis's had spoken with. Louis had been pleased. Never had an older, so experienced architect taken him and his ideas so seriously.

Louis insisted that Monsieur Devaux take his time with the blueprints. Louis didn't need to give his concept for another two weeks. Besides, he didn't want to pester the reclusive Devaux. He hoped he would get an invitation to come by as a response to his polite gesture, but to his disappointment, Devaux only promised Louis he would hear from him before the end of the week. Louis sighed. Well, he supposed that was the best he could draw out of the man during his first visit. And it was much more than what he had expected.


Author's notes: Thanks for the comments! Glad to know you guys liked Louis!