L'Hôtel Petit Oiseau was charming and comfortable, a lovely country inn near the shores of Perros-Guirac. It was set in from the beaches, surrounded by evergreens and trees that were just beginning to bud. There was little snow left, and the air had the sweet, fresh fragrance of sea, spring, and rain. The sun had gone down, an orb of brilliant orange, casting ribbons of gold, rose, and pale violet into the sky, and reflecting on the sea. A beautiful sunset...that she would never see.
Gaston sighed, leaning on the rail of his little balcony. The innkeeper was insistent on placing his Parisian boarder in their finest room. With one last look at the sunset, he turned away, and moved back into his room, shutting the French doors behind him, leaving the chilly sea breeze outside. He sat down at the desk, and rapidly wrote down Danielle's testimony on a blank page in his travel notebook.
Afterward, he noted: Mademoiselle Delamer was tremendously sincere. The reaction of the De Chagny clan and the placement of her grave supports the shunning of a madwoman by a wealthy family determined to keep up appearances. However, now I have a name: Christine. At the time of the Opera Ghost, she would have been Christine Daaé.
Gaston was about to continue his notes when a sharp knock at his door caused a finely-formed letter "T" to morph into a scribble. He heard the chambermaid call, "Monsieur? Monsieur, dinner is ready."
"Yes, merci," he mumbled, closing up his notebook, and extinguishing his gas lamp. He straightened his jacket, ran his hands through his hair, and adjusted his spectacles. He then left his room, and moved down the creaking wooden steps carefully.
In the general room, a blaze was roaring in the fireplace, and guests sat about at tables. There was lively chatter and laughing children; the aroma of a fresh, homemade supper: roasted rosemary chicken and potatoes, green beans, cheese, and chocolate mousse for dessert. Served with the meal was a fine, vintage wine. Gaston felt more relaxed than he ever had in the city. He pushed his dishes away, and leaned back in the well-worn wooden chair.
"Coffee, Monsieur?" asked a very amused voice.
Gaston raised his eyes to see Danielle offering him a cup of fragrant, dark coffee. She wore a striped apron over her dark blue dress, and her hair was tucked back in a snood. "Please, Mademoiselle," he answered with a smile.
She bobbed a nod, leaving him with a small tray of sugar cubes. He happily dropped one into his cup and stirred it slowly, musing on the lovely country air of the north, the warmth of the place, and the good feeling of food in his stomach. Truthfully, for those few moments, as he stirred his coffee, he forgot about her. His mind wandered back to the office, politics, and things of ordinary significance. In the light of the friendly fire, all thoughts of ghosts, madness, and opera slipped away. He spent a few hours chatting with the other guests about Paris and common things. Then, he lazily returned to his room, intending on turning in for a good night's sleep, recalling his past sleepless nights. But when he opened his door, he found the room to be cold.
Exceedingly icy, actually. And the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. No.
But as he slipped gingerly into the room, nothing happened. He half-expected to see the Ghost leap out at him, blood running over her face from the wounds on her head when she committed suicide. Gaston saw that his balcony doors were open; the drapes were floating in the gentle wind.. The room, however, was empty. He closed the doors and turned around. Nothing. He drew a deep breath, intending it to be a sigh, but held it when his eyes fell upon his open notebook.
Scrawled in red across a fresh page was one word: GO!
Go? he thought, frightened. He drew closer. It couldn't be...Could it possibly be written in...blood?
"Monsieur?"
He whirled around. Danielle stood at the threshold of his open door, bathed in the light of the corridor. She had removed her apron, but did not enter his chamber.
She spoke in a low voice. "My mother was not very rich, Monsieur. And my father is dead. But Maman was one of Madame Christine's friends. She left her something special; something that is currently in my possession. I had it shipped to my employer in Montréal, but I want you to take a look at it. I think it's important. Will you come?"
Gaston blinked. Montréal. Crossing the Atlantic? On account of a deceased madwoman? That was madness in itself! his rational mind argued. Reason dictated that he return to Paris and write something sensible for the paper.
But reason flew out the door when he laid eyes on the Opera's Ghost.
And Danielle put much weight into her words. Perhaps this was important. Something that would split the case wide open for him, like an Easter egg, and the story would be there for him to gather up and present to the public. That would be ... immortality.
Gaston Leroux, Parisian journalist, said one word: "When?"
