Only a couple of days after the strange power incident, the French craft, the Sarah-Emmeline, arrived at the port of Montréal. There were still chunks of ice in the fleuve St. Laurent, and snow lingered sleepily on the ground, despite being nearly April. Gaston stood on the edge of the Place Jacques Cartier, eternally the observer, watching the bustle of business in the marketplace from behind his smoky breath. The feeling of solid, unmoving cobblestones under his shoes was a pleasant change. When the locals heard his sharp and precise Parisian accent, they treated him with great respect. The drawl of their Quebeçois lilt was warm, and gave the feeling of a country community, despite the sprawl of the city. Wrapped in his warmest wool coat, a grey scarf, and a black hat, he hailed a cab. He picked up his luggage, and boarded, directing the driver to the hotel he'd arranged a room in; the brief ride was fair. Gaston spent much of it peering precariously out of his window at the passing buildings and people.
So this was Montréal. The Canadian city was built up on a large island in the middle of the river, an island crowned by an imposing hill, Mount Royal, which earned the metropolis its name. Originally French, it was growing more and more English by the year. From the port, Gaston looked across the stretches of land toward the heart of downtown, where his hotel was.
On Rue Peel, Gaston found the magnificent Mount Royal Motel. It was grand and opulent, with shining marble floors, a grand crystal chandelier, and classic columns. He squared his shoulders, and approached the front desk. A friendly-looking receptionist greeted him bilingually, "Bonjour, hello. Bienvenue and welcome to the Mont Royale."
"Bonjour, Madame. I am Gaston Leroux; I believe I have reservations for a private suite."
"Bien sûr, Monsieur. Attendez un moment, s'il vous plaît." She opened a huge book, and flipped to the current date, then scanned the names listed. Suddenly, her finger stopped, and a displeased frown creased her brow.
"Oh dear," the receptionist said doubtfully. "I'm afraid I cannot find your reservation, Monsieur Leroux."
Numbly, Gaston said, "Are you sure, Madame? They were arranged last week."
She flipped over the pages, carefully scrutinizing each entry. "No. I am terribly sorry, Monsieur. We are, as you say, booked solid. There are several other hotels in Montréal, however. I'd advise you to check into one of them."
"Merci, Madame," he muttered.
Feeling his line of hope fading fast, he took another cab, giving the driver the address of Professor Edmond Lequesne. The carriage immediately pulled out of the Rue Peel, and turned west onto the Rue Sainte-Catherine. After several minutes, they were out of the downtown area, where most of the commercial buildings, cafés, restaurants and shops gradually faded into a more residential façade. Looking up the slope of the hill, Gaston saw elegant brick and handsome stone houses with iron handrails. The carriage pulled up one small side street, and came to a halt before a brick house with a green door and bay windows; the top edge of the building was adorned with a series of tiny turrets. Gaston slipped out of the car, and gathered his luggage, hoping this wasn't for nothing.
Madame Amanda Leonard Lequesne was a pretty Englishwoman with raven hair and large, pale blue eyes set in an ivory face. She was dressed in a simple gown of port wine taffeta, with a soft knit day shawl over her shoulders. She sat curled by the fireplace, reading a tattered novel.
"Madame?" Anne, the oldest of the maids, entered meekly, and added, "There is man here asking for Danielle."
"Danielle? What is the meaning of this?" She glared at the maid in question, who had been calmly dusting the mantle.
Confounded for a moment, she then remembered the forlorn man at the forsaken grave. "Oh, it's Monsieur Leroux! He's arrived."
"You cannot mean Gaston Leroux...can you?" Madame Amanda adored Leroux's works, and was waiting anxiously for his publisher to announce a new novel in production. But to hear that the French author was here, on her very doorstep...well, that was news indeed!
"Why, yes, Madame. He said I helped him get back on track with his current story." The new maid stood a bit taller with pride.
"Well, by all means, Anne, let the poor gentleman in! It's still plenty cold outside."
"Ah, Monsieur!" She had a very strong English accent to her French, but nevertheless, spoke the second language well, albeit with an effort. "Welcome to our home; I'm afraid my husband is at work this afternoon, and into this evening. He holds office hours this week at the university."
With a polite bow, Gaston managed to eek out, "Thank you kindly, Madame, but--"
"You simply must come to le bal masqué tonight! It shall certainly be a party of special magnificence!" Barely stumbling over her grammar, she spoke animatedly.
"But Madame," he answered feebly. "I have not a mask..."
"My husband has one lying around. Danielle!" she called.
The girl entered the parlour. "Yes, Madame?"
"Fetch this good monsieur my husband's masquerade mask. It's in his desk drawer, in the study."
Bobbing a curtsy, Danielle turned on her heel and walked down a narrow corridor. A mere minute or so later, she returned carrying a small black mask that covered the facial region mainly around the eyes, with ribbons falling off each side. "There you are, sir."
"Where are you staying, Monsieur Leroux?"
"I'm afraid, Madame, I haven't secured a place yet..."
"We can prepare the spare room in no time. I'm sure Edmond will not object."
"I don't mean to intrude on your household--"
"Anne, Danielle, please prepare the spare bedroom for our guest," Madame Amanda clapped her hands, half-commanding, half in glee.
Danielle spared him a slight smile as she left to climb the stairs. Gaston could only stand there, still gaping.
Madame Lequesne had donned a shimmering gown of silver silk; an elaborate silver circlet rested atop coiffed ebony curls, and a glittering mask completed her ensemble. To his surprise, Danielle had also boarded the carriage, in a simple black domino costume. She was going to be Madame's attendant. Gaston himself wore his dinner tuxedo, and clutched the borrowed mask anxiously.
Inside, the Mount Royal was splendidly lit and already the ball was in full swing. The hotel's wide, sweeping lobby made for a great ballroom under the chandelier, with the columns gracing the curved staircases. Couples were dancing in time to a jaunty waltz played by a string quintet. The music, the atmosphere, the warm lights, all of it was intoxicating. Laughter all around, rushed greetings, leering grins...
Gaston was helping himself to a glass of wine when he noticed someone who didn't seem to fit in with the masses. Immediately, now-familiar-but-still-unwelcome chills washed over him. The mask obscured his peripheral vision, but his eyes immediately locked onto her.
Standing by one staircase, was a beautiful young woman, with long chestnut curls adorned with pink ribbons and sparkling crystals. She was clad in a blushing rose-coloured ballgown trimmed with ecru lace and tumbling ruffles, and a pink silk rose tucked into the tiny waist. A delicate gold chain lay around her neck, but no pendant hung there. She wore a matching lacy mask over her eyes. She paused intermittently to look around her, searching the sea of smiles, the spectacle of faces. Then, she glanced behind her, and moved off.
And there, on the other side, was a formidably-tall man swathed all in the colour of fresh blood; scarlet velvet intricately embroidered with gold, perfectly-cut to fit his masculine form. A train of crimson falling from one shoulder. Tall black boots, black gloves, black cravat. Girt with a rapier at his side. A bone-white mask covered his face, like that of a grotesque death's head. He moved with a very deliberate, measured pace, just brushing the outskirts of the crowd. From within the skull's black eyesockets, a pair of eyes like green flames restlessly roved over the crowd.
Gaston ducked away. He desperately did not want to be seen by either of the two strange masqueraders.
He found a small alcove, where he proceeded to watch the two phantom figures move among the merrymakers. It was a terribly curious thing to watch; the drunken revelers dancing and chattering, oblivious to all but themselves. Standing about to watch and be watched. It was most disturbing to watch the man in crimson stalking abroad, and the wandering child, the girl glancing over her shoulder. To his dismayed shock, she very nearly met his gaze.
Gaston nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a touch on his arm.
It was Danielle.
"What's wrong, Monsieur Leroux?" She quickly looked in the direction he was facing, then turned to him.
"Those two there--the girl in the rose-coloured gown and the man dressed as Red Death! Just look at them, Mademoiselle Delamer!" He pointed discreetly.
"Who? Monsieur, there's no one like that here." Danielle cast him the same odd look she did at the Perros-Guirec cemetery. "Are you feeling all right, sir?"
"I'm fine; quite fine," he responded distractedly. Were they--? Yes, they were moving right toward each other! Unmoving, Gaston stared through his mask as the fragile-looking brunette and the man with the Death's Head slowly approached one another. Their steps were hypnotic; the journalist barely breathed. The pair were almost touching...
...and passed right through each other!
Gaston gasped. It was like a reflection on the water, only there were no ripples. Like two shadows, they continued moving; it was as if nothing had happened. Both were still seeking.
"Monsieur? Monsieur, answer me!" Danielle's calm demeanor was splintering around the edges.
"Mon Dieu..." Gaston was at a loss for words. Then, he gathered his strength and said quietly, "Mademoiselle... There is a story I need to tell you."
-
(Another cliffhanger! Bet you were expecting it, though…Okay, so I've decided to start leaving author's notes now. (Forget being professional!) Henry, my temperamental 19th-century muse has demanded that readers review, or he won't give me any more ideas, and just sit around eating instant pudding and loudly sing Evanescence songs. AND you'll be stuck with a cliffy! So…please review!)
