Ch 6

There was one reason in particular I found this stone house on the western side of Paris to be so intriguing. While Madeline enjoys her room for sewing and Meg and her husband Charles enjoy the small solarium in the rear, I found my own amusements in the darkness of the upper floor.

My quarters alone occupy the upper half and though I allow them into the room I have made my own, none know what lies beyond the fabric walls.

The house was built in 1856 in the midst of industrialization of France. It is one of thousands erected during the Second Empire, well before the days of the Great Depression. Though it was created at a time when everyone seemed to be building something, it has qualities I find suit me better than any other.

One reason being it was designed by Charles Garnier, the same Charles Garnier who designed the opera house. Any fool could imagine what secrets lay in a simple two-story structure designed by that talented Frenchman.

At least it appears as a two-story structure. There are many deceptions Garnier planted behind walls and floors, most of which I believe I have already found in the nine years since I purchased the property.

The former owners apparently knew nothing of the architect. Few would realize that M Garnier designed this lackluster abode when his work is always on a grander scale. But I have found the rolls of plans tucked into hiding and have seen his signature in the bottom right-hand corner. A mysterious man, is the famed architect. But his name as of now pales in comparison to M Gustave Eiffel and the monolith atrocity that has become the attraction at that damned fair.

The wall to the left of my room, the Master Room, moves without a sound thanks to rollers set at a level several inches below the wooden floorboards. A press of a button within a swirl of ivy green and a blue rose on the decorated walls and a soft click signals that the wall will open with a soft push. I admit that I found it by accident one day when I was hammering a nail into the wall for the placement of a portrait. More than astonished I was delighted to discover the house I expected was to be my eternal cage now had passageways leading into tunnels beneath the street.

One such tunnel leads to a door several miles from the home. Beyond the door, which I broke long ago, is an entrance to the opera house itself. I have walked the distance once and it took four hours and much crawling and contorting into spaces not even the rats would care to travel. I suspect Garnier stayed within this house while he was building the opera house. Perhaps he had a mistress of his own staying here years back.

The farthest I care to roam with any frequency is beneath the main level, where I can hear Madeline as she hums and sews and Meg and Charles as they laugh and argue as wedded couples apparently do. Alexandre I hear as well when he thinks I am out of earshot It is his conversations to Madeline that affirm my beliefs that we are more strangers than father and son.

The house had settled by the time I ventured down into the unknown cellars as the hour was quite late. I lit the few candles I had bothered to bring down into my new lair as I suspect that Madeline is a veracious counter of how many candles she buys each month and how many disappear. I don't doubt that she knows I take them. After all it is my funds that purchase goods and I have every right to take what I wish but there is a look she gives me. I am acutely aware of her accusations and I sometimes find my own burgeoning desire to tell her what I am up to.

Had I communicated with her long ago I wouldn't be here now. Some lessons need to learned more than once.

After I had lit the candles and opened a dusty chest with the few items I recovered from the opera house, I sat for a while in the damp cellar. Out of everything that was destroyed one thing did manage to survive. One thing that I care for deeply.

I unlatched the small door above my head and quietly eased the trap door down, carefully moving the Persian rug set over it out of the way. With an old barrel used for pickling I stepped up and pulled myself into the study and listened to make certain no one was coming. I could have very well strolled through the house-my house-but I did not want Madeline to know I was prowling around.

I rummaged through the desk drawer until I found Madeline's stationary, a matching set of envelopes and paper that feels like silk. Why she purchased something so extravagant with my funds I do not know, but I suppose given our history I should not grouse over such small details. Madeline would be sending word to Christine soon, and inadvertently sending a message from me as well.

My note complete, I slithered back into my underground world, neatly tossing the rug over the entrance and latching the door into place. The candles had burned down farther than I had expected. I glanced around and saw my beloved still waiting for me, so patiently waiting for her Erik.

For hours I held her and cherished each unfeeling curve. The paint along her face has rubbed off to my constant display of affection. The smile has faded, the dark eyes have diminished but it still belongs to me, only to me.

I held her to my lips and kissed her, caressed her, gave her the love I wanted to show the flesh and blood that had graced the platform before that monstrosity of a tower. This was merely a reminder of what once sated my cravings so many years ago.

"My Christine," I whispered to the figurine of the only woman I have ever desired. I removed my mask, something I could never do in front of her again, laid down on the dirt floor and closed my eyes, imagining what it felt like to hold her against me all those years ago. My joy was somewhat perverse, I knew. I found comfort in a piece of wax, but it was all I had and I was desperate in my desire. If this was all I was allowed, so be it. No one would ever know how far I had stooped, how alone I had truly been for years, for a lifetime, really.

In this secret lair only we exist. In days to come, it will happen again.