Ch 13
According to Meg, Mark Twain took her and her mother's place as company for Christine. Twain and his wife Olivia Langdon most certainly had amusing tales of their travels. I hear he has performed at the Stomach Club. There was a little article about it in the paper regarding some sort of speech entitled 'Some Thoughts on the Science of Onanism.' Leave it to the Americans to be so tasteless. Leave it to the Americans to intrude upon and gather in Paris to talk so vulgar. Twain favors drink, as his pen name cleverly implies. He often used his pen name to slyly order two drinks rather than one, the lush. I could only assume that added to his uncouth nature. I wonder what excuse the rest of the Americans would use for snickering at his crude attempt at literature.
So this is what she chooses over two old friends: a boorish American writer. It made me wonder about who she would see for supper given that she ignored me. Thomas Couture, according to my worldly little Charles Lowry, was supposed to return for the Exposition. He would have made a fascinating guest at the table. Couture shunned Paris long ago, after some of his work was criticized. Painters are so temperamental. All artists—true artists—are the same way. But unfortunately old Couture missed one final moment in Paris. He died the day before the Exposition opened. I wonder if he is looking down at the tower in disgust or up in envy.
My mood has been rather cynical lately. I wanted to see her tonight. I needed to see her tonight but she canceled. She never even left a word for me. She toys with me. Undoubtedly she knows that I wait for her letters, that I read them over and over in my room until my vision blurs and my eyes can no longer see the pages. Why does she do this? Does she enjoy these games, these terrible games of a cat playing with the miserable little mouse that I am? There are some days when I think she has always enjoyed leading me to her and pushing me away. I understand what it is like to be a lamb nurtured by the farmer only to be led to the slaughterhouse. And yet I learn nothing for I still return to her in mind and spirit.
"Eat," Madeline said from over my shoulder. Being that she is familiar with my erratic patterns of both sleeping and eating, she tends to stand over me when I venture downstairs.
"It's cold." Such a childish complaint, I admit.
"It wouldn't be cold if you ate," she retorted.
Touché, Madame, I thought as I glared at her. "Where is the paper?"
No one said anything. Not Meg who sat beside Charles at the far end, not Alexandre who was enjoying the exchange and certainly not Madeline who knew there was something in the paper that she didn't want me to see.
"Where is the paper?" I asked again, this time with much less patience. "The paper delivered to my house, which I pay for so that I may read it" I clarified in the unlikely event that there was confusion as to what I was asking.
"The parlor," Madeline muttered at last.
I left the table in favor of the parlor, glancing once over my shoulder to see that Madeline and Meg stood side by side. Meg had her hands on Alexandre's shoulders, keeping him in his seat.
I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Not one of them was able to conceal anything within the house. The moment I walked into the parlor I knew that there were dozens of places to hide a newspaper mostly because I have hidden everything from keys to candy in this room alone.
The parlor was decent sized, but felt fairly small due to the amount of furniture crammed inside. Madeline used it as a sewing room, so she had a small table set beside her favorite chair while Meg enjoyed the settee. I had my desk for composing and my own chair. Charles preferred the library across the hall for studying, though often Meg carried another chair from the study into the parlor since apparently the other seats within the parlor did not suit her.
Because it was so frequently occupied, there was constantly books stacked on my desk or half-finished compositions scattered about, but Madeline made certain there was rarely anything out of place. I had expected Madeline and Meg to at least attempt to hide the newspaper but no, there it was on the desk Madeline uses for writing her letters to Christine and that I use to compose music when I need better lighting than my bedroom provides.
"Erik," I heard Madeline say from behind.
My hand shot out and silenced her as I snatched the newspaper from the desk with the other. At once I felt the tinge of anger that reddened my ears and sent heat up the back of my neck. The headline did not concern me; the senseless babble of reporters did not catch my eye. Only the picture.
That worthless boy had returned to Paris with Christine, that contemptuous, sniveling, Vicomte. There he was on the front of the paper, on the front of my morning paper with his handsome face and finely groomed hair. He smiled back, that beaming smile of his, that thief's grin as he mocked me.
Damn you to hell, boy, I wanted to scream. May you burn for eternity you little brat.
He stood so proud in that moment the tin captured him, so boastful in his triumphant moment there on the front of the paper, knowing full well that I would see him. He dared to mock me and my desire.
In Paris, no less with his fine garb and neatly trimmed hair. With his arm around Christine. Christine. My Christine. My angel. My student. My lover. Mine. She belongs to me.
Damn him! I wanted to scream it from atop the house, from atop that ugly contraption in the center of the Exposition. For nine years I had waited for Christine and now?
No, he would not have her much longer. He had come to me, intruding on my domain.
And I considered his bold entrance to be an invasion. Once, I had allowed him to leave. That was far too generous a move to allow him such freedom. But this time? This time I would kill him. As I bloody should have the first time.
Damn him to hell.