Ch 15

There is nothing more galling than being angry with one's self. I found that there was plenty of time to rake through my discontent as I waited for night to cloak Paris in darkness.

When Alexandre was given to me, I swore he would live as I had always dreamed. There were few moments my son spent crying as an infant. Against Madeline's advice, I held him day and night, sometimes sleeping in the nursery so I would hear him at once if he demanded a bottle or needed changed. In those days I never expected Christine would return to Paris, and Alex was all I had left of her.

I cherished him not only because he reminded me of his mother, but because he was my son. He was a gift to me, one that I did not expect and did not deserve. My gift to him was a warm home free of pain and degrading words, clean clothes, hot meals, and a comfortable bed. I have always maintained that he is to feel safe here in my presence and beneath my roof.

The gifts I received from my own father were deep bruises, welts and a childhood plagued by fear. Memories are frequent, unbidden visitors late in the night. On many occasions I have purposely stayed awake until the first light of day, anxiety like static in my veins. His image has faded with each passing decade, his bearded face replaced by a creature with pits for eyes and blood dripping from pointed teeth. He hated me for no other reason than I was born with a ghastly deformity claiming half of my face. For years I had attempted to be obedient, though I was a terrible child, always running away. I deserved his wrath.

The disappointment I felt for showing Alex an outburst of anger took a heavy toll on me. The man I had feared and eventually despised was tearing through my soul and reaching out to the grandson he had never known. Unable to control myself in this hell and whirlwind of madness, I was glad Alex would be out of the house but slightly alarmed that he was dining with Madame Seuratti. Alex had a tendency to share whatever crossed his mind, typically louder than was necessary. He had ruined a decent amount of compositions simply by shouting at me as we sat beside one another in the parlor.

Julia was still on my mind as well. From my window, I watched as she stood by the sink cutting vegetables. I wondered what she was making for supper and remembered suddenly that I was ravenous. In an attempt to ignore my growing hunger, I watched the sunlight fade into the horizon, a final burst of pink and purple quickly shrouded by more clouds and the last of the storm. In an hour or two more, the streets would be dark and cold.

It is only by nightfall that I roam the world behind a hood and scarf. As much as I have always been separated from society, there are nights when even I desire a moment of disappearing in a crowd. I could not wait to be rid of my confinement, leaving behind my darkened room in favor of the city streets alive with the shimmer of street lights on wet cobblestones, the smell of food and drink from restaurants, and music from cafes. The last thing I wanted was to confront Madeline, especially since she had not said anything after I had destroyed the paper. There was enough disappointment in her eyes that I knew full well she would eventually scold me like an insolent boy.

Of everyone within the house, Madeline was the only one who dares to shake her head when she disapproves of something I have said or done. Despite Madeline not saying a word, she knew of my plans for tonight.

All I wanted was a moment of Christine's time, which Madeline thought was far too much. She thought I should be satisfied with having Alexandre under my roof, and while he brought me immense joy, it was not enough. He was a reminder of not only the woman I wanted, but the woman I needed.

Christine's memory gnawed at everything inside of me. She was worse than a cancer, for as long as she eats away at me she will never quite kill me.

Once the rain had turned to a drizzle, I opened the window and allowed the breeze to enter. Bessie sat on top of my feet as I tried to convince myself that there was music in my head that needed to be committed to paper. After a half-hour of angry scribbles, I relented and threw a ball of paper into the trash can, then nudged her away and sent her downstairs. The damned animal grumbled as she gave me one last look and trotted down the stairs. How very convenient of me to turn away my last loyal friend.

Alexandre eventually came to the door, which for once I had left unlocked. I wasn't prepared to see him yet when he knocked. What I wanted was more time to decide what I would say to the questions I expected he would ask. God knows he had questions. After all, he had just seen me attack a newspaper that morning.

Alex shuffled into the room with his head down and sat on the end of the bed.

"Aunt Meg said you wanted me to see you," he said as he smoothed his hand over the coverlet. He had no desire to meet my eye. Really, I didn't blame him. When an animal attacks, the worst move in the world is to look it in the eye. I've read before that predators find that a challenge, an invitation for further confrontation.

"I did."

"Did you decide differently?" he mumbled.

I studied him a moment. His curls of hair were hanging past his ears and his shirt was partially unbuttoned. It surprised me that Madeline hadn't straightened his clothes or combed his hair back. He looked like a vagrant flopped down on my bed.

"What time does Lisette expect you?" I questioned, ignoring his inquiry. "And look at me when you speak." That, I admit, is one of the irritating habits I acquired from Madeline.

"Eight," he answered with a groan.

"Is this how you plan on dressing?"

His cheeks turned red, his hands curled into fists as his posture changed and his back straightened. He looked away from me and chewed on his bottom lip. "No," he whispered. He paused, glancing at me. "May I please have supper with Madame Seuratti and Lisette?"

My eyes narrowed as I studied him, surprised he asked to eat with the neighbors when he was aware of my intention to see his mother. "Who invited you?"

"Lisette."

"Does her mother know?"

Alex nodded. "She invited you as well. I told her you were not feeling well."

"Did you?"

He blushed again and slumped forward. "I-I apologize. Aunt Meg said you were leaving. I will tell Madame Seuratti you have reconsidered if you wish."

That is not necessary," I replied.

He nodded solemnly as though I had told him to stand before a firing squad. I suppose if his supper at the Seurattis went as mine had the previous night, then he would have the same amount of pleasure as a man shot to death.

"I must gather my hat and umbrella," I said, expecting we were done with our conversation.

"Father," he said, still not looking up. He tapped his foot incessantly on the floor, the sound muffled by the rug.

I twisted around in my chair to face him. There was more, and it was strange to see my son hold back his thoughts when he was normally one to say whatever was on his mind. By the tautness of his face it was something I knew in my heart I didn't want to hear.

"Yes, Alex."

"That man in the paper," he started. He glanced at me once then looked away again. His dark eyes were hardened. I had never seen a look of vengeance on his face. For once he looked more like me than his mother.

"Raoul de Chagny," he said. "The Vicomte."

I knew he would ask about the Vicomte. His words were like dried wood to my rage, dropping one by one on a fire I had tried to quell since that morning. I felt my nostrils flair, my shoulders tense at the sound of the boy's name. "Father, is that who the man in the paper is?"

"Yes."

"The one that took her?"

I merely nodded. If I bothered to speak it would be nothing but a gurgled shout of hatred. If I made even a noise I would tell Alexandre that this is the man she chose over both of us, over her son and her lover. This was the handsome substitute to a life with her family, her first should have been her real family.

Alex swallowed hard and moved his legs, crossing his ankles once and then deciding on sitting up straight. His eyes remained fixed on the floor with his brow furrowed. Each second that ticked by coiled another thread of anxiety through me. He knew the Vicomte. He knew this was his mother's husband. Now he would want to meet him as well, and most likely the two girls that were his half-sisters.

"Father," he started. I could barely breathe. My God, I couldn't allow him to see her now. Alex would meet with the boy and discover every bit of inadequacy I had shown over the years. The past twelve months I had done nothing for Alex. My heart, my mind, my every action were enslaved to the memory of a woman I spent two nights with in bed and nearly a decade longing for.

Alex looked up at me for the first time, his face contorted. "If you hate him, then I shall hate him as well."

So this was the gift I have given my son. The gift of hating a man he does not know.