Ch 20

Once I felt the crisp night air against my skin I hoped my nerves would finally settle. What I wanted more than anything was to be away from Madeline. She had not raised her voice at me in many long years, and had I thought of it earlier, I would have told her she would never say such things ever again. Her insolence would not be tolerated.

The door slammed behind me and I released a pent-up breath of pure anguish. My lungs throbbed from the pain I felt inside. I had spent far too much time arguing with Madeline while Alex was missing and I feared that with each passing minute he would forget me. I could not blame him. Not at all.

The overwhelming urge to sob replaced my anger once my feet touched the first step. A slight trembled passed through me and I gripped the ice cold railing. Somehow I found my way down the three steps and onto the sidewalk, my eyes clouded with tears. There I stopped, my feet turned to lead and my heart dropping into my stomach.

Alexandre had gone to his mother, to the person I had kept from him. By now he knew everything. There was no need for me to go out and search for him. All I had to do was sit and wait for him to return. But he wouldn't return, not here, not to me. What reason did he have to come back to me? What reason indeed.

My vision turned to blackness, my stomach churning with sickness. My thoughts threatened to make me physically ill.

Absently my trembling hand managed to pull the pocket watch from my trousers. I'll be damned if I hadn't forgotten to wind it. What was the hour? It had been one in the morning when I had come to Julia's house. My best guess was that it was now near two. I hadn't heard the church bell toll at all but that meant nothing. Do church bells ring when one has fallen into the pits of hell? This was everything I imagined hell was like; lonely, dark, cold. Never mind fire and brimstone. My hell was solitude. It would always be solitude. How I despised the very thought of living alone ever again.

And here I was alone in the unforgiving night, chasing the memory of the son I hadn't bothered to notice for twelve months.

The door behind me opened and closed with barely a sound. Julia padded down the steps and stood at my side, shivering as she pulled her cape around her shoulders. Her delicate hands draped a scarf around my shoulders, which she pulled carefully around my neck. As much as I wanted to thank her, I couldn't. I couldn't think of a damned thing to say to her.

Julia was silent for a while, respecting my torment as I stood with my hands balled into fists and nostrils flared. Her breath rolled through the night air and I inhaled the gentle flow that came before my face. Somehow it felt comforting to have part of her entering my lungs. And somehow it infuriated me that she was standing near enough where I could smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her body beside mine.

"What are you going to do?" Julia asked quietly.

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye and saw that she was staring across the empty street. For a moment I wasn't sure if she had spoken aloud or if it was only my imagination, an inner consciousness asking the question I feared to consider. When she glanced at me, I knew she had said something. She repeated her words.

"Find him." I had to. He was the only thing I had. Without him in my life…I couldn't lose him, not to Christine. He could not have her and leave me. He could not have her.

"What if he is sleeping in the room?"

"I don't give a damn what he is doing, I'll find him."

Julia went silent again, bristling at my harsh comment. I saw her shoulders drop as she took a seat on the steps, resting her head in her hands. She had no right to follow me into my house uninvited or question my actions. Out of all the emotions I could feel toward her, I chose anger.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she murmured as a last attempt.

"No," I replied sharply. "I don't want anyone."

"It was only a question," she said under her breath.

How very coy, Madame Seuratti, I thought.

"Do not question me," I said through my teeth.

"I am trying to help you, Erik," she said with a weary sigh.

"I do not need you or your help! We are nothing! You are nothing to me! You do not question me, ever," I shouted at her, ignoring the hour of the night and the silence of our street. "No one questions me, do you understand that? No one!" My words echoed and disappeared down the empty boulevard.

There was no expression on her oval face. Her eyes looked dead, as haunted and empty as they had looked earlier when I had held her by the wrists. Perhaps it was only the cold but her eyes grew damp and she turned away, preferring to stare at a crack in the sidewalk rather than me. I could hear her as she sucked on her teeth. I had beaten her in a completely different way from Louis Seuratti. I may have beaten her worse.

With a deep breath, she rose from the stairs. The last of her tolerance for me came out in a hushed voice that was the most damning thing I had ever heard.

"Sometimes when you speak, it is what comes out of your mouth that makes you uglier than anything I could imagine is concealed behind that mask," she said evenly. I felt myself shudder with shame and rage. Her nails pressed into my shoulder, a slight physical pain that would never match what I felt inside. "Even if there is nothing between us, I still care for you and Alex," she said.

Then, without waiting for me to react, she walked away.

Over the years, as I have passed windows and puddles, I have discovered that it is far less conspicuous to wear a scarf over my face than a mask. The bone white of leather covering one side of my face draws far greater attention than wearing nothing at all, thus I tuck my mask into my cloak and keep my hood low over my eyes.

Rain and vacant streets have a way of reminding me of the Leather Apron, of quiet nights in White Chapel turned silent for some by Jack's madness. The very thought sent a shiver up my spine as I jogged across the street towards the Wisteria. One never knows what types of people will be drawn to Paris during the Exhibition, especially at the hour of the night I traveled. I thought it best to hasten my pace.

In all my years of living here in secret, I have never seen the hotel for myself. The Wisteria is amongst many thriving bakeries and shops in the heart of Paris. During the day I imagine the perfume boutique and the florist battle one another for air. The hour I traveled the streets was far too late for either to have their doors open and far too early for the baker to start his day. The only smell was rain, and there was plenty of that in the air and on the ground.

My fingers had gone numb by the time I rounded the corner and found the pale pink and stark white façade washed over in wavering lamp light. The brick exterior was lined with dormant trees and shrubs behind a short brass gate. A fountain not yet filled for the season graced the front entrance where two black carriages waited with patient horses. Guests had returned for the night. By the way the two gentlemen walked they must have enjoyed a night of drinks. Many drinks. They had no idea they were being watched with quiet vigilance.

So this was where Christine slept, I thought as I stared at the building. It was a fine hotel, perfectly suited to the lifestyle she maintained over the years. Her voice was strong, her beauty unmatched. Everyone wanted to see her perform, every opera house wanted to call her their own if just for a night. My hand dug into my trouser pocket and found her note to Madeline. I had read it so many times that I knew her room number but I had to see it again: Suite 241.

The two men exchanged handshakes as they stood before the first carriage, waiting to pay their driver. The second carriage contained two women who had already gone in for the night. Their laughter cut through the damp air but the men ignored them. None noticed me slosh through the street on my way to the front entrance.

"Are you certain?" a man's deep voice rang out.

"She's far too tired," came another man slurred. "And she sings tomorrow as well. God knows she needs to rest herself as well as her voice. I know she complained about the cold at the opening ceremony. Draft, I think she said. Hard on the vocal chords."

My gait stuttered nearly to a halt but I pressed on, driven by their exchange. They were speaking of Christine. They had to be talking about my angel. The opening ceremony, the singing, they had talked about my love.

"And she doesn't mind if we go to art gallery alone?" the first man asked.

"Not at all," the second man said with a laugh. "As long as we bring her back a bottle of white wine from the Dupree Vineyard tomorrow night. She's ready for a rest, I think, just a night with her daughters."

I knew that voice. Nine years had passed but I knew that damned voice. That was the Vicomte de Chagny exchanging words with one of his many aristocratic friends as he walked from the carriage. My heart raced, my jaw tightened.

His face was burned in my mind. I could still see the last look he gave me as he left with Christine. There was relief, yes, but there was something more, something I saw in my sleep: pure satisfaction. He had won and he had known it. In all of my misery I still knew a man when he gloated.

I neared the front of the hotel unabashedly, storming across the street without a care to who may have watched. He was leaving tomorrow night. The little boy she had chosen would be with friends. Christine would be alone, or as alone as I wanted her.

"Is she rescheduling our reservation for tomorrrow?" the man questioned.

The vicomte shrugged. "There are some old friends she wanted to see while we are here. You know Christine, she adores her true friends. I wouldn't doubt it she snubbed all the riches of the world vying for her attention to spend dinner with her old ballet teacher."

Her teacher, indeed. What about her music teacher, I wanted to ask the boy. Insolent little weasel! If there had been a foot of rope I would have strung him up by his neck.

My heart stuttered as I wondered if he had seen Alex. My God, I thought as I stormed towards the building, what would he do if he saw his wife's son? What would be his reaction to the child that was hers and not his own sitting in the room, on the couch beside her?

Oh Alex, I thought as the men disappeared into the hotel, you had not considered this meeting, had you?