Within the month, Erik had a letter from a music publisher in Paris that was accompanied by a very fine printed copy of his score. He was enormously pleased by this and immediately wrote to have a copy sent to Giry. Given the dedication, he did not send a copy to Christine—she knew very well that she was the only person of his acquaintance whose name began with a C. It had been an impulsive decision to add the dedication, but he did not regret it. The publisher even asked for more, and this proved an excellent excuse for more conversation with Jean-Jacques Druyon. He had a nice little spinet in his flat, and he played the flute besides, so he turned out to be invaluable as Erik revised a good half of all he had during the course of one intense month. He had not ever had so much conversation with another man or another musician. Jean-Jacques had ideas that he himself would not have considered, chief among them being that he might want to write something not quite so difficult to play.
Once the large packet of music had been sent, Erik took several days to rest his brain and think over the idea of a simpler music.
"That's where the money is, you know," Jean-Jacques had said. "Virtuosi are a poor lot. Pitch it toward young ladies playing for family parties, my friend, and that's how you'll make your living."
Mice kept trying to get into the sugar, so when Mme. Benne came in next he asked about the possibility of getting a cat.
"Lord bless you, sir, a cat's no trouble to find! My neighbor has a litter of kittens living behind her rain barrel, of all places. I'll have my oldest grandson pick you one and bring it up, if you like. The boy's mad for cats, but his sot of a father won't let him have one."
The boy came up the next day with a tiny grey tabby kitten cradled in his arm. A bit of coaxing revealed that his name was Mathieu, and he looked to be around six years old. A little cooked fish had the kitten purring and butting her—his?—head against his fingers. He would have to give it a name, so he asked the boy its sex.
"It's a girl, Monsieur. Tom cats are more prone to wander and to fight. If you're needing a mouser, it's a girl you want."
He would never have known this. The boy showed him how she liked to be scratched behind the ears. He was a remarkably gentle child.
"You know, you may come up to play with her any time you like."
He surprised himself in making the offer, but the boy's face lit up immediately.
"May I, sir? I'd like that."
Erik named the little cat Nisse—Christine had described in one of her letters that she kept tripping over bowls of porridge in the opera house that had been set out for those household spirits of Swedish folklore. He practiced his Swedish on the cat, but she could tell him nothing about whether his inflection or pronunciation were any good. This, of course, made him think constantly of Christine, and he had an idea for a project of which Jean-Jacques would approve. Nisse liked the coal stove and to sleep on top of his feet at night. She brought her first mouse to him on the third day and accepted a ridiculous amount of praise before she took it away, presumably for her breakfast. Erik quickly stopped seeing signs of them in the kitchen, which did not deter the cat from begging for scraps of fish at every opportunity. He knew himself to be a soft touch, and she soon had a little round belly. As they got to know one another, he grew very fond of her warm, slight weight puddled in his lap and the of delicate softness of her fur. She was fond of singing and purred at him when he sang, slowly blinking her large green eyes. The violin, however, sent her running.
Mathieu soon accompanied his grandmother on most of her visits, and when Nisse was not to be found, he would stare avidly at the drawings pinned to the wall.
"Do you like them?" Erik asked one day, and the boy nodded.
"It's like magic, the way you make them so real." Erik smiled.
"It's not magic at all."
"But I've tried, sir, though I've got nothing better than a stick in the sand. It don't ever look like anything."
Erik assured him that this was a matter mostly of practice and of looking very carefully. He gave the boy one of the cracked roof slates and a piece of chalk, and afterward he rarely saw the boy without them. Mme. Benne was quite effusive in her thanks—apparently the boy's father kept them in a state of terror at home. He understood the comfort that an interior world could be, so he was glad to teach the boy such little things, to praise his sketches and begin to teach him his letters. And, of course, Nisse loved the boy. When, for Christmas, Erik gave him a bundle of sketchbooks and pencils, he told Mathieu that it was from them both. In thanks, Mme. Benne brought him a Christmas dinner worthy of a prince, which he ate for a solid week, even though Jean-Jacques walked up to share it after the rigors of Christmas services.
The publisher in Paris had taken on everything he sent and professed amazement at his output. The letter even included a small check from sales of the original violin concerto. It was the first bit of money he had ever come by honestly, and Erik was overjoyed about it—so much so that he even paid his tithe to the church. Of course, that this went toward Jean-Jacques's living made the donation very agreeable.
During their dinner, as the wind howled outside, Erik played for him some of the new songs he had been writing for the past few weeks.
"That's just the tune, of course. There are words as well, but I've never been able to find a way to sing and play the violin at the same time."
Jean-Jacques laughed.
"If you did, you could file for a patent and retire off the proceeds. Hand over the score. Ah, I see you've written it for baritone, but I'll muddle through."
It was good to hear the songs in another voice. Erik was pleased with his work, if a little embarrassed. When they were done, Jean-Jacques was grinning at him.
"Erik, I had no idea you were such a romantic!"
He cleared his throat.
"Yes, well. It's all your doing, with your idea that I should write something for the general public. I shall transpose them for all four parts, when I am done."
Jean-Jacques was still grinning.
"They are very fine songs, my friend. You must come work on the spinet—it's no good torturing yourself by trying to compose for voice on a violin."
It was Erik's turn to grin.
"Certainly not. I would not have someone hear my fumbling over the lyrics for all the world."
He could honestly say, as he sat later with Nisse in his lap, his feet propped on the stove, and with a glass of decent brandy and a book of new poetry, that he was content with his new life. He had found a welcome here such as he had never thought to hope for, and for the first time he was working for his living, contributing to the world instead of living off it like a parasite. Meg and Giry were in such raptures over their situation that he could not even wish them near him, not at the cost of their happiness. His one complaint was that Christine should be so far away. Their correspondence was his greatest treasure, but for all that she was so well established and discovering friends and relations, there was something sad about her letters, a sense of wistfulness. He did not ask about it for fear that she was pining over the Vicomte, so he filled his letters with all the happy things he could think of—she seemed very keen to hear about Nisse and Mathieu—and of course he was glad to answer any time she asked a question about music. It had been a very great temptation to travel to Stockholm and see her play Odabella. In the spring they were giving her Susanna in Nozze di Figaro, and he felt he must see it, if she would let him. That she was not perfectly happy grieved him.
This thought required more writing, much to the cat's dismay. Waves pounded the beach all through the night and informed his music. He wrote himself past consciousness and fell asleep over the desk, his mask laid by his elbow.
Mme. Benne's customary loud entrance jarred him out of sleep. She and Mathieu blew in with a great gust of cold air. He blinked at them sleepily. They blinked back.
"Lady save you, sir, is that what you've been hiding? That's none so bad. Get yourself out into the sun for a bit and put a little fish oil on it and there's those who won't even notice. Lord, I can't think what they are down in Paris, to make a body so vain."
He could only gape at her back. Vain? Vain? He looked to the boy.
"It really isn't so bad."
Perhaps Erik's laughter was a bit hysterical, for it contained more than a hint of tears. Still, when he was done, he felt both worn out and glad. He had got himself to a very strange place, and he was utterly grateful for it.
Not long after this, Erik took his latest works to town and played them on Jean-Jacques's spinet. With his friend's approval, he sent them to Paris.