A/N
I got this chapter up as fast as I could-- enjoy.
Chapter 3
Talley folded stub-fingered hands into his lab, legs crossed. The musician that sat before him was not what he'd expected. For one thing, his face was half-covered by a mask as white as bone, coming to end above a wide mouth and reached up past the man's hairline. The left half of his face was formed like any man's; medium cheekbones and a strong jaw line squaring off into a fairly prominent chin. His hair was thick and black, swept away from his face with hair oil that glistened in the light of the candles. The musician's eyes were wide and dream-like, but he did not smile.
"So," Talley began. "Is that the sort of thing we can… expect?"
The stranger showed no change in expression. "Naturally,"
"And have you—have you written erm… many pieces? Like this?" Talley's foot began to jiggle subconsciously.
The man did not move a muscle as he spoke, save for his firm jaw. "No. This piece is singular."
Talley cleared his throat. "But erm… is it for the Opera?"
"No,"
"For our personal enjoyment, then?"
"No,"
Talley glanced pleadingly at Rand, who sat regarding this odd man with a mixture of curiosity and dislike.
"Why did you play it if you do not wish to sell it?" Rand asked frankly. The new addition to the partnership gave a small, catlike smile.
"You will find, Monsieur Talley, and Monsieur Rand, that the finest work of an artist is rarely for purchase."
Talley, always the businessman stiffened with rejection. "Nonesense," he said with a coarse chuckle. "You wouldn't have played it for us if you hadn't wanted to advertise it."
The small smile remained on the man's face. "I composed and played this piece for myself. You simply followed me into my private rooms,"
Rand shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Ah,"
There was silence.
"Gentleman," the stranger said quietly, reaching for an inconspicuous shelf and drawing forth a leather-bound stack of pages. "The manuscript you asked for,"
Talley snatched it from the man's hands and glanced at the title.
"The Rise and Fall of de Montigue," Talley read. Rand glanced over his shoulder, reading as he flipped through listing of songs and musical notes that began to blend together. But the last few pages had no writing on the at all.
"They're empty," Rand observed.
The mysterious man's eyes remained cold. "Yes,"
Talley's quick and graceless hands made rattling and snapping noises of the pages as he flipped through the score. "The last song," he muttered for the benefit of all, "Is entitled 'To Flee or Die,'… but after that there is nothing,"
"The ending is not yet finished, sir." The man acknowledged, inclining his head slightly.
"Why not?" The stranger smirked again.
"The fates of the lovers has not yet been decided,"
"And when can we expect the finished product?" The man's eyes grew slightly colder.
"If I am to write the first great opera for your theatre, sir, I will need time."
Rand scraped the pad of his right thumb with his right ring finger and shifted. "Ah," he stood up. "Monsieur, thank you. I believe we have heard enough."
Talley, who was peering at the stranger with a bizarre fascination leapt to his feet.
"Yes," he stammered. "Thank you. Good evening to you."
The man stood up as well, and shut the piano swiftly. "Good evening, gentlemen." And he swept out the door, ahead of the two men who had already excused themselves for their departure.
Talley and Rand glanced at each other.
"Strange fellow," Talley commented. Rand watched the door as if expecting the musician to return.
Meg walked the lonely streets of the early morning and into the bakery, head bent low over the basket she carried, white gloves contrasting gently against the serene gray of her gown. She hesitated for a moment outside the door, and with a deep breath pushed it open and entered.
Jacques was behind the counter, back to her, wiping old flour off the shelves that normally displayed the morning's loaves. Meg's breath caught in her throat and the second he turned around she whipped in the opposite direction and began to examine the pastry display.
"Mademoiselle? Can I help you?" Meg's spirits lifted at the sound of his voice and it took all of her energy not to spin around on her heel like a little girl. She turned slowly.
"Oh… Monsieur Taillé I did not notice you standing there!"
A lie. But a necessary one.
Jacques seemed to gulp air. "Erm… I was cleaning…" There was a moment when the two simply stared at each other. They could not hear a passerby in a shabby coat comment to his companion that they looked as though they wished to devour each other. Meg returned to her façade of the aloof Parisian. But found there was nothing she could do to find her voice again. The pose and expression were adopted, but no words seemed to come.
"What can I get for you today?" Jacques asked suddenly? Meg snapped up the chance for conversation.
"Two loaves of wheat and one white, please." Her mouth opened and closed as if she wished to say more. But there was another heated silence.
She bent over to examine a few cakes near to where Jacques was standing. His dark eyes flicked to her slightly exposed cleavage but he immediately straightened his back, shutting his eyes for a moment, regaining his composure.
He occupied himself with wrapping her order in protective covering. She glanced at him from under her eyelashes feeling her heart flutter as his hair fell slightly into his eyes.
"Monsieur Taillé," she said, and Jacques almost dropped the second wheat loaf.
"Yes?"
"I would like…" She trailed off. His eyes were framed by long, thick lashes. She hadn't noticed before… and his eyebrows were a shade darker than his hair. His mouth was a flushed dark pink and when he smiled they drew back pleasantly to reveal strong, good teeth. A few freckles dotted his nose, giving him the charming look of a boy who had grown up quite suddenly. His neck was brown with the sun and there were flecks of stubble in the vicinity of his adam's apple. She looked down at his hands which were brown as well, large with wide palms and strong fingers. She wondered for a moment what they would feel like in her own small white ones. Would they be rough or smooth? Soft of harsh? Would he grip her hand too hard? She could feel her heart pounding as he continued to stare at her.
Jacques stood and waited for her to finish her sentence, heart pounding in his chest. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with wide, curious eyes and skin like cream with a slight flush in her cheeks. Her hair caught the light in its thick, luxurious tresses. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to be surrounded by that hair, draped in gleaming curls over his chest and belly, running his hands through it and—
This thought had such an effect on him he had to bow his head to hide his flaming cheeks.
The tinkling bell that signified another customer entering the shop put a damper on the moment of erotic tension. It was the Giry's landlord.
Meg smiled. "Good morning, Monsieur Wegmuller," she said kindly. He flapped a hand to silence her.
"The usual, Jacques," he said gruffly, drawing out a handkerchief and wiping a running nose with it. Jacques placed a baguette into a bag along with a small sugar bun. Monsieur Wegmuller dragged a coin out of pocket and placed it on the counter with click. He turned to Meg.
"So you're leaving soon?"
"Yes," she said quietly, uncertain how to react.
He snorted his consent. "Very well. Returning to the City of Sin are you?"
Meg looked up innocently. "No sir, I'm going home to Paris," Wegmuller snorted again, took his order and shuffled out of the store. Meg bit her lip as she watched him leave. Jacques stood watching her.
"You're going to Paris?"
She didn't meet his eyes. "Yes, I'm going home,"
"Oh…"
There was a brief pause. Meg wasn't certain whether to tell him now how much she would miss him… her heart ached with the thought of leaving him.
"My sister is in Paris," he volunteered. Meg's head snapped up.
"You have a sister?!" Jacques shifted his weight to the other foot, looking at Meg as though he was sizing her up.
"Well… not technically,"
"Technically?"
"She disowned my family and fled after… after…" He bowed his head in shame. Impulsively, Meg reached out to cover his hand with her own.
"After what?"
He sighed. "My mother gave birth to a deformed child and my father took it to the woods and…."
The practice of removing children that would not be able to care for themselves was customary. Jaques remembered the little child, armless and missing an ear as it squalled as though drowning. He had been thirteen and his own heart had turned witnessing the crippled gargoyle that his mother had birthed. His sister….
"Her name was—is Annette," He said. "I hear from her occasionally, but letters are rare." Meg nodded slowly. She knew the fate of a girl alone in the dark streets of Paris.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. And she meant it.
They suddenly realized that Meg's hand was on his own. Neither moved. Meg looked up at Jacques whose eyes were like pools of ochre. Her fingers seemed charged with electricity as she reached up slowly to touch his face and he shut his eyes when her fingertips grazed his jawbone, feeling himself shiver. He looked at her small mouth, it was a rosebud, as sweet as sugar. He leaned forward and she could feel his breath on her face. It smelled of
"Burning!" Jacques said suddenly, and ran into the back which was thick with smoke. The loaves that had been baking were reduced to black bricks.
Meg blushed impossibly hard and whipped out a note that was far too much for her order but she did not wait for money to change hands. She snatched up her bread and with a muttered "I'm sorry," over her shoulder she all but ran out of the shop and into the indifferent cold of the morning.
"Fools," A stranger in a cloak muttered to himself as he walked down the dark alleyways of Paris. The night was moonless.
A hand grabbed him. "Love me for a franc sir?" called a voice. Erik glanced down at the badly dressed prostitute and shrugged her off. As he continued to walk he reached out a hand so his fingertips grazed the walls on one side of him. His boots made a rough noise on the street, and somewhere a horse whinnied. And there was a moan in the shadows. Erik's leer was lost in the darkness.
The honorable side of Paris had gone to their beds. And the creatures of the underworld erupted from the pores of sin to tempt men with the allure of sexual obedience for a small fee.
Erik arrived at a less dismal abode; two small lanterns glowed in the windows, casting red haze onto the streets. With after three sharp knocks, a woman with red-painted lips and hair to match swung the door open, pausing to pose seductively on the threshold.
"Monsieur, can I help you?" Erik shook his head and pushed past her into the house.
The atmosphere was the same as always, red light left strange, dark brown shadows upon the wall as whores crowded together, some with men, others watching with sharp eyes to spring upon the next customer. The house was large with many rooms, each crowded on the lower levels, where the working class men took their pleasure in public while nasal voices sang rowdy songs of lust, drink and sailors. The upper levels however were quieter and cleaner, the more beautiful and expensive creatures lurking above, waiting to be called upon.
Erik blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. Hands grabbed at him through open doors like licks of flame but he continued to walk until he had reached the bottom of a flight of stairs. Reaching up one long arm he pulled on a bell rope. Somewhere within the maroon recesses of the house, a bell tinkled. He heard footsteps. A gray-haired woman with a think mouth and eyes as sharp as daggers descended the steps. She did not smile as she recognized him.
"Madam Boyé," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "Good evening," She glared at him.
"Again?" she was a woman of few words.
"Yes," he said with a smile. She rolled her eyes and elegantly ascended the stairs. Erik waited.
An hourglass figure appeared on the landing, and, hand on her hip, a woman descended, limbs swinging seductively. Erik surveyed her coolly. Madam Boyé appeared behind them.
"You are a man of habit, Monsieur," she said in an offhand manner.
Erik did not reply. Instead, he offered the young woman his hand and she took it, carefully expressionless. The two walked toward the door.
"She must be back by dawn," Madam Boyé called after them, although she followed closely. The two walked out the door and though there was no clicking noise to signify its complete closing. The whore pushed against Erik so his back was against the wall. She curled one leg around his hip and moved her head in such a way that Erik's face was hidden from view, and she began to toss her auburn curls, rotating her head around her neck. The door snapped shut.
Immediately the young prostitute detached herself from Erik (who had not moved a muscle) with a small, respectful nod.
"Thank you," She said. Erik offered her a small, rare smile. The two began to walk down the street as chastely as brother and sister, neither touching nor giving any hint of intimacy.
Erik glanced behind him and folded his hands in the small of his back. "Come, Annette," he muttered. "We have until dawn."
While the town slept Christine was wakeful, sitting on the windowsill. She was tired, but at the same time she was afraid of sleep, for sleep would bring dreams, and dreams would bring nightmares. And so she sat in the light of a single candle, chin in hand, watching a small boy come to tend the streetlamps. In her hand she held a letter addressed to the Giry's, meant for her eyes. It was unopened.
She sighed and turned it around to read the address again. The straight, black slant was familiar to her. She slid the tip of her nail into the seal of the envelope feeling the cold wax, smooth and unfeeling. Through the slightly translucent envelope, she could make out a few words, but she knew what they would string together to say.
It was not the first letter Raoul had written to her. She had snatched the first one out of Madam Giry's hand and after reading 'I love you, please return. I cannot live without you…' she had thrown it back to the other woman and walked away. Christine stared at the unopened envelope, daring herself to open it, daring herself to fall victim to the flowery sonnets that were no doubt intertwined with words of sorrow and regret.
He would tell her he loved her, she knew that. He would assure her that she was the only woman in the world he cared about. He would promise her that the child would never be in her sight, beg her to return so they could marry and start a family of their own based on honor and love. He would paint charming images in her mind of picnics on the deChagny estate in summer with cherubs of children running around in straw bonnets, rosy cheeks glistening in the sun. Their children. Their wonderful, talented children who would grow up to be beautiful, honorable, intelligent and (naturally) beloved of all who knew them. And then he would tell her how they would grow old together, retiring into the south as their eldest son took up the role of Vicomte and would do so with an honest, god fearing, fair hand.
And she knew she would fall prey to all of it.
Christine could feel her jaw tighten as she glared into the empty streets below. With great care, she placed the envelope into the candle flame and watched the letter slowly burn to ashes.
She lifted the glass window and a gust scooped the smoldering embers out into the night.
"Take it," she muttered to herself. "Take your damned love to hell with you and may you rot there."
The slam of the window frame set a dog howling somewhere in the distance.
