A/N
Yes, finally, Chapter 4. The original chapter 4
I hated. I posted it for about 6 hours and for those who read that
abomination-- I am so, so terribly sorry. Forget everything you read.
So this is much better and very different.
He had not meant to frighten her.
When he had called to scold her for letting that fool of a Vicomte into her room, he merely wished to persuade her not to see him again. But envy and a sudden, empty loathing gave his voice far too much power. His anger gushed forth from his lungs and she cringed with shame, hanging her head like a scolded child. He longed to reach out and touch her, longed to caress those fine brown curls and stroke that swan-like neck. But he dared not break the spell that bound her to him. His mystery was like a drug to her, kept her looking, kept her waiting.
But it was time for the game to end.
He reached out to touch the cool glass, pushing it outward just enough to change the angle, exposing him to her vision. Her eyes widened, but not with fear. Behind him, his hand flexed and clenched as she came nearer, awe in her face and wonder in her eyes. For a moment he was certain he had fooled her in his illusion of holiness and grandeur. She would not dare touch him, even as he extended his hand.
She looked at him as though he was a ghost, ready to melt away at her touch. He kept his expression cool and clear as she tentatively reached for him, trusting him, wanting to know him…
And then suddenly she pulled away, her eyes gleaming and her mouth flashing a smile full of teeth. She barked a laugh and backed away. He stepped forward.
"Come," he hissed, his voice unintentionally harsh. He could feel his mask beginning to slip. "Come to your angel,"
"You are no angel," she said maliciously. "You are but a man, a convict and a murderer." He could feel himself beginning to tremble uncontrollable, holding up a hand to his face to try to keep his mask on. It began to slip through his fingers that were suddenly soaked with perspiration. He could not hold it… it was going to fall…
He reached out again. "Please," He said quietly. She laughed, an ungainly sound bursting from her lungs she laughed into his face.
"Nonsense," said she. "How could an angel ever love a monster?" And with a sharp slap to his face, the mask flew and hit the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces.
And there was no noise but her shrieks and her laughter as he covered his face with his hands…
---
Erik writhed in his sleep. Annette, dozing herself in a long hammock once used for a sailor's opera opened her eyes to look at him. He was dreaming again. She watched him as his face switched expressions very quickly, and his throat strained.
This often happened. As long as she had been coming, when he slept in her presence —which was rare—he always slept like a troubled dog; lightly and fitfully.
She watched him, and wondered what he dreamt of.
Strands of black hair caught the light, reflecting blue as he moved. His fingers picked at the sheets. Long, slim fingers as they were, those of a musician with square nails and gently sloping knuckles.. Annette looked down at her own hands, small with what men had called 'baby fingers,' or 'troll fingers'. They were ruddy, the nails were bitten and the palms were broad.
Standing up, she rearranged her skirts and padded over to rekindle the small fire that just kept off the winter chill. She knelt to encourage the flames, blowing gently and poking at the smoldering embers. As the flame grew, Annette turned to sit with her back against the fire, the parts of her back exposed over the top of her bodice flushing with the warmth. She sat on her haunches, palms stretched out behind her, elbows locked and leaning backwards. The flames lit the room full of shadows and orange glow. Her shadow grew and spread itself out to the point of no significance.
One could not see Annette's features completely clearly, but if she turned, her face was enhanced by the glow and shadows. She was a second-glance beauty. Her eyes were a little too large and close together, he jaw a little too strong, nose a little too pert, mouth a little too small. But her hair was auburn and curly and she had all her teeth, making her presentable for any man. When she smiled, two dimples deepened either side of her face.
The light reflected on the bizarre furniture and decorative objects stolen from opera sets, taken from storage rooms and repaired to be functional. He lay in the great swan bed, that had served as a resting place for the mermaid king, the red velvet his own personal addition from the wooden 'mattress' that had been there, nailing shut the trap doors that had served to hide several dancing girls that would emerge at some part in the performance.
Surrounding the swan there was a great organ display and a great oak table, a rare acquisition from the office of the opera's last owners, belonging to Monsieur Fermat, salvaged from the wreckage after the Opera house had fallen. There was a burn mark down the center, but it still served its purpose. Surrounding the table was a chair with a red plush seat and golden embossed backing, and two more chairs, one of which was a stiff-backed French parlor chair and the other was a chair from the orchestra pit, served as shelves for scrap pieces of paper, quills and inks.
In the alcoves that served as storage spaces of the underground cave there was everything from papier-mâché skulls to extra lines of sheet music, wigs of every shape and size, and gold-lined silk flowers and spare red wax. A large portrait of a woman holding a severed head sat in shadows against a wall, gathering dust. The stagehands had written dirty words and drawn inappropriate pictures across it with black paint. It was in disarray, but such mismatched items seemed to complement each other in such a way.
She recalled the first time she had come here.
--
Two months Prior
Madam Boyé had called for her through the upper levels of the House where she stayed and served. Annette herself was exhausted, having dealt with a particularly strange customer the night before with a fetish for rope and small, sharp knives. She had begged Madam Boyé to spare her and send her friend Anya in her place, but Boyé had refused, a fearful expression on her face.
And so Annette had whitened her face and given her pale cheeks extra rouge, abstaining from painting her lips. She bit them until a bit of blood came into them.
Not entirely satisfied, but too exhausted to do anything but get it over with, she descended the come-hither smile she had been taught plastered on her face.
She remembered that the room was dark. Most of the doors in the public rooms were sealed, only slight shafts of the red haze flowing out into the hallway. It gave the man waiting for her the appearance of some creature of the underworld. He was standing in profile, watching shadows dance in the almost-two dimensional rectangles of blood red. Madam Boyé preceded Annette, and announced her.
The man was startled, and jerked to face them. Annette felt her blood run slightly cold as she stared at his fearful visage.
His face was half-covered by a glimmering of polished pale yellow mask. Annette assumed it was some kind of wood. It was rough, with a strange hole punched through it to accommodate sight through his right eye. The entire thing was secured about his face with tightly-wrapped length of strong, and (as Annette would notice later), a strange, sticky substance.
And so Annette stood on the steps, staring at this man who, in turn, stared at her. He stared at her face, and then the auburn ringlets of her hair, and then to her red cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. She looked to Madam Boyé, who said nothing, merely pushed her knuckles into the small of Annette's back, pushing her unwilling body forward.
"I bed you goodnight Monsieur. Annette must return by dawn, she is a valuable commodity."
The man seemed to find his voice. He gave the Madam a curt nod and straightened his back. "It will be as you say. Come, Annette."
But Annette did not want to come. Nor did she wish to go. The bizarre sight of this man compelled her into one spot. The knuckles in her back dug a little harder, and Annette could feel uncomfortable pressure through the lacings of her bodice and corset. Her feet began to move.
The man said nothing to her, but he put a hand in an awkward way on her shoulder and led her out onto the street. She continued to stare at him blankly, partly out of exhaustion and partly out of a kind of horrified fascination. He continued to lead her until the words dribbled like a tired groan from her mouth.
"Who are you?"
He looked at her and smiled coldly. "Your customer,"
"Yes," she said, unflustered but annoyed. "But does my customer have a name?"
For a moment he looked straight ahead, saying nothing. "No," Annette's expression changed to raised eyebrows only briefly. She quickly blinked it away.
"Ah," She said slowly. They did not speak for a short while longer. Her lack of interest seemed to ice his already frosty demeanor over slightly. She was not in the mood for games of wit, her body ached and hear head felt heavy. It took all of her energy not to fall over.
"If you must call me something, let it be Erik,"
Annette shook herself out of her stupor. "Ah," She said again. "Very well, Monsieur Erik."
They came to a stop at a wall, and the man pushed a small grate open. He looked at her as though he expected her to go through. Annette did not argue. She knew better. It had taken more than enough bruised lips and eyes and enough sharp words to teach her not to question the desires of a man she was there to serve. She lumbered through, tripping slightly on the stairs down. And the rest was darkness.
A swish of pant legs announced Erik's presence behind her. He put his hand strangely back on her shoulder and pushed her forward.
After even more walking, Annette made a mental note to wear practical boots if this customer ever came to call again. Her shoes were digging into her feet most painfully.
But a small light at the end of the apparent darkened hallway grew and they arrived in this strange room…
He stood before her, watching her hanging jaw as she turned in a small circle, taking the bizarre and dream-like disarray in. She spied the bed on one side of the room and walked toward it.
She sat upon the red velvet, pushing back the urge to remove her shoes and stockings and rub her sore feet. Instead, she shook herself slightly more awake and adopted the seductive pose and curt smile that she had been trained to offer. Her whole body would be grateful for the opportunity to lie down.
Annette looked up towards Erik who stood, still at the entrance to the room, watching her. She smiled wider, biting her lips almost imperceptibly to give them more pink. She patted the bed beside her.
He looked nervously at her. His hand fluttered to the table top and then back to his side. "Not there," was all he said.
Immediately Annette leapt up, brushing the back of her skirt back into place. She replaced her puzzled expression with the smile again.
"Where then?" She sent a small glance down to the hard stone floor. A small voice in her head grunted in frustration. That would hurt her back, or knees, however he wanted her it would scrape her and make her bleed. Madam wouldn't approve. But the man, Erik, still did not move.
"I…" he faltered. "Do we…" Annette was beginning to feel a little uncertain. This was certainly an older man, old enough to be a man of the world. So why was he worried about such a woman as her?
She walked a little toward him, letting the scent of her strong, sweet perfume get close to him. But he backed off.
"Easy love," she said, voice full of confidence. "Like this," And she pulled him toward her, lips pressing around his mouth and thigh wrapping around his hips. For a moment, she could feel him respond, feel him try to enjoy it…
He pushed her off and she tripped backwards. Her smile was now gone. She was afraid. Annette knew just as well as the other what happened to girls who failed their customers… Madam didn't approve…
"Please," She said hoarsely, dragging a hip down the outline of her though, across her belly and her pushed and pressed breasts. It sometimes worked, the begging and pretending to want… "Don't you want to?"
Erik straightened his back, adopting a more confident pose and glaring at her down his long, straight nose.
"No," Erik said, suddenly curt. "I don't. You may go." Annette felt her heart sink.
"Oh come on love," she said easily. "You didn't bring me here just for a--"
"It was a mistake," he said abruptly.
Annette was alarmed. "Please," she tried again.
"Leave, whore,"
Now she was simply angry.
"Pay me," she demanded.
"No,"
"Well I can't just go back!"
"Why not? I daresay we've been gone long enough!!" Annette was now helpless and Erik was colder by the second.
She rocked back and forth on her toes. "What is this place?" She asked, her curiosity suddenly getting the better of her.
"My home,"
"We're beneath the old Opera House aren't we?" She said quietly. He moved to the seat before the organ, but did not turn to play.
"We are," he admitted.
She nodded slowly and turned around in a circle again, taking in everything. "My brother Jacques always wanted to go there… he said the crème de la crème of Paris came here to watch the shows… and then…"
Erik was now impatient. He slammed his fist against the wood, making Annette jump out of her speculation. "And then there was an accident and the dream is over. Indeed that is the tale. How much shall I pay you for your 'services'?"
"Why d'you stay here, then?" She was only seventeen. Her tongue was now quicker than her conscience.
He looked up at her and the masked part of his face caught the light, giving him the appearance of a half-man. "There are many memories here,"
She nodded slowly. "I no longer have a home—I left." she continued. She could feel the vein of conversation picking up. "I left,"
Erik was aggravated into responding. "Why?"
Annette shrugged. "The story will bore you, it is much like many others. Let's just say I had nothing to lose when I got into the business I'm in,"
He looked up. She had caught him. Annette planted her feet into a more comfortable position, resting her weight on one leg and then the other, trying to give some sort of steady relief. "You were not a virgin?" Now he was interested.
She sighed and shrugged. "I had a child…"
"Were you married?"
She giggled. "No,"
Now Erik indicated her to take a seat. She rested her weight upon a ladder back chair. Her story intrigued him. She had played her last card to success. At least her body would be given a rest, if not her voice. "By whom?"
"By a wealthy man in the town. They hid me away saying I had a terrible fever, and my mother pretended the babe was hers, stuffing herself as I grew larger. I spent nine months in a dark room at the top of my father's bakery… the man left and I gave birth to the child. It was--"
She stopped herself, feeling the pain in her face, neck and heart sharpen. She coated it with the illusion of a smile. The fact that he wore a mask still bothered her, but she could feel herself growing accustomed.
"I left home to come here,"
Erik stared at her steadily. His eyes were blue, she noticed. She swayed on her feet slightly.
"You are tired," he observed. She flashed another smile.
"No,"
"You are," he accused, taking in her bloodshot eyes and fuzzy movements. "Would you like to return to your… your place of residence?" He did not call it home. But she had to agree with them—it was not.
Her eyes widened. "No," she begged. "Please no,"
Now he was curious. "Why not?"
Annette bit the inside of her lip. "It is not wise to return at this point, Monsieur."
He nodded crisply. "You may sleep here this evening, and then return."
Within moments he had dragged down and draped a canvas hammock and she layed within it awkwardly. Her eyes were wide and staring.
"Are you sure you don't want me to--"
"Yes,"
'What a funny man,' She thought idly, before drifting off into a deep, sweet sleep.
--
She had wandered home the next morning, giving every appearance of exhaustion when she felt well rested, although hungry.
Madam was waiting for her, but Annette did not mind much. The man, Erik, had given her the money and wished her good day. She did not wish to accept it, but had little choice. Anya, Annette's closest friend and usually a temptress of the downstairs customers came to her room shortly after her arrival.
Her dark eyes were
eager.
"What happened?? He was a funny man, wasn't he?"
Annette sighed. "He let me sleep, and sent me home." Anya, still rumpled from the night before, covering the love bites on her neck with thick whitening mixture looked up at her.
"That sounds familiar," She said quietly. Annette smiled and gave an exasperated sigh.
"Oh my dear Anya, such dreams for me,"
"But it's true!" Anya insisted, shoving her knees out in front of her to shuffle toward Annette. "Everyone knows that Marguerite met her man like that."
Marguerite was something of a legend with the Boyé girls. She had met a British dignitary on a cold winter night two years ago, and he soon left his sickly wife for her when Rite had his son, and rumor had it that the two were living in luxury in India. It was the dream of several prostitutes to be carried off like that… but when the next man came toward you with money in his palm and lust in his eyes the hope was quashed.
But two nights later, the Monsieur Erik came for her again.
"I find you appealing," He said frankly as she sat before him, backside in the hammock, feet rocking to keep her balance.
And they began to talk.
Oh how they spoke of many things. Of life, of home, of family. She never learned of his past, but spoke at length of hers. She told him the tale of Marguerite, told him of Anya and her thankfulness of being an upstairs girl, because they were treated better. And as she was there, she made herself useful. She cleaned and swept and occasionally cooked when she had the inclination and the ingredients.
And gradually she began to trust him. It had been a long time since she met a man she could trust. But she started to imagine that the mask—that frightening, yellow mask—set him apart from other men. Made him unlike the others that she had had. And he never touched her. Never asked her for anything.
And then, one night, she began wishing that he would…
The realization followed her home the next morning. She longed for him, longed to touch him, learn about him, hold him and have him hold her. Annette herself, having had so many of men, did not understand what it was about this blue-eyed masked man that made her ache. He was the one man in her range that she could not have, and that lit something in her that she could not explain. She wanted to ask what that ring was that he wore around his neck, how his mask came to be, where he had been the night of the burning…
She had discussed this at length with Anya, who's eyes had lit up.
"Do you…" she had hesitated. But Annette pressed her. "Do you think you may love him?"
And the brush Annette had been holding fell out of her hands.
Did she?
Love… it was scorned as an illusion in the house. And indeed it seemed to be. The girls would gather to giggle at the foolishness of sonnets and if any girl received flowers from a moonstruck lover, they all had a good laugh. There was no love—only physical lust and power. The mind could play tricks—to be sure, but these girls were certainly to be spared.
Love.
It sounded strange upon the tongue. She thought of Erik, of his rare smiles and strong hands and something stirred within her…
--
The deChagny household was dark, but there were candles lit in the gallery. Raoul DeChagny stood before a great portrait of a severe man with white hair and moustache, frowning out at the world, Charles DeChangny, his late father. Raoul stood and stared at the painting, but his thoughts were not in the gallery of his mansion. He was twelve years old, holding a large dark brown stallion in one hand, other hand on his hip. Beside him, a peasant argued his case.
"It was taken from my land, my lord," He said "This boy here crept up on the stable and stole it right out from under me,"
Charles DeChagny looked from the peasant to his son. The boy was looking innocent as could be. "And did you see him take this horse?"
"I did," the peasant said defiantly. "It bucked him off at first but he rode it again and galloped off toward here. I chased after him—lucky too, he would have branded that horse as his in the first possible moment."
Raoul spoke up. "Please, father, this horse was being beaten by this man," The peasant looked up, and then his determined expression changed to anger.
"Why you little runt! I've done no such thing—I ain't never seen the boy watching--"
"You will kindly not call the heir to the DeChagny line a runt, peasant." Charles said angrily. The peasant sighed and cast his eyes downward.
Charles looked to his son. "My boy, did you steal this horse?" Raoul kicked at the ground, thinking. Then, with a clear expression he looked up and smiled.
"This land is the property of my family. By rights this horse is too, for it eats from the land."
The peasant looked up. "Oh that's a dirty great--" but Charles DeChagny held up a hand.
"Indeed the boy is right," he said, looking very satisfied. "Raoul, take the horse. And for you—Jean," he indicated the peasant. "Raise your horses to be more faithful. Maybe next time he'll buck the robber off completely.
"But I--"
"Silence," DeChagny cried. "He is a DeChagny of this estate— he deserves the finest of everything."
Raoul stood, arms folded behind his back, thinking of the smashed crystal vase in the parlor, and the face of his fiancé. He could feel his blood beginning to boil. There were footsteps in the hall.
"Sir?" Came a voice. It was a small servant boy, the very one he had sent out to deliver another message to Christine. His Christine.
"And?" was all he asked. The servant boy swallowed.
"She will send no reply sir… I waited all night. They are leaving for Paris soon." The boy waited, as if expecting a reply. Receiving none, he continued. "If you please sir… I would like to go home now,"
Raoul made no answer. No reply. Again. How dare she do this to him—he could have given her the world and she spat in his face because he had made a mistake. Oh how she shamed him. He knew where she would run, and he had followed close at her heels. Now they would go to Paris. Would she take up on stage again? It would be easy to get to her there, simply take her away in the night, bring her back, make her see sense…
And then he remembered who was in Paris.
He was told there had been sightings of him, half the man he once was, crouched with a poorly made mask plastered upon his face… Raoul smirked to himself but then felt his blood run cold. If she were with him… if the world was to discover… He would be the laughing stock of French society. Imagine, Christine choosing a disfigured ghost musician over him. He had told his friends that Christine was staying with some friends in the country, just to visit before the wedding, as she would not see them for a long time.
He refused to pay for his mistake—he had done her no great wrong after all. Certainly, he had bedded another woman but was that such a crime? Other men did it when they were married, and their wives carried on as before. He could feel his anger rise as he thought of the impudence of this women…
"First thing in the morning tell the stables we leave for Paris in two days."
He would go to Paris. He would find her, make her see sense even if it involved dragging her back. She would see sense. He would make her love him again.
"I am a DeChagny of this estate," he muttered to himself. "And I deserve the finest of everything." Be it woman or horse. They were both to be owned and tamed.
And he stormed up the gallery and into his chambers. He would find her. He would take her back. Let the hunt begin.
