Come the Dawn, Chapter Three
Deux Interludes
Spring 1871
Interlude Primo
Shifting patches of darkness and light drew shadow-pictures across the façade of the State Opera House in Vienna, creating an impression of angels and demons dancing in the moonlight. It was a fanciful thought, but the architectural style favored by von Sicardsburg and van der Nüll was fanciful by its very nature—they'd put together a seemingly hodgepodge conglomeration of various architectural styles marked by pinnacles, colonnades and neo-classical statuary, which Erik admired, in theory, for its sheer bravado. But the resulting structure could have been a disaster. Instead, though, the various overlapping styles, instead of creating discordance, had somehow managed to blend together into a harmonious whole that was both serene and noble. It was a beautiful building.
In all honesty, Erik thought Garnier's Paris Opera House the lovelier of the two; but then again, at least this one was still standing. And in Vienna, he wasn't a fugitive. Yet, anyway. Given some time, he'd probably manage to achieve notoriety here, too. Infamy was a doggedly persistent companion.
Erik sighed. He was so tired of it all. Tired of running, tired of hiding, sick to death of hiding in the shadows, standing apart from the world, scorning its superficiality, yet craving its acceptance. After that last, fiery disaster in Paris, he'd sworn to himself to leave it all, to go as far away as his small hoard of currency would take him, to live out the remainder of his life in the quiet solitude of some remote location, somewhere far away from the need for stealth and secrecy, somewhere far away from the temptation and disappointment of civilized society.
But the music drew him back. On his journey out of France, he'd heard talk of the upstart conductor who ruled the Vienna Philharmonic—and thus the Vienna Opera—and he'd wondered…
Hans Richter had been a protégé of the legendary Richard Wagner, and yet Richter also found the complex and challenging work of Johannes Brahms worthy of admiration—and of performance. The man seemed to simply appreciate music in all its forms and manifestations, and was able to see beauty in very disparate offerings, even at a time when Wagner and Brahms represented polar opposites in music. Could a conductor who had the audacity—and the vision—to thumb his nose at what was expected by his peers somehow also manage to see worth in the work of a complete unknown? It was temptation itself. And though temptation had burned him painfully in the past, Erik found himself once again held in thrall by its seduction.
A flash of darker blackness against the gloom of the paved street caught Erik's eye and he glanced downward. Two yellow-green lanterns stared back at him. Erik smiled. The cat stretched indolently—a sinuous ripple that traveled from the tip of its coal-black paws to its midnight-hued tail—then walked straight up to Erik, sat down and tipped its chin upwards in an expression of regal feline disdain. Charmed, despite himself, by the small creature's boldness, Erik crouched down and held out a hand to the cat, his woolen cape billowing about him in the darkness like the wings of a great bat. The cat hissed and swatted at the swirl of wool, catching Erik's gloved hand with its claw instead. Erik chuckled softly and drew back his hand.
"So it's to be like that, is it, Mademoiselle Le Chat?" Erik made no further move to reach out to the feline. The cat backed up a step or two and then sat down again, watching Erik with those striking, luminous eyes. Finally, after a moment or two, the arrogant creature lifted up a front paw and gave it a dainty lick. Erik smiled again.
"I take it this is your domain, then?" he asked the cat, gesturing beyond the alleyway in which they stood to encompass the whole of the area near the Opera. The cat paused in its grooming and stared calmly at Erik, as if to question why he should even doubt the fact. "Well then, Mademoiselle, I must give you fair warning—I intend to stay here, as well." He hadn't realized that he'd made the decision until just now, but surprisingly, it felt right. He spoke to the cat again. "We shall have to establish a truce, you and I, if we intend to rule the same kingdom." The cat said nothing for a moment, then hissed at him with a contemptuous finality, turned and stalked off into the darkness.
Erik smiled again. The expression felt odd, unfamiliar, brought on by talking to a cat, of all things. But in a small, secret part of his heart, Erik acknowledged a strange feeling of peace and, to his chagrin, despite his best efforts at self-preservation, he felt a damnable kernel of hope take root and germinate. Tonight, under cover of darkness, he'd find a place in which to live. Tomorrow, he'd devise his plan.
From somewhere within the gloom of the alley, he heard a soft clatter and the high-pitched squeak of a dying rodent. The cat had apparently just obtained its dinner.
Inexplicably, the cat's prickly self-reliance made Erik think for a moment of Meg, and how she'd looked when he last saw her, standing amidst the ruins of his old life, her life in chaos as well, stubbornly worrying over his future. The thought crossed his mind that he hoped she and her mother had found safety somewhere away from the smoking pile of rubble that he'd made of their lives, and their home.
Interlude Secundus
Paris burned. Meg stared at the devastation that the city of her youth had become and wondered what sort of madness it was that spurred men, with their machines and their machinations, to destroy such beauty. What the German army hadn't destroyed during its siege of the city, the clash between the French government and the Paris Commune had. Paris had turned on itself; the city that Meg so loved bore its wounds and scars with a quiet dignity, but it would never be the same.
Nor would she.
Tonight was the last night she'd spend in France. Tomorrow, before dawn brightened the horizon, she and her mother would leave Paris, heading east across the mountains, bound for the relative peace of Austria. Thanks to her mother's stubborn tenacity, the somewhat grudging financial assistance of Msrs. Andre and Firmin, and probably thanks most of all to Msr. Reyer's connections in the world of music, her mother had obtained a position as ballet mistress with the State Opera in Vienna.
Reyer himself was bound for England, and although he had been known among the Paris Opera corps de ballet as a slave driver and a perfectionist, Meg had always considered those who thought him so to be lazy and somewhat useless themselves. She had considered him talented and dedicated to his work. And if she were being completely honest with herself, she'd considered him as somewhat a father figure, as well. She would miss him.
But Msr. Reyer wasn't the only fixture of the Paris Opera that Meg would miss. Truth be told, the only reason she'd snuck out of the hostel in which she and her mother were staying was because she'd felt compelled to see the Opera House one more time. For one more moment on her last night in France, Meg wanted—no, needed—to see the shell of the building that had once been the very center of her life.
She stood in the dark, shrouded by her mother's dark cloak, looking out over the crumbled ruin. It glowed a pearlescent ivory in the moonlight, the night casting its magic over the devastation and making it look less like the heap of slag that it was and more like an enchanted kingdom, sleeping in the moonlight, waiting to be awakened.
But there was no one to awaken it. Andre and Firmin—pragmatic businessmen that they were—had cut their losses, sold the property, and gone back into the junk business. God knows, there was enough junk to be had in Paris these days. Reyer was gone; La Carlotta had returned to Spain. The other singers, musicians, dancers and stagehands had dispersed as well. And the only other fixture of the place had been Erik…
Erik. Not for the first time, Meg thought of Erik, and wondered what had become of him since that last time she'd seen him, talked to him. Had he found a place for himself somewhere? A place to hide, a place to lick the wounds that life—and Christine, Meg thought, somewhat uncharitably—had inflicted on him? Had he found any sort of peace?
Christine, of course, was with Raoul; they'd left the country months ago. The last Meg had heard, they were in England. She assumed Christine had found happiness with the Vicomte. She'd certainly paid a high enough price for that happiness—they had all paid, in blood, for Christine's new life as the Countess de Chagny…
Annoyed with herself for wallowing in the past, Meg shook herself out of the pointless rumination and quieted the clamoring voices in her head. After all, the past was the past; nothing about it could be changed, there was nothing to do but go forward. No good ever came from looking backward. Christine had moved on, the others had moved on, Meg herself was going forward into a whole new life tomorrow. And Erik…
Meg cast one last lingering look over the haunted pile of moonlit rubble. Plenty of ghosts here; just not the one she most wanted to find. Erik… Oh, Erik... Where are you? What has become of you?
Meg bit her lip, ignoring the stab of pain she felt when she turned her back on the Opera for the last time. Just like the past, there was nothing she could do about Erik, either, except hope that he'd someday find what he needed. It was just that she'd once secretly, foolishly, futilely wished…
No. She forced the thought back into the dark corner of her mind from where it had sprung. She was done with the past. It was over. Done. Pointless. No more. From now on, she'd dwell in the present, and look to the future. And Erik? Well, all the wishes in the world wouldn't help him if he chose not to help himself. She'd just have to hope that Erik had discovered that for himself, somehow.
Author's Note: I have taken the liberty of using some creative license with regard to timelines, and thus have played quite fast and loose with the actual years during which Hans Richter served as conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic. In actuality, he began his term there in 1875, while Otto Dessoff held the position prior to that. Dessoff was admirable as well, helping to enlarge the repertoire and establish important organizational principles for the orchestra, but the particular characteristics of Richter—the vision, principle, determination, and quite possibly the arrogance to create his own rules—were what I needed in a conductor for the purposes of this story. Given that, I simply changed his dates of tenure a bit. Other historical details should be correct; if they are not, I offer my apologies.
One interesting fact about the history of the State Opera House in Vienna: The first performance held there was on May 25, 1869—Mozart's opera, Don Giovanni