FAIRE DES ACHATS

by Hriviel

Author's note: Hello, readers! This idea came to me this morning when I went to work at 10 AM. And by my first break, I had names and a plot. So at 8 or so, when I got home, I began typing out my notes and thoughts. Leroux makes it pretty clear that Erik ventures out of the opera house to get supplies and food, etc... I started wondering what sellers' assorted reactions would be to this mysterious masked man. Mostly Leroux-based, with Kay influence (i.e., Erik as a person, not so much a psycho...though I am a big fan of Leroux!Erik), and ALW touches and references--don't you just love canon blending? So far, it's a one-shot, but if I get positive reviews asking for more, I may write a few more vignettes; from the baker, the jeweler, the fruit-seller, the wine-seller, the art supplies seller, (my fave...the street performer!), and others. The title is French; "Faire des achats" means "to shop"--not original, but it works. After posting this I swear I'll get back to work on "Haunted."

THE DRESS-MAKER

He was back.

Jeanette Gauthier looked up from her needlepoint when the brass bell suspended above the shop door let out a musical jangle. The afternoon sunshine was warm and gentle, slanting in through the windows facing the Rue Choiseul. She had been forming a cross-stitch from burgundy floss, when she set down her small wooden hoop and stood politely in the presence of her only customer.

"Good day, Monsieur," she greeted pleasantly, hands folded in front of her.

Her customer gave a curt nod by means of a greeting. He was very tall and thin, nigh on alarmingly so, but he was dressed in rich gentleman's evening clothes, expertly tailored. Narrow trousers of light wool, a shapely waistcoat, velvet-trimmed evening coat, and voluminous cravat, all ebony black. He also wore a cloak with a wide cowl on his shoulders that reached his ankles, and a fedora perched on his head. There was a flash of the white of his shirt collar just beneath his jaw. But oddest of his attire was the mask. It was ebony and blank, and covered his entire face. Yet strangely, his voice was not muffled, despite being covered. In fact, it had seemed to float just before her own face when she had served him last.

She watched with a perfectly friendly curiosity as he inspected the sample dresses out on faceless mannequins. They were some of Jeanette's best work on display because Madame Dumoulin's latest fashions were unfinished, and the proprietress wanted a new set out today. The apprentice and clerk had worked tirelessly on the soft green velvet frock with the trailing bustle, from the elaborate bodice to the ruffled sleeves. And the Bordeaux-coloured evening gown of shimmering taffeta, with its clean lines and immense, gathered skirts. Every miniscule stitch Jeanette's hand had patiently made in the fine fabric. There were others out, but suddenly the man turned away from the fashion display and walked noiselessly up the table where she stood.

Jeanette averted her eyes and looked over the long order sheet next to her needlepoint, a picture of an angel dressed in dark red robes. She flipped through the pages. "Have you an order to pick up today, sir?"

Just a fortnight ago, she had shown him the four new dresses--blue, gold, black, and red--made specifically to a set of measurements he had left with the order. They'd been crafted from the best fabrics in lovely designs. He had inspected each painstakingly while Jeanette's stomach did flips, and her hand toyed with the silver bracelet on her wrist. Then, he spoke one word: "Good," and she had wrapped each into a brown paper parcel.

But today, he didn't speak for a moment. Then, he said almost diffidently, "I would like to see your inventory of white silks and laces, Mademoiselle."

"Certainly." She nodded and smiled.

Jeanette was brisk and efficient as she moved easily from the inventory room back to the tabletop, piling up roll after roll of pale fabric and trimmings. There were thick, plush velvets, sheer silks, all imported from around the world. And the laces! Bruxelles, Chantilly, Venetian, Flemish, Flandres, Point d'Angleterre, Point de Paris...It was dizzying. She rarely touched the fine white materials, as her mistress took and executed all the bridal orders.

In her best sales pitch voice, she began, "Well, Monsieur... we have this ice-white satin, very fine. We have Chinese silks in every shade from pure white to this cream here, both plain and patterned. And laces, we carry many types, fit for any occasion."

"A wedding," came the voice, that, once again, seemed to float just in front of her. She felt like she could reach out and touch it.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur?"

"The occasion," he said softly, "is a wedding."

"I see," she replied evenly. "Do you like any of these?"

Her customer pushed aside each roll, unsatisfied with the brightness of one, the yellowness of another, the garish pattern on this, the poor quality of that. Jeanette held her breath. Madame Dumoulin wouldn't pay her commission this week, if she didn't make a sale. And she wouldn't be able to buy the ivory charm she longed for at the jeweler's. But fortunately, the fingers encased in black leather slowly brushed a sample near the bottom of the pile.

He settled on a shimmering ivory damask with a beautiful, flowing rose pattern. "This. Nine metres, please."

"Very good, sir." She opened the drawer of the counter and removed a pair of sharp, silver shears and a measuring tape. She carefully measured the fabric, then drew the pen from where it sat tucked above her ear, and drew a faint line. Then, with the shears, she began to cut the rich material. The silence was broken only by the low, grinding snip of the scissors.

During this affair, the customer watched her intently. Of course she couldn't see his facial expression, but she thought he was studying her with eyes that were golden and curious. "Your work is quite admirable, Mademoiselle."

Jeanette blushed, but her humble manners spoke up for her. "Madame Dumoulin does much of the shop's work; I am merely her apprentice."

The deep chuckle that stirred the air surprised her. Even more so, the blunt comment that followed. "Cécile Dumoulin's work is shabby, put kindly. Half the time she cannot even stitch a straight seam."

The apprentice was at a loss for words. She would never have dreamed that her perfect façade of impeccable manners would crack, and she would push aside a lock of dark hair threaded with premature silver and answer, "Indeed, sir! She is often too busy gossiping, or sleeping, or drinking... or-or criticizing me!"

It felt surprisingly good to laugh, at Mme Dumoulin, at herself; and her false smile that she wore at work was replaced by a genuine one as she folded the silk damask neatly and set it aside.

"Now, what about the laces, Monsieur?"

Lace he considered far more carefully. Even still, some were too bulky, too narrow, too provincial... Jeanette pushed aside the rejected samples, and the rest sat seriously on the countertop. She looked over the patterns swirling in the country-style laces discarded by the man. Those that he retained were elegant and romantic. One more roll he shoved to the side deliberately. Jeanette began to wonder if he would find one he fancied enough to purchase.

Then, he brushed his gloved fingertips over a length of intricate, eggshell lace, gathered into fine ruffles. "Twenty metres, if you please."

She easily cut the immense length of lace, and asked, "Is there anything you need, sir?"

He asked her in his tentative voice to see any other trimmings she deemed appropriate. Thinking of a wildly romantic wedding as suggested by the lace he selected, she showed him beautiful beading, appliqués, false flowers, and other wonderful things kept in a cabinet by Madame Dumoulin. In the end, he chose a few fine finishing details.

Ten grams of seed pearls with needle-eyes bored into them. Two dozen white roses made of silk by hand. Some delicate trimming lace. Gold embroidery floss.

The last thing he bought was snow white tulle. Jeanette held a length of it in her hand, and was surprised by its softness; most tulle she had handled was coarse and used as rough, scratchy petticoat material. This was beautiful, and sheer as frost on a window Christmas morning. She knew instinctively that it was for the bride's veil.

"How much, Monsieur?"

He looked at the extra-fine tulle and answered quietly, "All of it."

Jeanette's dark eyes widened. Surely, his total balance would be sky-high! But...the customer knew his purchase best, her mistress always insisted, when alert and watching her like an eagle. "Will that be all today?"

"Yes."

The clerk and apprentice swiftly and neatly wrapped the materials into a parcel, folding the edges together, and wrapping the corners in; she finished by tying it with cotton twine. She calculated the prices, scribbling her multiplication and addition on a blank pad. "That comes to ... nine hundred and eighty-three francs, Monsieur."

"But of course." There was an amused smile in his voice, as he handed her one thousand francs in cash. She counted it out, and placed in the cashbox, took out his change, and locked it.

Sparing a glance at her masked customer, Jeanette murmured, "Here you are, sir. Thank you."

He took the packages and turned away. But when he reached the door, he tipped his black hat. "Merci, Mademoiselle."

The only thing she could say in reply was what she said to every other customer: "Bonne journée."