A/N: Okay…so my muse wasn't quite working with me on that last chapter, but once I get into my swing, it'll be fine. Get ready for Erik!
As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I take a look at my life
And realize there's nothing left. - Coolio
Chapter 2
September, Paris, 3 years after the first and only performance of Don Juan Triumphant
The cloaked figure moved swiftly through the Parisian streets, clutching to him a small crate. He arrived at a tall building with a beautiful stucco façade. On the door was a simple bronze plaque, reading Dr. Barnabé Sordeau. Erik rang the bell and almost instantly the door was opened by a squat maid.
"I have a delivery for Dr. Sordeau. Is he still awake?" the man asked.
"Oh, yes, he was expecting you. You must be the Monsieur Voltaire he has been speaking of. May I take your cloak?"
"No." the man replied curtly. "I would wish to keep it on. Please show me to Dr. Sordeau."
The maid bristled at being addressed so rudely, but all the same led the strange man down a lavishly furnished hall to a set of oak paneled doors.
"Monsieur Sordeau is in there. You may enter." With that, the maid stepped aside and let the hooded man brush past her and into the room, shutting the doors tightly behind him.
The man had been a different sort than usually arrived at the Sordeau residence. He was clothed entirely in black. He stood well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a thin waist. The man himself was quite slender and had been dressed impeccably in trousers tucked into expensive-looking boots, and a linen shirt with a black vest over it. Although his head was hooded by his cloak, she could have sworn she saw, however, the white glint of a mask.
But why would anyone be wearing a mask over one half of their face? she thought, and shook the idea from her head. Her eyes were certainly not what they once were.
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"Monsieur Sordeau." A cold voice echoed from the back of his sitting room. Barnabé Sordeau spun in his seat to see a tall, black-clothed man holding a small crate standing in his doorway.
"Ah, Voltaire! I presume that is my order?" Sordeau asked, sounding pleased to see even this strange man. He was in general a pleasant character.
"Yes. A selection of the most powerful medicines I can make. I hope they may be of use."
"Voltaire, how can I thank you?" Sordeau inquired. "This is of great use to me in my practice."
"Do not bother. It was not much trouble, and as I was in the area…"
Sordeau stood, and produced from his pocket a thick wad of bills. He took the crate from Erik and pressed them into his palm.
"I do not mean to be rude, but I must depart. I have other business to attend to. Good evening, Sordeau." Volatire said, bowing out of the room.
The man left the house without saying anything to the maid as he passed her. The door swung shut behind him with a loud bang.
Erik turned left and began to make his way towards the Opéra Populaire. There were items that needed to be reclaimed from the bowels of the opera house that had once been his home. He no longer lived there. The memory of a certain chorus girl-turned-ingénue had driven him from the place.
