Erik glanced around. The storm drain down the street would be the shortest route to where he needed to be. A light breeze carried the smell of something delicious from the bistro on the corner. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. Inadvertently he thought of the muffins Meg had brought earlier. He lifted the grate from the storm drain and eased himself into the tunnel below. Sounds of a fiddle playing an old folk tune, singing and laughter echoed from somewhere in the darkness. Erik felt his way through the narrow channel toward the sound. It sounded more and more like a party as he went closer. Light flickered in the distance. Madame Rustele was entertaining some rowdy clients tonight. The heavy wooden door creaked ominously as he pushed it open. Instantly a large burly man stood in front of him.
"Relax, Bart, I am looking for Monsieur Antoine Trudeau." Erik said. Bart looked momentarily torn in his decision, but stepped aside. The room was fairly large, at least twice as big as the room under the laundry. Thick red draperies covered the brick walls. A well stocked bar graced one corner of the room, while several chairs and a table occupied the center. Four men sat about the table, playing cards and smoking cigars. A girl served them drinks. They visibly stiffened but otherwise ignored him. Their reaction both pleased and irritated him. He knew they were uncomfortable and had probably heard gossip about the "phantom of the opera." It gave him a feeling of power that almost made up for their rudeness.
"Erik, I am surprised, but honored by your arrival." Madame Rustele almost floated up to him. She wore heavy rouge, scarlet lip paint and black eyeliner. The magenta silk gown was fashionable, though the color did nothing to compliment her henna colored hair and sallow complexion. Her smile was fake and Erik wondered momentarily at her cordial behavior.
He didn't trust the woman. She was well known in the city for her profession and the popular brothel above where they stood now. Erik wondered what she was up to that brought her to the underground. It couldn't be good, he surmised, but minded his own business.
"I am here to see Monsieur Trudeau. I trust he is here."
"I will have to see if he is here tonight. Michelle, go inquire of Monsieur Trudeau is here and wishes to see Monsieur Erik." She said sharply. It was then that Erik saw the former ballerina. She was the girl serving drinks. Michelle scurried toward the wooden stairway. He hardly recognized her. Her posture drooped and her shoulders were thin, though her abdomen bulged slightly. He looked at Madame Rustele suspiciously. It didn't seem right. He hadn't realized until now why Michelle had been dismissed from the opera house. She was pregnant. But why was she here? She wore the attire of a servant. Clearly she wasn't employed as one of the prostitutes. But Madame Rustele didn't have a charitable bone in her body. It wasn't good will that motivated the woman to employ the young woman. She planned on using the girl, if not now, soon. He watched her leave.
"Do you see something that interests you, Monsieur." The Madame had misinterpreted his gaze. "She doesn't seem your type, but I could arrange it for you, if you like." Erik was sickened by the woman's callous attitude toward the young woman, but at the same time, he wanted to talk to Michelle and inquire about her condition, though he knew she may be frightened by him. The incident involving Joseph Buquet had possibly been what brought the situation about. He wanted to know, not that it would change anything. He couldn't dig the stage hand up and kill him again.
"Perhaps after I speak with Trudeau, I will take your offer." He said, noticing the satisfied smile that stretched her painted lips.
"I knew that someday you would be a satisfied client." She gloated.
"I'm not looking for satisfaction, Madame. I want some answers." His reply seemed to disturb the woman.
"What do you want to know? Perhaps I can enlighten you."
"I want to know what a talented dancer is doing in a place like this."
"What do you mean?"
"What is Michelle doing here? She is a dancer, not a servant girl."
"Ah, Monsieur Erik, I must keep the confidences of all my girls. If you wish the services of someone else, I will be happy to accommodate you."
"No, Madame, I do not wish to receive any gifts I can't get rid of." The woman stiffened. Erik smiled at her irritation.
Antoine Trudeau was a balding, middle aged man with an ample girth. He staggered down the staircase with an awkwardness due to intoxication. Michelle followed behind, at a marked distance.
"Monsieur Erik." The man greeted him over brightly. The madame said something mindless, which Erik didn't hear, and walked away.
"Trudeau." Erik returned the greeting without enthusiasm. "I trust that you have what I want."
"It is all here, Monsieur." Trudeau took a sealed envelop from inside his coat and gave it to Erik.
"Good. You have done well. More product will be delivered on Tuesday."
"I ran out of opium before the week was out. Perhaps an extra box would be good." Trudeau said, smiling. His cheerful manner was forced and insincere.
"It is too late for an extra box this time, but next week, it will be there." Erik informed him. Their business completed, the two men parted ways without further comment.
Erik approached Michelle, who was wiping up spilled liquor on one of the four tables. He was uncomfortable with the situation to say the least. How did one go about passing advice to a person who may not want it.
"Do not be frightened." Erik said without looking directly at her. He did not want to see the fear in her eyes. "You were a ballerina at the Paris Opera, weren't you?" He sounded like he was trying to proposition her. He tried again. "I don't mean to be forward, but I hate to see such talent wasted in a place like this." He wasn't improving. She looked at him with a candidness that unsettled him more than he did her.
"I know who you are, Monsieur Erik. You are the Phantom of the Opera." She stared at him, her eyes searching his face. He credited her frankness with being young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. In some ways he was relieved that she wasn't terrified of him. If she had been, he would have understood. In another way he resented her lack of reverence. Fear gave him an edge over the rest of the population.
"Then I should stop trying to buffer the situation and get to the point. I couldn't help but notice that you might be in some... uh, trouble." At that moment, Madame Rustele advanced toward them, abandoning the men playing cards.
"Michelle, you are not here to entertain the gentleman. Go upstairs." The older woman had obtained a sharpness to her voice that irritated him.
"I didn't mean to..." Michelle broke off and hurried to do as she was told. It didn't bode well with him that Michelle would be more intimidated by the madame than himself.
"What do you want with the girl?" The woman demanded.
"I should ask the you same, but I think I already know the answer."
"If she really strikes your fancy, I can arrange it." She said lowering her voice seductively. A memory of another girl, who would rather face death than him, stirred within him. His chest tightened.
"You do that. Bring her to me now." Erik glanced toward a make shift room, partitioned with a heavy scarlet brocade drapery. "And I want extra privacy. Vacate this room."
"You ask a lot, Monsieur, but it can be done, for a price."
"Of course." He knew the price she quoted was unusually high, but the woman wasn't going to collect another cent on the girl, so he paid what she asked. He may have imagined the gloat in the woman's expression as she clapped her hands and coaxed the other men upstairs, but he doubted it.
Michelle descended the stairs a few moments later, unaccompanied. The woman had sent the poor girl to face a fate worse than death and had probably not even warned the child. She was just a child, after all.
"I wanted to talk to you." He enlightened her instantly to alleviate any misconception.
"I know." Erik concluded that the madame had not told her that she'd been sold to him. "What about?" She sat down at a table that was covered with a ruby tablecloth and toyed the frayed edge. The girl looked so young! Her curly, black hair was cut boy-short, wisps of hair falling over green, down-turned eyes.
"You are no longer required to work here, Mademoiselle."
"You got me fired!" Her head shot up.
Erik tried to find the right words. "Not exactly. There is a boarding house where you can live until you find work and can afford a better place. I will arrange for your board and room immediately. I hate to see a promising talent wasted in a brothel."
"I don't need your charity." His own words came from her mouth.
"Yes, you do." He paused. "This is no place to raise a baby."
"There isn't going to be a baby. Madame Rustele says she'll take care of... of It." She looked away. Erik clenched his fists in attempt to control the anger seeping through his veins. Taking care of it didn't necessarily mean she take the baby in her open arms and raise it as her own. To Erik, it meant murder. "You don't understand. I'm no longer welcome in my parents' house." Her chin trembled as she fought to keep her emotions in check. "There are no other options I can think of."
"There are always options. I was born deformed, pronounced a devil on the spot. My mother feared me and her dog was more maternal with me than she was." His face was inches from hers. "But she let me live." Stepping back, he sat in the seat, opposite Michelle. "What's your surname?"
"Montague."
"An affluent family." He acknowledged.
"I've dishonored them."
"They can go to hell." Normally, Erik wouldn't even think about getting involved in a young pregnant woman's life, but he was. He was involved when he witnessed Joseph Buquet groping many of the ballerinas. He was involved when he hung the bastard. Erik hadn't been there to protect her the night young Michelle was attacked. Weeks faded into months. Michelle was excused from the opera. Then, one night as he was delivering a personal note to the managers' office, Erik overheard the drunken stagehands. Buquet was boasting about taking little Michelle in a dark hallway and how he overpowered her struggle. Erik took it as a personal insult that the creepy stagehand would dare commit such an act in his theater.
"I could leave the baby to be cared for by the orphanage."
"Don't be naive. This whole city is crawling with unwanted children."
"I never said I didn't want it."
"Tell me what you want."
She looked at him apprehensively. But, after a few moments, she relaxed. "Honestly?" Her masked visitor nodded. "Even though I wish I never clapped my eyes on Monsieur Buquet, I want to have this baby." Her green eyes shimmered with tears. "I just don't know how I can do it. This baby is a piece of me."
"It is late but if you hurry, you may still get a room for the night. Madame Giry is staying at a boarding house in a modest neighborhood and I believe that she will be a reference if you need one. Here is some money. It will be enough to pay for a room over the next few months." Erik handed her some bills from the envelope Monsieur Trudeau had given him earlier. "Come quickly before anyone comes back. Madame Rustele will be vexed when she realizes that I have pilfered you."
Erik took a lantern from the table and led the way out back through the tunnel. Michelle followed close behind. It still surprised him that she didn't seem afraid. It vaguely occurred to him that he was acting strangely out of character. He felt a little like a protective older brother, and it was freaking him out just a little. She was the only witness to his behavior and no one would believe her. His secret was safe. Tomorrow, he would return to his cagey and sullen self.
"Watch you step," he said as the tunnel became slippery.
"M'sir." A voice came from the darkness. Erik swung the lantern toward the sound. He could only make out a slim figure in the shadows. The voice seemed familiar, though laced with a stern contempt, but at the moment, he couldn't place it.
"Who speaks?" Erik kept his face in the shadow while searching intently for the owner of the voice. A youth stepped closer. "Garrick." Erik was both relieved and startled. "What is your business here, boy?" An unusual length of time passed before the boy responded.
"I am wondering the same of you." It struck him suddenly that Garrick was a little bewildered be seeing him in the company of a young woman for the second time in jutst less than twenty four hours. It was a record to say the least. The young man was probably questioning the intentions of the masked eccentric. Erik had every desire to put Garrick's worries to rest.
"I am escorting this young lady to the House of Clureaux. But perhaps you would assume my errand and assist Mademoiselle Montague." He said, his lips twitching in resistence to a smile. "She is not expected, but you may announce her as a guest of Madame Giry. The madame will receive her, I trust."
"Yes, I will escort her, M'sir." Garrick said, the contempt vanishing in awe of the young girl. He clearly hadn't noticed the telltale swell of her abdomen, Erik decided.
"No!" Michelle stepped back away from the two men. "I will be fine to go by myself."
"But I will be able to protect you. It is dark and you should be properly escorted." Garrick protested somewhat surprised by her reluctance.
"No." The girl stated firmly.
"But, it is not proper for a girl to be out at night without a chaperone." The younger man argued.
"I would rather Monsieur Erik accompany me. I know that he will not let anyone hurt me."
"Why don't you think I can protect you? I am stronger than I look!" Grarrick was obviously insulted and Erik found the situation amusing.
"Garrick, don't feel slighted. Michelle has had an unfortunate experience involving a man. She may not trust you." Erik murmured quietly in Garrick's ear.
"What!" Garrick exclaimed. "Did someone... harm you?" Garrick turned to address Michelle.
"Why did you have to tell him?" Michelle accused Erik. "I do not want to be gossiped about!" She began to cry and shuddered involuntarily.
"Who has done this?" Garrick demanded to know.
"It doesn't matter," said Erik softly.
"Of course it matters!" Garrick shouted.
"Please, just go away!" Michelle said sobbing as she sank down to huddle against the wall of the narrow tunnel. "Monsieur Erik, please, make him go away!"
"Why me!" Garrick objected. "I have done nothing! Why do you trust him more than me?" He gestured toward Erik. Erik should have been insulted by the younger man's blatant implication.
"Because he– he could have– and he didn't." She sobbed. "He was always there in the shadows watching us. But he never hurt anyone. I knew that he killed Jose– " She stopped and looked at Erik. "I am sorry. I never meant to say it. But I knew it was because of me!" Fear etched pain and terror on her face. Garrick stared at him in confusion.
Erik faced them, speechless. It was as though they were talking about someone else. He felt no relation to the man they stared at with such apprehension. It would not serve Michelle well to believe that she was the reason that a man was now dead.
"It wasn't just because of you that I killed him. I was saving my own skin. He was trying to get rid of 'The Phantom' to gain fame and fortune. Monsieur Firmim had offered him a reward to do it." He said flatly. "I am late for an appointment. I must insist that you allow Garrick to accompany you. I have found him to be of exceptional character. We are both now in a position that we must trust him. I have everything to lose if he were to go to the authorities now." He spoke quietly and evenly, his gazed fixed upon Garrick. There was no lack of communication between the two men. If Garrick valued his life, he would remain silent.
Garrick squared his shoulders and offered a hand to the girl to assist her to her feet. She accepted with her eyes lowered and her body stiff. It briefly occurred to him that Garrick was affected by the girl but, the boy did not have the slightest idea how to respond to her. She was simply terrified.
The three of them proceeded to the opening of the storm drain that Erik had used earlier. Garrick lifted Michelle out on to the street and Erik watched them disappear. He waited just a minute before pulling him self up and out, replacing the grid. Michelle and Garrick were a fair distance down the street.
Erik followed for a distance. He congratulated himself for doing a good deed. Michelle would be in the best place possible. Madame Giry would be in communication with others in the business of ballet and theater. After the baby was born, Michelle would be able to continue with her career. The how, where and when would be up to her. He had done his part.
The business along the street were closed and dark. Erik stopped beside the entrance of the bistro he passed earlier in the evening and moved silently into a narrow alley to the back door of the business. A light shone beneath the door indicating a presence within. He rapped on the door three times in steady rhythm and waited. It was just a moment before the door open and a short, rounded, balding man stood back to allow Erik to enter.
"Good evening, Monsieur." The man said.
"Good evening, Francois." Erik returned the greeting. "I smelled something divine coming from your kitchen tonight. What is responsible for tempting my stomach so terribly." Erik smiled at the man. It felt good to allow his face the exercise of a genuine smile. Francois wiped his hands on his big white apron, extending his arm toward a chair near a sturdy wooden table. He regarded the man in the mask with respect and kindness. He was one of the few people who treated him with unconditional fairness. Erik suspected that it was because the man was totally blind. He was a veritable genius in the kitchen, where being able to see had less to do with success than being able to taste and smell.
"I tried something new. The customers seemed to like it. The pheasant seemed a little tough, so I marinaded it overnight in wine and herbs. I saved you some in the oven with some green beans, caramelized onions and potatoes. I know how you don't like to eat red meat, so I thought the bird would more to your liking. I was expecting you last night. Tyrone enjoyed your grilled halibut and creamed peas." Tyrone was the orange tabby in the corner grooming himself.
"There will an opium delivery on Tuesday, as usual. Tell Drew that the price has gone up, just a little bit. Five percent is all." Erik said.
"I'll tell him, but he won't like it." Francois mumbled as he opened the oven using a thick oven mitt for handling the hot tin plate. He set the plate on the table in front of Erik and poured a light wine into two glasses. Erik praised the talent of the chef with the first bite. Erik always enjoyed the company of Francois. They talked politics, history, music and food. Francois was a loyal patron of the opera and a judicious critic. His lack of sight had sharpened his other senses, giving him an excellent memory, a profound ear, and an exemplary sense of taste and smell. Erik supplied opium to the owner of the Bistro, Drew Murdock, but Murdock didn't know that he provided Erik's main meal of the day after the paying customers went home. Francois looked forward to Erik's late night visits, because few others were interested in his opinions or his interests outside what he cooked for them. He lived in a room above the bistro, and never left the little kitchen except for the rare occasion that he attended the opera. The night's conversation eventually got around to the tragedy of the Paris Opera House.
"I heard the customers talking about the fire at the Opera House today. Some think that it was an accident. After all, the chandelier cable was old. Others think that the Phantom of the Opera did it."
"What do you think?" Erik asked.
"Well, if the phantom lived at the Opera, why would he destroy his own home?"
"Maybe he planned on moving."
"Where would he go?" Francois displayed his hands, palms out.
"I don't know. Where would you go if you were him?" Erik found the conversation both disturbing and intriguing.
"I'd stay put and not do anything to draw attention to myself. I hear he was besotted with a soprano, but she loved the viscount. Women will do that." Francois said. Erik wondered just how much the chef knew. For now, they could only speak hypothetically. If the chef knew who Erik was, it was better that he pretend otherwise, for both their sakes.
"Do what?" Erik wanted to know what it was that women did that explained Christine's behavior.
"Women are ruled by emotion. Love is everything to them. Men are logical and reason what is best for them."
"Was there a woman is your past or present, Francois?" Erik asked in an effort to change the focus.
"Oh yes, but she never knew how I felt about her. She married someone else." Francois said. The topic was getting too personal. Erik was reminded that Christine was marrying someone else as well. His stomach clenched in misery. He excused himself, collected the money he'd come for and left.
Out in the cool night air, Erik tried to clear his head. He didn't need a reminder that his love had left him for another. It was an ever present reality, first and foremost in his thoughts. He wondered where she was. Was she happy? Was she safe? Did she think of him? Even though it had only been two days, the minutes seems to drag forever. It still amazed him that his heart was still beating. He hoped the viscount was hopelessly disappointing.