Meg looked across the table at Michelle suspiciously. It struck her a little odd the way the girl had suddenly appeared and now was seated at her dinner table. Meg knew that it was her aunt's table but her seniority should mean something. It further irritated her that her mother hovered over the younger girl like she was the daughter instead of Meg. Michelle in return was sweet and thoughtful. Until now, in fact, Meg had always liked her. What bothered her was the manner in which Michelle had arrived. The whole thing reeked of Erik. Meg was jealous. Garrick had escorted both girls to their current living quarters. Meg just knew Erik had something to do with it. She couldn't help wondering what else he was involved with. Who he was involved with. She had believed that Christine was the only woman to attract his attention. Maybe he had hundreds of women that were willing to be his and he only wanted the ones he couldn't have.
Meg grabbed a dinner roll, ripped it in half, then slapped butter on it. She took a bite, then sipped some wine. Jealousy wasn't a new feeling to Meg. As a little girl, she smaller than any of her friends. Then Christine became part of the family. And, of course, she could do everything better than Meg. Christine didn't flaunted her talents, but Meg still felt inferior. Christine was a better dancer. She was sweeter. She was poised. She sang. Meg snatched her knife and fork. She attacked her steak. The fork scraped the plate with a high pitch tone as her knife severed the meat.
"Meg, are you feeling alright?" Madame Giry was looking at her daughter with eyes that spoke her intended meaning. Her eyes said, grow up, Meg, and behave as a lady.
"Yes, Mother," Meg said. It would have been useless to explain what she was feeling. Michelle looked at her too but with a look of apology. Michelle sensed Meg's resentment and Meg knew it. She even felt guilty for it. "I am sorry that I am such poor company. I am so tired of sitting around here all day. I feel like I'm rotting here when the whole city is alive and exciting." Again Madam Giry's eyes told her she was behaving like a spoiled child. She would have never said it in public, but the private message was clear. Meg was an accomplished student of her mothers unspoken communications.
"Perhaps you are ready to help out around here. Aunt Clair has been very generous and it is time for you to earn your keep. Until I am ready to open the studio, you will attend to housekeeping." Madame Giry took a tiny, prim bite of potatoes.
"Adele, we have maids." said Uncle Alec, scratching his beard.
Meg lowered her head in resignation, with a sigh. "Yes, Mama."
"I could help her." Michelle spoke up.
"Nonsense, child." Uncle Alec chuckled. "You're a paying guest."
"I am in need of a job, sir."
"We'll discuss it later."
"Meg," Her mother addressed, "As soon as I have the studio in working order, I want you back to dancing. You have a talent and it shouldn't be wasted."
"Yes, Mama." Meg felt like she was eight-years-old again. She didn't have to nerve to confront her mother on the way she treated her like she was incapable of making her own choices. Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine being swept away by a handsome fellow to a faraway dream where she could be pampered in style instead of the physically demanding routines she was accustom to. She loved to dance and found satisfaction in performing, but a lot happened before that first performance. It was often exhausting and sometimes painful to push herself into the grueling workouts. She never grumbled or complained. It just wasn't tolerated by her mother.
The meal continued in silence except for a couple of men discussing politics at the end of the table.
The next day, Meg and Michelle mopped the house's wooden floors after breakfast. Meg tried not to look at Michelle's slightly rounded belly. There had been no explanation as to why the girl was there. They didn't say much to each other. Meg wondered how Michelle knew Erik. Was he the baby's father? Meg didn't think so, but her thoughts strayed toward the possibility. She finished her task and stood to ease the cramp out of her legs. Michelle did the same.
"I guess that I'll dump the water." Meg said.
"No, I'll do it." Michelle offered.
"Alright." Meg conceded and was instantly overcome with guilt. She conveniently stifled it, however, and watched as Michelle took the pail down the stairs and out the door. She watched out of the second story window as the girl walked out to the street to pour the dirty mop water into the gutter. A sudden movement caught her eye. Garrick was half running, half walking toward Michelle. He called to her and she looked up. Meg watched with renewed interest. Garrick approached the girl with a shy grin. Maybe Garrick was the father of Michelle's baby. The thought was more appealing than her former speculation.
Michelle was shaking her head. The exchange was more reminiscent of a couple of shy teenagers than lovers, not that Meg knew much about lovers. There were couples where both worked in the theater and Meg only observed their comfortable communications in comparison to giddy and flirting couples who had just met. Garrick and Michelle fell into the neither category. Michelle's body language was not encouraging him though she seemed to be stealing glances from beneath her lashes. Disgusting, Meg thought. The girl was obviously with child, though Meg hadn't the slightest idea how far along she was.
She'd overheard gossip and conversations between women enough to know that nine months was the traditional time required for full term pregnancy, but outside of that, Meg knew absolutely nothing about babies and where they came from. She had only vague suspicion. For the moment, she also found it irritating that a girl four years her junior knew more than she. She hadn't asked Michelle about her baby or the baby's father. In fact, she hardly spoke to her about anything. And that was about to change.
The scene below had taken on a new dimension. Garrick's persistence had garnered a smile from Michelle and she no longer held herself stiff and aloof. The girl was a disgrace to be talking to a young man in public, especially in her condition!
"Oh, Michelle, there you are!" She called out the window. Meg knew her voice sounded fake and unnaturally bright, but it had the desired effect. Michelle said something to Garrick and he turned to leave, while Michelle returned to the house. Meg rushed down the stairs. "I can't believe the way you were speaking to that man in broad daylight and out on the street for pity sake. Have you no shame!" Meg knew she sounded just like her mother or even worse yet—a jealous, self-righteous hypocrite. Her mother would never have said those things to anyone, let alone a sweet-natured girl who was in need of friends and charitable treatment.
Meg had assumed that Michelle had allowed some boy to use her and now carried the burden of her foolishness. But in the back of her mind, it didn't seem right any more. There was an unusual clarity about the girl. Maybe pregnancy did that. Meg supposed that a woman was instantly nominated for sainthood when she conceived a child. But, of course, Michelle conceived a child out of wedlock, so her nomination was tainted.
Meg looked at her and was suddenly ashamed for her words. Tears moistened the younger girl's eyes.
"I am sorry, Michelle. I shouldn't have said that."
"But you are right. It is shameful for me to be seen with a man in public. Your family has been very kind to me. I brought shame on your uncle's establishment by my thoughtlessness. I will not do it again." Her voice betrayed the hurt Meg had caused.
"Don't be ridiculous. You have not hurt anyone. I was just insanely curious about the boy you were talking to. I'll fetch some tea and let's talk." In a few minutes, Meg was sitting across from Michelle at Aunt Clair tea table and pouring tea.
"Thank you." Michelle said politely.
"I am ashamed of what I said to you. I have behaved horribly since you got here. But I have to know something— though I have no right to ask. How— I mean, who—. Who is the father?" Meg blushed as she said it.
"Joseph Buquet." Michelle said, as a matter-of-fact.
"What!" It was the last possible response that Meg expected.
"He forced me." Again, the emotionless statement stunned Meg.
"That's horrible! I'm so sorry!"
"I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew. I feel like everyone is always looking at me and thinking that–. I don't what they think. I just wish that the ground would swallow me up and I could disappear." Michelle said. It was then that Meg realized that Michelle's aura of purpose was really the loss of innocence, trust and hope.
"No! I didn't!" Meg blurted out. Her guilt was compounded. "I can't believe that I thought—!"
"What? What did you think?"
"I don't even want to say it out loud." Meg despaired of her credibility.
"Tell me." Michelle's directness obligated Meg to be as honest.
"I thought it was— was The Phantom." Meg whispered and blushed again. Michelle began to laugh. "Well, I saw Garrick come with you that night you came to live here. I know that Garrick worked for Erik. I mean that— I went with him into the tunnels under the city and—." Meg stopped. She just wasn't sure how much she wanted to share.
"Who did you go with?" Michelle asked puzzled.
"Erik." Meg whispered.
"Why?" Michelle whispered back.
"I don't know." Meg said. To explain her actions would have involved insight that she wasn't sure of.
"What do you mean that you don't know. There must have been something that made you do something you didn't want to do." Michelle reasoned.
"That's just it. I wanted to go. I guess that I was just terribly curious." Meg tried to make her behavior sound reasonable.
"So then, what happened?"
"Nothing really."
"What did you expect to happen?" Michelle wasn't even shocked, and Meg was a little disappointed that the other girl didn't share her sense of adventure.
"I don't know. He kidnaped Christine, you know." Meg wanted to give her little adventure some added weight.
"I know, but what were you thinking?" Michelle looked scandalized. "You followed a strange man into the Paris underground who was of dubious reputation. Again, I ask, what were you thinking?" Meg didn't like the responses she was getting from the younger girl.
"I can't explain it. There was something about him..." Meg broke off. She simply couldn't put it into words. With knowledge of Michelle's awful experience, Meg could hardly blame her for her concern. The two of them sipped the rest of their tea in silence, each with their own thoughts.
Madame Giry made an entrance early that afternoon with the announcement that she had found a room suitable for a dance studio, but there was still much work needed to bring it to a useable condition. Meg was oddly dismayed at her mother's success. It meant that she would be expected to teach instead of perform. Her glory days were over even before they'd begun. She pretended to be happy with the prospect. It was the response that her mother expected and Meg didn't want to disappoint her.
"I shall celebrate our good fortune and buy a new hat. Perhaps you should come with me, Meg, and get out and about some." Madame Giry said, and Meg knew that her mother's invitation wasn't to be declined. "We shall bring you something nice, Michelle." She said kindly. Meg felt instantly sorry for the younger girl. It was her mother's way of saying that Michelle was unfit for public appearance and that she would have to be bought off with a pretty trinket.
"That's is thoughtful but also unnecessary, Madame. I am blessed by your kindness already." Michelle said. Madame Giry smiled at her indulgently and Meg knew that in a way her mother already thought of Michelle as her own daughter in much the same way she had welcomed Christine. Meg didn't feel jealous of the younger girl anymore. She pitied her. Michelle had no way of knowing that she was about to be mothered to the point of suffocation.
In less than an hour, the open carriage bumped along rhythmically. Meg did enjoy being out of the house and her mood was elevated considerably.
She wore a new spring dress dyed rose with a stiff fabric. It was fitted and stylish with the bustle being the latest fashion. Tiny tucks in the bodice gave it a striped effect. It was the first dress she owned that didn't give the impression that she was still a little girl. Most of her previous wardrobe had been cast-offs and make-overs from the wardrobe of the Opera Populaire. She was so accustomed to changing costumes that sometimes she didn't bother to get dressed in what her mother called 'street clothes.' Outside of the theater, this was seen as ill-bred and she conformed to what was expected of her: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. So, when in Paris, do as the Parisians do, which would be to wear whatever was considered at the height of fashion at the moment. She wondered if Erik would like it. He had gone to some lengths to obtain a spectacular gown for Christine that fitted her perfectly. Suddenly, she didn't want to think about Erik being with Christine. It was sickening to think of what he was willing to do for her and Christine had turned her back on it.
Her mother appeared to be enjoying the warm spring afternoon as well. She spoke of the studio and what it was going to take to get it in working order. Meg let her talk. She found the subject uninteresting to say the least, but it was of no use to say anything. If her mother found out that her thoughts rarely left the man that had wrought havoc on their very lives, she would be mortified.
"I understand there is a fine milliner of the name Pierre Grenois. I thought we would go there for a change." Meg only vaguely heard her mother until the name of the hatmaker slowly penetrated her ears and then her thoughts. The name sounded somehow familiar, although she knew she had never seen or worn a hat with his name on it. Some of the buildings were beginning to look familiar as well. About that same time, Meg recognized the name of the milliner's shop. It was practically across the street from the Chinese laundry. Meg felt her heart begin to beat quickly in her chest. Surely her mother would notice. She forced herself to breath deeply and not show the excitement that threaten to burst from within her. Suddenly she felt alive. Every nerve tingled with anticipation. She had never felt such exhilaration. It was with a mixture of shock and delight that she realized the source of her excitement. It was Erik. He did something to her. Just the thought of being in his company filled her with an energy that seemed to lift her beyond her greatest expectations.
Perhaps she could steal away for just a moment to see him. She knew she could find her way to the room where Erik lived. Would he be glad to see her? Probably not, she decided, but she had to see him again. It had been over a week since she'd seen him last and hardly an hour had gone by when she didn't think of him. She played the moments they had spent together in her mind over and over. She pictured him in her mind holding Christine in his arms as he sang the final verse of The Point of No Return . His tenderness had held her breathless as she felt her knees go weak before he cut the cord that held the scaffold above the opening that swallowed them.
As the carriage neared the hat shop, she looked for the Chinese laundry. It was there, the same as she remembered. Of course, she couldn't run toward it as she wished. She had to keep her thoughts to herself and follow her mother into the hat shop and pretend to be interested in hats until Madame Giry was sufficiently involved in her purchase that she wouldn't notice if Meg were to wander off. The days of her mother tying a length of twine around her waist and holding on to it so she didn't wander off and get lost were technically over but the grip remained just as firm in other ways. Meg knew her mother's protective instincts were natural and forgave her for them, but the time had come when the cord needed to be cut. She just hoped that her mother wouldn't be hurt when it happened.
It didn't take too long for Madame Giry to get interested in an assortment of ribbon and give Meg her chance. She knew she didn't have very long for her mother would be looking for her in a matter of minutes. She almost ran across the street and into the shed where the door led down the stone staircase. It was dark, but Meg carefully made her way in the dark. A narrow shaft of light shone several feet away illuminating the passage at the bottom of stairway. It was just enough light to see her way to the heavy door. It was strangely still. The only sound was her own footsteps.
She knocked on it as any well-bred lady would but walked in when no one answered. It occurred to her that Erik may be brooding on the other side and not in the mood to answer doors. Who would he be expecting anyway?
There was no one there. She closed the door behind her and looked around. The room was tidier than when she'd left it. The trunk remained in the corner. A few new comforts had been added: a fringed black brocade tablecloth and an oil lamp garnished the wooden table. A large upholstered chair with a matching foot stool was artfully placed near the trunk. Several books were neatly arranged on a low table next to the comfortable looking chair, along with another oil lamp identical to the one on the larger table. The lamps were lit, casting the room in a homey glow. A small wine rack, amply supplied, stood next to the cupboard.
Meg tried not to be irritated that Erik seemed to be doing so well without her. The recently acquired luxuries were an evidence that he wasn't wallowing in self pity, but instead looking to his own comfort and survival.
What had she been expecting? She really didn't know. The dramatic romantic in her pictured him wasting away in grief for his lost love. The practical side of her respected him more that he was not. Perhaps it was true that women were never satisfied. What would she have done in a similar situation, she wondered? The answer came instantly. She would have simply wasted away with sorrow. A sigh escaped her.
The door opened suddenly and without warning. Erik stood in the doorway staring at her as though she was a figment of his imagination. He held a tin pail full of water in one hand and a large linen towel in the other. His wore a white shirt, opened in the front to expose his throat and a narrow area of his chest. His sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow and the legs of his black trousers disappeared under tall polished black boots. His hair was loose and full, without the wig. The mask, he wore, was tan leather, almost fleshed colored. It didn't look anything more or less than a mask, but it lacked the theatrical glare of the white one. He seemed somehow more approachable this way. She had the distinct impression that he had just finished with some light house keeping. If it were possible, Meg found him that much more endearing.
"What the hell are you doing here?" So much for endearments.
"I thought that I would pay a social call, since I was in the neighborhood." Meg said, not about to be put off with his sour mood.
"You did, and now you can leave." Erik said placing the pail on the floor in front of the cup board. The room seemed to shrink with his presence. His head was only inches from the ceiling. "I know you mean well, but I would rather be alone."
"I don't believe you. Everyone needs somebody."
"Please, don't bore me with your 'Little Miss Ray of Sunshine' routine. I am a hermit, content with my own company."
"Then maybe it is I, who needs someone." The words came in a half whisper, for they almost stuck in her throat. He went still, his back to her.
"You do not know what you are asking and I don't believe you. There are plenty of young men who would court you if you gave them a chance. Whatever fascination you have for me will pass. You are young and impressionable." He spoke, retaining his back to her, his voice seemed somehow lower, huskier.
"Why do you think that I don't know my own mind?" She gathered her courage to continue, her heart beating frantically.
"Because I know what you don't know and I would never burden you with it. It is my cross to bear, my curse. I don't know what I did to offend the Almighty, but whatever it was, it must have been terrible to earn this mark. Do not believe that you can stand in the way of the will of God. You will only get hurt. I know this now and I accept it."
"No! God is not the one who does these things. I cannot believe it!" Meg protested.
"No?" Erik turned to face her now, an eerie calm about him. "Then who? The Master Deceiver? Thank-you, no. I still prefer to think that I am a creation of God."
"But why must everyone make God responsible for everything. Why don't we take responsibility for ourselves?"
"Because, Little Meg, if we take responsibility for ourselves, we have no one to blame but ourselves and we are back to where we started." He was smiling now, pleased with his little riddle.
"I don't understand you." She said.
"I don't expect you to. Half the time I don't understand myself. If I did, it would be easier to be me." He looked at her with a gentleness, that caused her heart to miss a beat. She may have imagined it, but she thought she saw a twinkle in his eye. In that moment, she knew that, indeed God was the creator and He had created her to love this man.
"I must leave, now." Meg said and hurried out before he could reply.
She found her mother only a little impatient with her, when she returned to the milliner's shop. She hadn't really been gone that long, only a half hour at the most, but it had been the moment when her life's mission became as clear as the sun coming up each morning. Anything that transpired for the remaining hours of the day were an inconsequential blur.