Thank you, everyone, for the lovely reviews. They do mean a lot to me. I have emailed several of you but some of them were returned. I replaced chapter 2 because of a nasty typo and hope you enjoy this next chapter. IloveGerry, I hope it is fluffy enough without being "over the top."
Meg opened the front door to the House of Clureoux as quietly as she possibly could without alerting anyone to her presence. The foyer was empty. She almost made it to the top of the stairs when she came face to face with her mother, who was headed in the opposite direction.
"Meg, I didn't hear you come in." She said pleasantly. Meg braced herself for what inevitably came next. "What on earth happened to your hair... and your dress? Margaret Adele Giry, what have you been up to?" It was never a good sign when Madame Giry called someone by their full name.
"Mother, you're not going to understand. I don't want to talk about it and I have a headache."
"You've never had a headache in your life. Now, tell me what happened to put you in such disarray and foul temperament." Madame Giry commanded. "And where is Reginald? Why didn't he come in with you to bid goodnight? Where is that boy's good manners?"
Meg should have known that her mother would never give up and she hadn't been able to successfully lie to the woman in all her nineteen years.
"There were some revolutionaries that were causing a commotion and looking for a fight. One of the brutes punched Reggie in the nose and for all I know, he is still out cold!"
"Oh, Meg, this is terrible. Where did this happen? Are you hurt? Is Reggie going to be alright?"
"I think he will make a full recovery soon. Edwin will see to him." Meg said trying not to share any unnecessary details.
"Oh, the poor boy!" Even Madame Giry wasn't accusing him of being a man, Meg noted, but held her tongue. The less she said to her mother, the better. "I'll come and help you undress." She said. "The dress will wash and it doesn't look torn. That is good." Meg was actually relieved that Madame Giry seemed more concerned with the condition of the dress than with her daughter. If she were to know of Meg true disposition she would be shocked. Even Meg lacked the vocabulary to express it. How did one describe the feelings that were born of rejection. Anger, indignation, humiliation, confusion, frustration. There should be a word that embodied all those things.
Meg washed her hair and was brushing it out when Michelle knocked on the door. The young woman entered upon Meg's welcome.
"I heard about the revolutionaries." Michelle said quietly, as though unsure of the wisdom in bringing up the incident. "How is Reggie?"
"I think he will be alright. Edwin looked after him and he didn't say anything about him being seriously hurt." Meg said dispassionately.
"You're being rather insensitive about this. Don't you think? Did you tell him you're not interested? Poor Reggie has been through so much." Michelle said.
"You sound like my mother."
"Did you?" Michelle also had Madame Giry's persistence.
"I didn't. I couldn't! He is going to war. How could I tell him that I don't feel anything more than a sisterly affection for him. He could die and I would have to live with a guilty conscience for the rest of my life."
"How terrible for you." There was just enough sarcasm in Michelle's tone as to not to be offensive.
"What was I supposed to do, Michelle? Let him know that he is too immature and self-assured for my taste? I do like him well enough as a friend and really I didn't want to hurt his feelings...which is easily enough accomplished!"
"What did he do to inspire such ire."
"He asked me to write to him while he is serving his noble country. How could I say no? But I can't do it. Michelle, you have to help me. Write to him. You are so much better at such things than I am."
"I can see that I must, for if it were left up to the likes of you, our soldiers would have nothing left to hope for. They would turn themselves over to the enemy and beg to be put out of their misery."
"What are you talking about? I didn't tell him that I don't love him. I'm doing my patriotic duty." Meg defended.
"Your sacrifice is appreciated. I'm sure."
"You mock me, but you don't know what it has cost me." Meg lamented.
"What could allowing a man to believe that someone cared whether he lived or died have cost you?"
"Erik heard it all. I didn't know it was him. He was sitting in the corner and he heard my promise to Reggie. He was there when Reggie was knocked out. It was he that saved me from the ruffian who grabbed me. I heard a sound that hissed just above my head and I was released."
"The punjab lasso." Michelle gasped.
"It may have been. I didn't see it." Meg confessed.
"He saved you from the revolutionaries? That is very dashing and romantic." Michelle sighed.
"Hah! Except that he implied that I started the commotion. I don't think he likes me much. He knows that I was leading Reggie on, and he thinks I'm a woman who takes extra lovers."
"Oh, dear." Was all Michelle could supply in the way of comment.
Erik was a little early for his usual appointment with Francois. Accompanying Meg home had put him in the neighborhood earlier than he'd planned. The Bistro was only a few blocks from the boarding house on the same street.
The blind chef was instantly wary, when Erik knocked. "Who's there." He called out. Erik didn't respond. It was his way. Anyone else outside the door that knew Francois was blind would identify themselves. Erik didn't have that luxury. If Francois was not alone, it would be an uncomfortable situation to say the least. Erik knocked again, with a plan to hide himself in the darkness if necessary. The door opened. "Who plays pranks on old Francois?" The chef demanded angrily.
"You're not old, Francois. A little crusty and bad tempered, but not old." Erik teased.
"Get in here, you scoundrel." Erik laughed and entered the shabby kitchen. "Would you like some tea, coffee or wine?"
"Wine would be welcome right now." Erik said taking off his cape and hat.
"Do I sense that my old friend is having a bad day?"
"What? Now you think that I'm old? Don't include me in your delusions of old age!" Erik protested without rancor.
"You are showing the signs, my good man. You've mellowed and that is always the first evidence."
"Bah! I'm monstrous as I always was." Erik debated weakly. "Though I shall have to mend my ways or you will think that I've gone soft and take advantage of me."
"It is you who takes advantage of me. I cook for you and it has been so long since you played the violin for me." The chef complained though his protest lacked bitterness.
"Then I will have to play for you tonight." Francois wasted no time in bringing the old violin to his friend. Erik took a drink of wine before plucking the strings. It had been a long time. The violin was badly out of tune. Deftly, he tightened the strings and brought the instrument into precise pitch. He put the bow to the strings and at once the violin and the man became one, each an extension of the other. Without hesitation or question the instrument did the bidding of the musician and the musician became the instrument of the tune. It felt good to play again and Erik let the melody take over, dictating his movement. The more he played, it became a release for his heart's pain. When the song ended he started another one, a passionate aria from one of his favorite operas. He continued playing until almost an hour had passed. The final song being a haunting, beautiful melody in a minor key. Erik often played with his eyes closed as it was easier to let the music to do it magic without the distractions of the visual world. He opened them now to see Francois with tears streaming down his face.
"Mendelssohn." Francois said, correctly identifying the composer of the final piece. "It does my heart good to hear you play. My poor ears suffer all day either from silence or the gossip and whining of the customers. But business has been so bad lately that I actually miss it. I have some cheese and bread, but it has been impossible to get fresh poultry or fish. The army is the only buyer of fresh meat these days. About all I can get is mutton so I have mutton stew to offer and little else.
"Your mutton stew is better than the fattest beef or lamb anywhere else. I do not feel slighted. I suppose that we're in for some hard times all around. If I am to dine on mutton stew for a year I should not complain. There are people with much less." Erik said taking a bite of the promised stew.
"There you go again, getting all soft. There is talk about the uprising. Do you think that The Commune will succeed?" Francois asked.
"They will succeed in making war. They are fools. They do not have well organized leadership. Their weapons are crude and they are poor. If they last a week in battle against the Prussians, I will be surprised. The French and the Prussians will unite against the commune and the people will be defeated."
"But the people have a right to protest a Prussian invasion." Francois argued.
"I'm not saying that the working class don't have a position. I'm saying that they lack qualified leadership and means to accomplish their goal." Erik said.
"It is a disgrace that the French army is in opposition to the very people who pay for their support and are hired to protect."
"That is where you are wrong. The army was never meant to serve the people. It is meant to serve those in power. And keep them in power." Erik argued.
"France will become a true republic yet, like America." Francois said dreamily. "If The Commune is successful, the people can rule themselves."
"There will always be the strong who will prey on the weak. Communism is just an economic philosophy and will only serve a utopian society and that instantly suggests strict mandates and oppressive rule. And the United States of America has a capitalist economy with their own problems. They are still recovering from a civil war over their states' rights that lasted five years. America is an infant, compared to France, and has to withstand many growing pains yet." Erik finished his stew and rose to leave.
"It has been good to visit with you again, Erik. You make me think." Francois said.
"Good evening, Francois. I have work to do and must not tarry."
"Do not forget this, Monsieur." Francois said, handing him a sealed envelope.
"Oh, yes. Thank you." Erik took the envelope and noted its weight. Though meat and other perishables were a scarcity, within the city, the aristocracy did not deprive themselves of their opium. They were even willing to pay the slight increase in price.
Although the British sought to control the opium trade either for cited health concerns or for profit, the French didn't seem to feel as threatened by the drug. Also, while the Brits tried to control the flow out of India and the far east, Erik promoted a finer quality product distilled in Persia. Rather than the course product that was customarily smoked, Erik dealt a high grade liquid in an alcohol base. It could be mixed with a beverage and the amount easily controlled. His biggest clientele were doctors who routinely prescribed it to treat everything from colic in infants to cancer. While Erik's little business was not illegal, there were those who wanted it to be controlled by the government and not private enterprise. Erik also undersold the merchants looking to make large profits, and he had the bottled product packed in cases and delivered to local business where the customers could simply have a flask or small bottle filled. It was inexpensive, untraceable and discrete. The product was transported from Persia along with the beautiful carpets and textiles the Parisians loved. Erik arranged for the opium tincture to be delivered on specific days of the week by Hassan, a Persian who accompanied the merchant caravan. Hassan brought only the amount of product ordered. There was never a surplus that needed to be stored.
Erik remained in the shadows after leaving the Bistro. The fog had lifted and a full moon illuminated the locality a little too well. There was an unusual amount of activity in the street. Police seemed to be on every corner. He picked his way through the back alley toward the storm drain between the Bistro and the House of Clureoux. A policeman stood on the very grid that would have been his escape route. He should have not have stayed so long with Francois.
He wasn't exactly trapped. In fact he had several choices of how he could get back to his underground apartment. He could backtrack and go several blocks, past two policemen, to another storm drain, a smaller one that was nothing more or less that a large ceramic pipe barely large enough for him to slide through on his belly until it merged with a canal designed for sewage. Not his favorite option. Continuing in that direction would lead him further from his intended destiny. He could play hide and seek with armed policemen and walk through the streets, or he could stay where he was in a narrow ally between two large houses. With the strain and threat of violence, the police were quicker to pull the trigger than ever. If the mask wasn't a dead giveaway to his identity, the deformity would be for sure. Erik couldn't depend on the war distracting them entirely from the still recent disaster at the Opera Populaire and the renown, Opera Ghost.
Several of the old houses had cellars that would inevitably lead to where he wanted to go, the oldest being the House of Clureoux. He knew it had a cellar that lead to the tunnels but it may have been blocked off. The underground passage was remarkably well preserved and relatively unknown. But whether or the not the doorway was passable remained a mystery. There was only one way to find out. Another advantage of going to the House of Clureoux, was that the occupants would be less likely to turn him over to the police, should he be spied en route.
It wasn't near so difficult as tedious to prowl through people's back yards. Dogs especially were a nuisance. The little ones actually were more of a threat than the big ones. They were difficult to see in the dark and more inclined to bite. In many cases he could pacify the dog by being friendly. Although he'd managed to avoid any yards with dogs in them, thus also avoided being bitten, half a dozen hounds had begun to alert the neighborhood to a presence, his presence. Three people had stuck their heads out their windows and commanded the dogs to be quiet. Naturally, the dogs continued to sound their warning. It was a matter of time when someone would investigate a disturbance.
Erik cleared the brick wall into the modest garden and looked for the exterior door to the cellar. It was there with a short stairwell leading down to it. The door was barred from inside. To break it down would be self-defeating. There had to be another way. He knew that many of the houses had an interior and exterior access to their cellars. If he could get in through a window, finding the cellar would be easy enough. There was still a risk that the entrance to the tunnels would be blocked even if he made it into the house. It wouldn't serve his purpose to act hastily. There wasn't so much as a flicker of light in any of the windows of the house. The kitchen door was firmly bolted, from the inside. Four small balconies were evenly distributed across the second story. Their distance suggested one for each room, probably bedrooms. Each balcony had double doors with glass panes. Only one was open. Naturally it was his first choice. Getting to it presented a problem, though not an impossible one. He couldn't quite reach the balcony floor by standing or even jumping.
The Punjab lasso. It would be the second time this evening that he would find it invaluable. Ordinarily the Punjabis used a fine silk cord or rope fastened to the lead weight on the end. Erik, however, had discovered piano wire. It was stronger and in some ways easier to manage than rope. It was thin and undetectable in a pocket or even carried coiled around his hand. He swung it carefully now to get the desired momentum before striking the wrought iron railing of the balcony. The lead weight continued the momentum, wrapping the wire neatly and firmly around the railing. He wrapped the wire free end of the wire around his gloved hand once and pulled himself up onto the balcony, and stood against the wall, after retrieving the lasso. The door remained open but he hesitated, knowing that as soon as he stepped it front of it, he would cast a shadow and alert the one inside to his whereabouts. He hoped whoever it was that occupied the room was asleep. He listed for the sounds of snoring. Breathing. He heard breathing, but not the long drawn out breathing of one asleep. It was shallow and quick.
"Who's there?" Someone asked hushed and frightened. It was Meg. Erik almost laughed with relief. She pushed the door open wider and stepped out to where he could see her. Before she could scream, he clapped his hand over her mouth, but he should have been more concerned with the object in her hand that she used to club him with.
Erik stifled a string of curses, grabbed her arm with his free hand and twisted it behind her back. Quickly he stepped into the room, pulling her with him. The darkness of the bedroom was safer than the illumination of full moonlight. He wrenched the object from her, holding it up to the window for what light it could give. It was an iron poker for the fire place. Fortunately, for him, she only hit him on the side of his head, instead of goring him with it.
"Shhhh." He breathed. "Don't make a sound and nobody gets hurt." She was trembling. He'd frightened her near to death. In all fairness, he'd deserved it when she whacked him on the head. She was no longer struggled, but leaned softly against him. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth and turned her around to look at him. He put his index finger to his lips and smiled reassuringly. If she was indeed as infatuated with him as she thought she was, she wouldn't scream or rat on him. But it was in his best interest to be his most charming.
"We meet again, Mademoiselle." He soothed. "What luck, have I, that brings me to your delightful chamber? I must implore upon your gracious nature to help me get out of here through the cellar." He barely breathed the words. A multitude of emotions flickered across her face in an instant before she slapped him on his unconcealed cheek.
"What the hell did you do that for!" He hissed. Unsure of she might do next, he imprisoned her again in his arms, holding her arm behind her.
"You come in here like you did, and expect that I should help you!" Meg whispered harshly.
"I admit that my time and method of arrival leave a lot to be desired, but I need your help. I thought that you wanted to be my friend." He said.
"I don't believe you. If I hadn't been awake, you wouldn't have needed my assistance at all. You're trying to mollify me so that I don't scream and wake up the entire household." She continued to keep her voice at a whisper, though it was clear to Erik that she wanted to scream at him. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't be trying to charm me. I have made known my feeling for you and now you use it against me!"
Erik released her and moved away, watching her warily. The simple white gown she wore was not designed to entice a man, but the way she filled it out was. It didn't help that her eyes sparkled with passion, reflecting in the full moonlight. He must not let her see that he was affected by her. The way he responded to her kiss in the Marques's garden was enough for him to know that if he were to allow it, he would be powerless over his own desires. She was a woman with all the attributes that any healthy male longed for. He was no different in that aspect. But another woman still haunted him and until she was gone, he was unfit to love another. He would not use Mademoiselle Giry to satiate his desire for another. She deserved more than he was able to give her.
"You are infatuated. You have discovered your feminine intuition and the power it gives you over the gullible male species." Meg lunged for him. Erik caught her hand before she struck him. "You have struck me twice and though I have never condoned hitting a woman, the third time might change that." He said, and Meg was immediately made aware that she may have gone too far.
"You implied that I am a loose woman. I have never..." She stopped unable to find the words to continue.
"No, Mademoiselle. You are not a loose woman, but you are young. Now you imagine yourself in love, but have you thought of having to look at this for the next forty years?" Erik pointed at his mask. "Or this!" He stripped off the mask and stood before her breathing raggedly.
"I have thought of it. I have dreamed of it. It does not frighten me." She faced him only inches away, her anger undisguised in her whispered reply. He replaced the mask. Even though she didn't recoil as he expected her to, he was uncomfortable being exposed.
"I must find the cellar. Time is short and I have things to do." He said abruptly. "If you will not help, then so be it."
"I will help you. Follow me, but take off your boots. They will make too much noise." She said. Without further debate, he obliged, sitting down on the edge of her bed to carry out the task. If she was to only have little memories of him in her life, this would be one of her most treasured. There was something oddly intimate about him sitting on her bed and taking off his boots, and she had to take what little pleasures came her way.
Erik followed Meg down the stairs and into the kitchen. Erik hastily put his boots back on and Meg lit two candles. She handed one to Erik, before descending into the musty cellar. Meg had never been in the cellar before and from the looks of it neither had anyone else, for a long time. The room was fairly large though it did not run the full length of the building. Cobwebs drooped heavily and low. They were so old even most of the spiders had abandoned them. There wasn't a single window in the room. Crates, chests and old furnishings were randomly placed through out the room. Meg shivered and stopped.
"Doesn't anybody come down here?" Erik asked with some surprise.
"I don't think so. Jacques uses the large pantry for storage and a burlap chill box. I don't think Aunt Clair ever comes down here. Uncle Alec never even gets as far as the kitchen."
"I believe that the passage runs north and south along the street and joins up with the one connecting the church, and the convent." Erik said to himself. "There is the door leading to the back yard, so that is east. This house is less than a 100 years old which is still relatively new by some standards and there wasn't a decent house built for twenty years after the revolution that didn't have an underground exit. It has to be here." He began searching the perimeter of the room and stopped before a tall stack of shelves on what he determined was the north wall. The passage way should have been on the west. A heavy old dining room table stood in front of it. "Help me move the table." He ordered. Meg complied.
Just as he suspected, the heavy wooden bookcase was really a door. It groaned in protest, as Erik pulled it open. The chamber behind the door had all the charm and ambiance of a tomb. Erik stepped into the room with a grin and held the candle higher. The room was definitely part of the original construction, finished with kiln fired brick on the walls and floor. Even the ceiling was expertly plastered. The room was approximately a hundred forty feet square and almost empty, a bench being the only furnishing. A heavy door occupied the nearest corner of the west wall. It was locked. Erik reached into his pocket for a tool he'd made himself out of an old pewter spoon and expertly picked the lock. The passage was there as he knew it would be. Satisfied, he stepped out into the dark corridor.
Meg followed. Erik turned to face her, blocking her path. "Goodnight, Mademoiselle. I thank you for an unparalleled evening." His voice lacked the sarcasm his words implied. His intent was to make his escape without further offending her. He failed.
"The next time you climb up to my balcony, it had better be because you want to make love to me." Meg muttered the words under her breath as he turned away. She barely whispered them, not expecting that he would hear. He stopped suddenly.
"If I did, would you really let me make love to you?" His voice was sharp.
Meg stopped, embarrassed and unsure of how to answer. "How can I answer that? If I say yes, you might believe that it is something that I would do thoughtlessly. If I say no, you will think that I am a tease."
"You are a tease. I profoundly recommend that you do not say things that you don't mean." Erik said as a final command and strode away from her for the second time that night.
The tunnel led, as Erik expected, to the passages joining a church and a convent, which, in turn, lead almost straight to the chambers beneath Madame Rustelle's brothel. The irony was not lost on him, but he'd never noticed a heavy presence by the clergy in the subterranean world. His room under the laundry offered a cool and welcome sanctuary. He lit a lamp, using the candle Mademoiselle Giry had given him. The floor plan of a four story apartment building lay scrolled up on the table. He would work on the exterior view.
Phineas Claude Peroux, a young architect, had successfully bid on and won Erik's design for the same hotel he'd offered Charles Garnier. Perhaps he would appreciate this design as well. A distant rumble, following a distinct vibration rippled through the city. Erik grabbed the oil lamp that threatened to vibrate off the table. The rumbling quickly subsided. He listened for the sound of falling rocks that would signal a cave in outside his door. It wasn't a cave in. It was a distant cannon. Another muffled blast and the echoing rumble vibrated though Erik's hidden domain. The reality above had taken a nasty turn. Erik grimaced, but replaced the lamp and went to work. It wasn't his war.