The facia and cornice of the proposed building were too narrow to balance the height of the building, Erik decided after looking over the drawing several times. The popular stye of the Mansard roof was also giving him cause for concern. The steep slope allowed for extra space either for storage or inexpensive living quarters but the flattened peak weakened the integrity of the entire roof. If there was any assurance about a flat roof, it was that it would leak. Maintenance would become a problem over time. The aesthetic value was pleasing, though, and the arched dormers, jutting out of the roof, gave the windows a certain human element like arched brows over watchful eyes. White ornate cresting embellished the roof like a daintily worn tiara.
Erik leaned back and let his head fall backward on the high back of the chair, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired. Each time a cannon went off, it sounded as thunder and reverberated through the earth. If he were to be completely honest, he didn't care whether the people of Paris or the Prussians and the French army won the fight. He just wished they would stop bombarding the city with their cannons. The causalities of the war would inevitably include some of Paris's finest structures. His following thought brought him back to the apartment building. If the fools upstairs insisted on tearing down the city, he would rebuild it.
He continued to work through most of the night. Around five o'clock in the morning, the cannon fire stopped briefly and Erik put his drawing tools away. The feather tick was an inviting consolation to his tired back.
Sleep did not overtake him instantly, as he wished. Visions, unbidden, crept into his consciousness. Mademoiselle Giry played an active role. Christine watched from the side. Meg Giry had become the all too grown up Margaret. She toyed with him as he drifted in and out of slumber. She danced about him, graceful and lovely, her costume wispy and nymph-like. Erik pretended not to notice. Christine was the one who's love and attention he longed for. He searched for her and saw her watching. But she did not appear envious that her friend was dancing for him. Quite the opposite, she seemed pleased. Her lack of jealousy angered him. Perhaps he would give her something to think about. Boldly, he reached for the lovely Margaret, but she spun away from his grasp. Startled, he looked into her eyes for an explanation. The pain reflected there surprised him. Who would have caused her such grief? Though he followed her, she continued to dance just out of reach. Soon they were so far away that he could no longer see Christine. He panicked, running back to where he'd seen her last. She was gone. He called her name; she did not respond. Because he was distracted by the beautiful, blond ballerina, his Christine was lost to him.
Erik woke to the sound of his own voice, calling Christine's name. His heart was racing and he felt clammy. Beads of perspiration cooled his forehead. He willed himself to be calm. It was a nightmare. Waking to the realization that he was alone both eased and frightened him. The old feelings of abandonment haunted him. Christine would not return. He knew it without a doubt. But why did he feel that he was being unfaithful to her when Margaret Giry stirred his blood. What hold did Christine have on him? She had made her choice. Would there ever be a time when she did not haunt him?
He thought of Mademoiselle Giry. She was not frightened of him. That was evident in the way she struck him when he attempted to charm her. She'd confessed that she was attracted to him. What did she see in him that fascinated her? When he climbed up to her balcony the previous evening, he really didn't expect to find her waiting to clobber him with a fire iron, but the exchange was curiously stimulating. Her comment on him climbing up to her balcony to make love was reminiscent of a scene from Romeo and Juliet. She had a romantic heart and an appreciation for life's ironies. The revelation pleased him. He laughed in the darkness.
Trying to sleep was a waste of time, so Erik lit the lamp and made tea. Cautiously, he moved through the corridor with a pail to get water for bathing. He placed the bucket under a leaking pipe that supplied the city with culinary water. It would take a while for the pail to fill and he debated briefly whether to stay and protect his bucket from thieves or make better use of his time working on the design for the apartment building.
There seemed to be an agitated current flowing though the underground. Erik noticed it the moment he stepped outside his door. A distant voice echoed through the chiseled corridors. Erik didn't recognized the source, and the message came in half garbled syllables, though he could discern the nature of the meeting. Revolutionaries. Moving closer to the sound, through a familiar passageway, he listened.
The Government of the National Defense had sent troops to seize the artillery of the National Guard and been met women and children who mingled with them and charmed the soldiers into not firing on the fathers and husbands of the working class. When General Lecomte ordered the French army to fire on the National Guard, they refused.
Erik moved closer to the large cove where the revolutionaries met. Their torches lit the place up so brightly that Erik had to remain where he could not see who the men were, not that it mattered to him. What they did was not his concern outside of his natural curiosity about how the war was progressing. He learned that they planned to target the Hotel de ville and which buildings had already taken the worse hits. The police and both armies had killed many indiscriminately, but the revolutionaries were not going to be discouraged.
Erik retrieved his bucket of water, returned to his room and took a cool bath. It reminded him that he must include a modern plumbing system in his designs and gaslight for every room. He put on a fresh shirt and trousers. The laundry upstairs did a suitable job of maintaining his wardrobe. It was the one of the few advantages to his location.
He returned to his work. The design was coming along nicely and would be finished soon.
A heavy pounding on his door startled him momentarily. It wasn't a policy of his to open the door to just anyone. A number of possibilities crossed his mind. The army, police, thieves, revolutionaries. None of them were welcome.
"M'sir Phantom?" A youth's voice identified Garrick. Erik unbolted the door. The boy stood in the corridor partially illuminated by the lamplight inside. "The war! M'sir, It is civil war. The army is fighting the national guard and the people." He spit out the words and gasped for air. Erik stood aside and let the boy enter, closing the door quickly behind him.
"Yes, I am aware of it. The cannon fire has rattled my nerves all night." Erik responded warily.
"Fight with us, M'sir! We need everyone who can hold a gun and use a sword." Garrick implored him.
"Do you think that guns, swords and axes can overpower cannons? You waste your time and mine!" Erik stated unconditionally.
"But M'sir, the people have saved their money and bought a cannon. The National Guard has recruited every male of the working class that can hold a gun."
"Their money would have been better spent on food." Erik replied.
"The revolution is for all of France. The people will work for the good of everyone. If we unite, we can win!" Garrick announced proudly.
"Have you been reading Marxist propaganda?"
"I cannot read, M'sir." Garrick lowered his eyes.
"Then perhaps you should think! You can do that, can't you, boy?" Erik demanded impatiently. "There is no chance that the working class of Paris will defeat the Prussians without the help of the French army. The Prussian army pride themselves in being like a fighting machine and will deny themselves basic comforts for the sake of victory."
"The people of Paris are starving, M'sir. The bourgeoisie do not care if our bellies are empty and that babies cry themselves to sleep with no milk." Garrick looked away, but Erik saw the telltale reflection of the tears that puddled in the boy's eyes.
"Why do you come to me? I cannot be seen in public without someone wanting to take my life."
"I am not so different now. I must fight for my life. People are frightened of you and think that you have magical powers. They think that the devil supplies your magic."
"Do you think that the devil supplies my magical powers?" Erik asked cautiously.
"I do not know. If he does, he would be a powerful ally." Garrick said guiltily.
"So you are willing to sell your soul to the devil." Erik said, his voice booming theatrically. Garrick jumped visibly. Erik almost laughed, but for the sake of his performance, he stayed in character.
"No...I mean...I thought that...since you..." Garrick stammered.
"What?" Erik's asked silkily. "Since I what?" Garrick started edging his way toward the door. Erik blocked his path menacingly.
"Please..." The youth swayed. Erik reached out to steady him and steered him toward a chair.
"When was your last meal?" Erik demanded.
"Yesterday morning. I had a turnip." Garrick said woozily.
"Before that?"
"I had some bread. The day before."
"Where did you get it?" Erik asked more to keep the boy talking than anything else.
"I was so hungry, M'sir." Garrick protested weakly.
"You stole it?" Erik didn't care if the boy had openly carried off a loaf under each arm in broad daylight. He poured some tea in a cup and offered it to the boy. Tea would not sustain him, but it might keep him from passing out for the moment. Garrick took the tea and drank greedily. Erik gave him some cheese and shelled almonds. "Don't eat too fast. It will make you sick." In spite of Erik's warning, Garrick stuffed the food in his mouth as fast as he could and washed it down with the tea.
"This is how the Paris Commune will be defeated." Erik said. "They will starve to death. Famine is the most effective weapon of the bourgeoisie.
"But if you help us..." Garrick began.
"Oh yes, I was supposed to call on Satan to be your ally. What superstitions have you been taught? I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot call upon Satan to defend you." Erik declared, disgusted by the boy's simplicity.
"But they said that you made a pact with the devil and you can disappear in an instant. Bruno said that you did a disappearing act at the Opera Populaire, that only the devil could manage." Garrick protested.
"It is a skill, designed to impress the learned and confuse the ignorant. So I gather that Bruno, who ever the hell he is, is ignorant. You shouldn't use him as a tool of education."
"Would you teach me how to do it?" Garrick asked impressed with the possibilities.
"Absolutely not!" Erik declared emphatically. "If you should like to learn something useful, learn to read!"
"Would you teach me to read?" Garrick asked quietly.
"I have no time for such things. I am a busy man." Erik said quickly. Garrick's shoulders drooped and Erik was aware of his own selfishness. He thought of his own tutors, that his mother had hired. If they had all been as selfish, where would he be? When Erik had needed someone to venture into the world above, on his behalf, the boy had never refused. "However, I am in need of an assistant. I can give you some lessons in exchange for errands and the like. The first lesson is that you do not disturb me before noon on any day!"
"Then the second lesson should be for me to learn how to tell the time." Garrick responded honestly.
Meg sat at Aunt Clair's breakfast table with a blank expression. Buttery croissants and strawberry preserves, spicy sausages, soft boiled eggs, warm cheese rolls, fruit and fresh brewed coffee were laid out in an artful array. She thought of the children of the working class that were going hungry while she stared at a morning meal fit for royalty. No one else at the table seemed to feel the least bit apprehensive about having so much when there were those who had nothing. Meg could hardly eat. The food only left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Only hours after Erik left her, shortly after midnight, Meg lay awake, listening to the faraway thunder of the cannons. About that same time most of the house hold was awake and heard them. The revolt was the morning topic of conversation. Meg waited for someone to mention hearing something else in the night, but no one did.
Uncle Alec and Aunt Clair were firm in their support of the Government of the National Defense, the bourgeoisie administration, established after the capture of Napoleon III. Meg did not discuss her own views and she noticed that Madame Giry did not elaborate on her opinion either. The other boarders, also either kept their opinions to themselves or openly supported the position of the middle class.
By noon that day, a decree had been issued that all non-military individuals were to remain indoors. Also, the members of the House of Clureoux had been put on food and water rations until further notice.
Meg instantly regretted not eating her fill at breakfast when she saw the portions of bread and cheese that were her allowed sustenance for the day. There was to be no unnecessary bathing or laundry done. The atmosphere through out the house was one of fear and anxiety.
Uncle Alec, Aunt Clair, Madame Giry and several of the older guests gathered in the main parlor to discuss the turn of events in reverent tones. Meg and Michelle kept each other company either in the kitchen with Jacques or in Meg's room.
Michelle's abdomen was expanding to the point that it was becoming impossible to ignore. Meg privately hoped that the baby would not make an appearance any time soon. They didn't discuss "Michelle's condition," as Madame Giry called the pregnancy.
Gunfire and the blasts from the cannons rattled the widows and shook the building. Meg's nerves were strung so tight that even the slightest sound of someone moving about the house could make her jump. The feeling of helplessness and hopelessness was the hardest to deal with. Not knowing how long the war was to go on and the fear of death gripped everyone.
Three days passed with no change. Everyone continued to speak in hushed tones. The shades remained drawn. Cannon fire sent shock after shock through the city. Aunt Clair had begun reading aloud in the main parlor late each morning before the noon day meal. Breakfast consisted of a boiled egg or a small portion of sausage and a piece of bread and coffee. Luncheon was minor portions of cold ham, cheese and dried fruit. Tea was served late in the afternoon with toast with honey and pickled herring. No one complained for it was much more than many enjoyed throughout the city.
Meg hadn't told anyone about Erik's late-night visit, not even Michelle. But the cellar door that led from the kitchen took on a new significance. She dared not try to seek Erik through the tunnel mazes, but knowing that he had a direct access into her home, both thrilled and dismayed her. That he could seek her out if he chose, thrilled her. That he didn't, dismayed her. But even in her disappointment, she knew the hopelessness of her affection.
She began spending more and more time in the kitchen with Jacques and his wife, Hannah, the housemaid, doing odd jobs and errands to pass the time. They were a pleasant couple and Meg enjoyed their playful banter. She found herself wondering what kind of couple she and Erik would be, if they were to be a couple. She listened to them now, teasing each other for misplacing items.
"I know that I had some more dried figs and raisins here, yesterday. A whole loaf of bread is missing and if I'm not mistaken, a pound of smoked sausage and a brick of cheese are gone too." Jacques said distracted.
"I did not move them." Hannah replied defiantly.
"I was not thinking that they were moved but perhaps eaten." He said and was rewarded with a withering stare from his wife. "But how I love a woman with an appetite." He hastily countered, with a grin and wink.
"Do not speak another word, if you expect the comforts of married life tonight." She threatened him.
"I welcome the life of a bachelor over the one of a henpecked husband, my buxom bride." He replied without animosity.
"It is good that you feel that way, because I shall enjoy that bed all to myself, without the sound of your snores rattling the windows!" Came the mocking reply.
Meg did not take them seriously, for if Hannah carried any extra weight, her husband could not complain for it was all in the right places. She had heard their bickering before only to find them in the garden minutes later, stealing kisses. The missing pantry items, however, got her attention. The pantry was a small, eight by ten feet, windowless room lined with deep shelves, stacked six high, on three sides. It was constructed of thick brick and the door was always locked. Jacques and Aunt Clair were the only ones to have a key. It was also well stocked, though Meg didn't doubt that Jacques knew exactly what was in it at any given time. With everyone on wartime rations, stealing food was a serious accusation.
Meg instantly thought of Erik and the tool he'd used to pick the lock on the door leading to the underground passage.
"Maybe it was carried of by rats." Meg offered an explanation.
"In my pantry? I should say not!" Jacques denied vehemently. "The rats have left Paris. They do not like the sound of cannons balls rumbling through the earth, and they have better sense than to stay in a war zone. I think we have a thief in the house, though I should not like to mention it to anyone just yet. I may wait up tonight and see if anyone tries to break in. I have been denied my own bed tonight as it is. I might as well be useful here." He looked at Hannah for a rebuttal. None came, as she deliberately turned her back on her husband and walked out of the kitchen carrying a broom and a dustpan.
Meg stopped herself from begging Hannah to reconsider. If Erik were in need of a bit of nourishment, she would steal it for him herself. The last thing she wanted was for him to be caught. Even worse yet, if Jacques were to confront Erik, Jacques may get hurt.
An idea came to her and she went to her room to locate the ink and writing paper that she and Michelle had used to write to Reggie. After looking on the bureau and around her uncluttered room for several minutes, she concluded that it had been borrowed. She knocked on Michelle's bedroom door and entered upon the young woman's invitation. She was correct to suspect Michelle had borrowed it. She sat at a petite desk writing as Meg walked in. She looked just a little guilty, Meg thought.
"I was looking for the writing paper and I see that you have it. That is alright, but I should need it when you are finished." Meg said, not wanting to elaborate on the reason for needing the paper.
"I was a...uh..um...writing to Reggie. His letter came today and I thought that since we already decided that I would write to him that I...uh... would do it." Michelle confessed. "You were busy." She added hastily.
"That is good. I'm glad you are doing it." Meg started to leave.
"Don't you want to read his letter?" Michelle asked, a little surprised.
"No, unless you think that I should. I would want to know it he was wounded or anything, but if all's well, I think that you should reply as you see fit." Meg answered. She really didn't want to become further involved with Reggie. She already had enough to think about.
"He is well, though profoundly embarrassed by the other evening. He should like to make it up to you when it is safe to go out again. What shall I tell him?"
"I don't know," Meg admitted. "That is why you are doing this. I can't break his heart by telling him that I love another until after the war."
"You're being a coward, don't you think?" Michelle spoke boldly.
"Of course, I am. We've already established that! I don't want you to tell him that I don't love him, either. That would be just as cruel. I do care about him in a sisterly way. Try to come across as sisterlike so that he won't get any more romantic notions." Meg suggested.
"I shall do my best." Michelle said.
It wasn't until after everyone had retired for the evening that Meg went back down to the kitchen. Jacques was in the kitchen still obsessed over the stolen food and when he went into the pantry to investigate another possible disappearance, Meg slid the note, she'd been hiding in the folds of her skirt, under the cellar door. It was a gamble that Erik would even find it or that it was he, who had pilfered the food. The note wasn't addressed to anyone in particular, on the off chance that it wasn't Erik, who had raided the pantry. It was merely a warning that a trap was set. It was vague and without further explanation, but it would have to do. She was curious about whether or not Jacques would actually create some kind of trap or just sleep in the kitchen waiting for someone to set off an alarm.
"How do you expect to catch the thief?" Meg asked him when he reappeared.
"Well, I have checked the outside door to the garden and the cellar door. Both are barred from the inside. The only way, for someone to get in, is through the dinning room. I believe that the culprit is one of our guests. But I can hardly point the finger at anyone specifically." Jacques said, his hands spread.
"Oh." Meg said for lack of anything else.
"For now, I guess that I'll sleep next to the pantry door. If anyone tries to get in, they will have to move me out of the way. But I don't expect to catch anyone, merely let them know that I'm not fooled."
"Oh." Meg said again, aware of her redundancy and after bidding Jacques goodnight, she went to her room, silently praying that Erik would be the only one to find her note.
The gunfire between the army and the revolutionaries hadn't let up much and very little was known outside of what was printed in the daily newspaper that miraculously appeared every morning. Uncle Alec was the first to read it each day and shared the news with the others who anxiously awaited further information. Less than five days had passed since the army had been sent to capture the firearms of the revolutionaries. The mortality count continued to rise as the names of the deceased were published. Everyone listened for familiar names as they were read each morning.
Meg awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of an explosion. It boomed as a great thunder shaking the house to its foundation. She jumped out of bed and met Michelle in the hall. Together, they headed for Madame Giry's room. She met them at the door.
"Get dressed quickly." She ordered and the younger women obeyed. When Meg emerged again from her room, she wore trousers, high black boots and a white shirt. She joined the other members of the household in the main parlor. Michelle was right behind her. She stayed close to Meg. Uncle Alec was admonishing everyone to not panic, while Aunt Claire sat in her favorite chair, wearing a ivory dressing robe of satin and lace, and weeping profusely. Madam Giry stood next to her patting her shoulder and trying to comfort her.
Shouting, echoing gunfire, and horses could be heard out in the street. A loud rapping on the door caused everyone to jump. Uncle Alec opened the door to two soldiers who immediately pushed past him and shouted at everyone to remain where they were. One soldier pointed a bayonet at them, explaining that no one would be hurt, unless they were harboring revolutionaries. The other one rushed through the rest of the house, first upstairs, then on the main floor, into the kitchen, looking for fugitives. Meg thought she heard the door to the cellar open, hoping that she had imagined it. She may have also imagined the curious look that Jacques gave her, when her face paled.