Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or any of its characters. I do own three cats, a beat-up Chevrolet, and a really nifty collection ofTibetan flute music, though.
A/N: This is a short one, so I'll put it up tonight.
The damnable little priest came calling tonight. I had just set my pen aside, weary from writing, and was hardly in the mood to see his small stout form at my doorway. I tried to beg off of his intended visit. It was late, I said, and I was tired. Some other evening, perhaps? As usual the annoying little man would not listen, but instead peered around me, and smiled with satisfaction at the pile of writing paper on my table. Ah, well. I grudgingly invited him inside. It does me well not to argue with Pere Simon. I never win. He has invaded my privacy, and has taken liberties with me that would kill other men, and yet I do nothing. Quite honestly, I am at a loss to know what to do, and so I reluctantly tolerate his presence.
The priest sat down without invitation, and began rummaging through the large woven sack he always carries. This time, no ink or paper were forthcoming. Instead, he produced a bottle of wine. He offered it to me, and as usual, was quite nonplussed when I told him that I do not imbibe. As always, he then asked if I minded if he partook of a bit of it, just to slake his thirst. As always, I brought him a goblet. We go through this charade each time Pere Simon brings his wine. I think it amuses the both of us.
The wine loosens Pere Simon's tongue, and he will talk for hours. I do not think it matters to him if I am listening or not. I most usually do listen, however. I really have no choice. I am not used to having such a cheerful voice echoing from the walls of my home. It is hard to ignore such a sound.
On one such occasion, Pere Simon confided that the cause of his downfall was twofold. His disgrace was due to his enthusiasm for the Sacramental Wine, and his rather irreverent and outspoken opinions of his superiors. One does not call his Monsignor a "Jackass in a Cassock". It is a politically unwise thing to do. Retribution was swift and final for the little priest. He quickly found himself cast out of the church, relieved of his priesthood. If this troubled him one whit, it is not noticeable. He merely took to the poorer sections of Paris, helping the dregs of society as best he could. From there, he gradually made his way beneath the city, and began ministering to the wretched outcasts he found there. The world of the outcasts is not always a safe one, and I've wondered how he has managed to survive. There are places here that I myself am wary of which Pere Simon frequents without fear. The denizens welcome him, and provide him safe passage. Perhaps if there is a God, He grants fools a special dispensation.
Tonight, Pere Simon did not wish to talk. I met this statement with some relief, until I saw him eyeing the table and the mess of papers lying on it. "Very well", I finally said, "pry into my personal affairs if you wish. It is only what you deserve." I seated myself in the far corner of the room, and watched the little man pour himself more wine, and proceed to read. I expected to see tears, I expected him to glance up at me in horror. I was rewarded with neither of those reactions. He calmly continued to read, page after page, until I grew quite bored.
The wine bottle was empty by the time the little man was done reading. He stood up, stretched and smiled angelically at me. This was not exactly the response I'd anticipated. I'd rather hoped he'd gotten at least an inkling of thenature of creature he'd been trifling with. I consoled myself with the thought that he was no doubt drunk.
In the end, he merely thankedme for sharing my memories with him, and made ready to leave. I was astounded. Had I not allowed him to know more about me than I'd ever trusted anyone with before? How could he so coolly walk out of my home, without even a word? It seemed, however, that I need not of fretted, for Pere Simon always has something to say. As I walked him to the door, he paused. "There is more" he said. I pretended not to hear him, but as usual, it did not work. "You have more to write" he insisted, "You must continue." I refused to answer him. What more could I write? I'd wrung my brain dry. Pere Simon smiled, and patted me on the back. Why does he insist on doing that, when he knows I detest such contact? "You are a brave man, and a good soul, and I will be back to read more"he said jovially.I told him that there would be no more. I was done. The little priest just smiled at me, and made his way down the passageway. I watched him until he was out of sight. What an odd little man.
I must now prepare for sleep. It has been a difficult day, and I am exhausted.