A/N: Hoped everyone liked the last chapter. We are in for a lot of twists and turns. Thanx especially to Queen-Chick, Queen Sarah, Bergerac, and MadameGiryMiranda for their continued support.
Giry raced upstairs, the empty tears spilling out of her eyes. She hated him. That bastard! That man…who…who…But it was her, wasn't it? She started to make love to him, to seduce him, to make him see she was his. Hastily she ran to the managers' office, wiping the tears with the back of hand.
"Mademoiselle?" asked Poligny. "What is the matter?"
"Please, Monsieur, my mama is sick…" the childish, simpering voice leaked through her sniffs. "She may be dying. May I go to her?"
"At once, child." Said Poligny, "Go and see your mother. I give you leave."
"For how long?" she asked anxiously.
"For as long as you need." Said Poligny. "We shall let one other ballerina fill your post."
Giry nodded, and rushed to her room.
"Erik," she cursed, sobbing. "What have I done?"
With deft hands she stuffed a leather bag full of her clothing, making sure it contained nothing coquettish. She threw a shawl over her dress, and tied her hair up in a ruffled bun. Her eyes red, she streaked out of theatre, and began to run, run, anywhere she could.
Erik sat down on the bed, fondling the sheets with caresses.
"Antoinette…" he murmured.
He sat motionless, and said nothing, watched his hands clench and unclench the fabric. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he mourned suddenly for the woman he had lost.
Giry struggled along the roads, which were covered ankle-deep in snow. The thin shawl made her shiver. She had best to make it to an inn, and find lodging. Where the young child, Erik's child, would live, she had no idea. She walked for at least half and hour before she found an inn, a small tavern near the farther reaches of Paris, safely away from the Opera Populaire. She opened the grimy wooden door to find that it was almost devoid of all human life. Only one man sat at the bar, and the landlord, wearing a dirty, greasy apron over his white, tattered shirt, was cleaning the tables with an almost menacing leer.
"Please Monsieur," she said, curtseying politely. "Would you have lodging for a young mademoiselle?"
"Yes." He grunted. "If you can pay."
"How much?" asked Giry, pulling her small purse from her bag.
"Ten francs a night." Said the man. "No exceptions, even for a lovely mademoiselle such as yourself."
"Oh, thank you." Said Giry, blushing slightly underneath her raw skin that was red from crying.
"Would you like something to eat?" he asked slowly.
"Yes, if you please." She replied.
"Come to the bar." He said, "And I shall give you whatever little food I have."
Giry walked over slowly and sat down beside the lonely man at the bar.
"Armand Jules." Said the man sitting beside her, kissing her hand lightly.
"Antoinette Giry." She said. "It is a pleasure."
"Indeed." Said Armand. "How long will you be staying?"
He gestured with one hand around the room, and Giry's eyes took it all in.
"About a month, at least." Said Giry, remembering her child. "Monsieur."
"Please!" said Armand. "Monsieur is too formal for me."
"Well, then, Armand, about a month."
"Much better!" he replied, and applauded her enthusiastically. "What do you do, Antoinette?"
"I am…" she faltered. "I was…a ballerina at the Opera."
"Ah!" he replied. "A great woman! How was your career?"
"Very nice." She said, careful not to elaborate.
"That is good." Replied Armand, and resumed drinking his glass of red wine. "Care for a sip?"
"If you wouldn't mind." Said Giry boldly, and took the glass from his hand. "This is exquisite!"
"It is the best wine money can buy." Interrupted the landlord. "Would you care for your own glass?"
"Yes please." Said Giry, eager to drown her sorrows, literally. The landlord handed her a small glass of wine, and she drank deeply.
"I must retire early." Said Armand. "Goodnight, Antoinette."
"Goodnight, Armand." She said carefully. "Sleep well."
The man exited and retired upstairs, leaving Giry sitting alone at the bar.
"He is a very nice man." Said the landlord in a whisper. "Pays me an extra two francs each night! Lord, I am making a profit off of him. He has been here over a year!"
"Oh really?" inquired Giry, raising her eyebrows.
"Yes. I am not sure what he does." Replied the landlord. "But he seems to be the man you would like." He winked at her, and she nodded.
"Perhaps." She replied dryly. "I, too, must retire."
With one hand she grabbed her bag and alighted the stairs, placing her other hand on the banister. She walked up dizzily, wishing she had another glass of wine to drown her now confused brain. Her heart beat a rhythmic tattoo in her chest.
Erik was alone, and began to compose one solitary piece. The notes dashed along the page, and he felt the horror and pain fall out of his pen in deft strokes. It hurt him, and he tore at his shirt restlessly. The tears rolled down his cheeks, and he whispered Giry's name constantly.
Giry went into her small room and lay down, exhausted, on the bed. Thoughts whirled around inside her head and made her dizzy. She hated Erik, or did she? Was he so horrible? The question bubbled in her mind, and her answer was a firm yes. He had to make her pregnant, humiliate her forever, scarring her reputation with a long knife. And yet Armand presented himself so readily, she could escape. She could find love with him, and they could begin, him, and her, holding each other tenderly through all her fears. Erik would not come, he dared not leave the Opera Populaire. She would be safe, from his wrath. She hated Erik, she confirmed with a decisive glance around the room. She would marry Armand Jules, and leave her past behind her.
Giry had lived a month in the filthy in, and her purse was running dry. She knew that Armand had finally bought a house, and she was determined to marry. Once, marry.
She ran from the inn and through back alleys, until she found the house that she was looking her. It was a charming, two-storey house, with white bricks and a beautiful roof. Solemnly she knocked on the door, and he opened it.
"Antoinette." He said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm in love." She said quickly. "With you Armand."
"Really?" he said. 'I had no idea you reciprocated my feelings."
"Yes." She said breathlessly, and kissed him.
"May I marry you?" asked Armand, as he led her into the house.
"Of course," she said.
The next week Armand and Giry were married. It was a time of bliss for the groom, but the bride cried as the day grew closer and closer. Eventually they stood in front of the aisle, two solemn people about to embark into the holy bonds of matrimony.
"I do." Said Giry.
But you love him, said a small voice in the back of her head.
A/N: So, do you like it so far? Armand is such a dork, but hey, he has to be that way. Maybe something magical will happen soon…you'll have to wait and see.