A/N: New chapter! Yay! Well, I must say that you people don't read the author's notes as carefully as they should. My dear Bergerac is the only one to get a romantic soiree with Erik. For a month. Yes, I am lending him to you. The rest get Oreos.

The evening passed slowly away into oblivion. Giry rested her head against her pillow, and the cold tears fell against her pallid face. She touched Armand's sleeping figure restlessly, and felt no love go through her veins. Erik's skin against hers, that would be different. But she loved Armand, she convinced herself. Armand was the only one for her. And yet this was not true.

"Erik," she whispered into the night. "Turn my head with talk of summertime."

Erik, too, could not sleep. He felt nothingness seep through his body. It was a dull void that possessed him when he was without Giry. She was his own, to hold, to love. A drumbeat thudded against his brain, and he imagined Giry sleeping beside him. Her warm, tender, graceful form in silence next to his own. And suddenly hate bubbled within him, curing him of the deadening sensation that took over him. This Armand, this fiend, how dare he lie with his beloved. How dare he hold her in his arms, his evil, grasping arms. How dare he spit out those words of lust and love to her. Erik had a right to Giry, she was his. But he did not wish to kill Armand. No, the time was not ripe, at least not yet. She said she would return, perhaps. Silently he prayed, everyday, that she would come back to him, and kiss his lips, whisper words of contentment and seduction.

He rolled over fitfully and tried to drive her tormenting face from his mind.

Giry, meanwhile, in the early hours of the morning, began to feel cramps form in her abdomen. They were sharp, discoursing pains that made their way through her veins. With a sharp tug she woke Armand up, who was still sleeping.

"Armand," she whispered, teeth clenched. "Get the midwife. Now."

Without hesitation he nodded, and threw an overcoat over his nightshirt, racing to the nearest midwife, an old, ugly woman called Madame Forcheneau. She was up and was practicing the art of medicine with one of her pupils, a stunningly beautiful girl called Cecile. Armand admitted silently to himself that he had loved Cecile before Giry, and would have married her instead.

"Madame." He said, after she had opened the door. Her beady eyes regarded him carefully. "My wife, she is about to give birth."

Madame Forcheneau replied with a fitful nod of the head and a slight gesture to Cecile.

"Come, ma petite. Madame Jules, she needs attention."

Cecile nodded, her blonde hair flouncing in waves, and pulled a threadbare cape over herself. Madame Forcheneau in turn donned a wool-spun shawl and exited her own small home. Armand said nothing but gripped Cecile's hand in his own and the two ran towards his house. Poor Madame Forcheneau was left to grunt and struggle behind them like a stuck pig.

Giry ferociously clenched her pillow tightly. Her heart began to pound against her chest, and she thought of nothing but the pain. With muted joy she realized that Armand had come bursting through the door with Cecile and the midwife. Immediately she was soothed by their presence, and relaxed a little.

The midwife, for all her ludicrous appearance and age, whispered words to Giry that calmed her.

"There, ma petite. There, there, it'll be alright." She said slowly, passing a cold but firm hand over Giry's forehead.

"Merci, Madame." She muttered between the bursts of pain.

Giry struggled through most of the day, and at about ten o'clock she gave birth to a child.

"It is a girl." Armand announced happily, and Giry's eyes welled with happiness.

"Let us call her Marguerite." She whispered. "Marguerite Erika."

"Again with Erika?" Armand laughed and rolled his eyes. "As long as we can add in Louisa as well."

"Fair enough." Giry agreed, sighing. "Marguerite Erika Louisa."

While clutching the baby, Armand gestured with his eyes for Madame Forncheneau and Cecile to retreat. Before they left, Giry clasped their hands in hers and kissed them.

"Many thanks." She said slowly. "Armand…" she reached for her purse on the nightstand. "Give them this, as a token of my esteem."

She handed him two, bright, gold napoleons with a smile. Armand looked askance at the money and then handed the baby to Giry, in exchange for the gold.

"Here." He said. "For your troubles."

The two women got out of the house with haste. Armand kissed Giry's lips, and halfheartedly she returned it. Giry then turned her gaze to Marguerite, who was beautiful.

Her hair was like handspun silk and the color of honey-brown. The baby's eyes were wide and a deep blue, much like her father's. She looked on in wonder at her mother, and her alleged father.

"See," said Giry slowly, pronouncing the monosyllable with thought. "This is Mama." She pointed with a solemn finger to herself. "And this is Papa." The one word faltered on her tongue, slipping past her lips with much hesitation. She pointed to Armand, and then laughed.

"I am glad with Marguerite." She said. "She fills me with joy."

"As she does me." Whispered Armand, and kissed Giry furtively. "Do you wish to sleep?"

"Yes, Armand." She said leisurely. "Having a baby has greatly tired me."

He laughed and kissed her on the forehead and exited from the room. She stroked Marguerite's hair in wonder and joy.

"You are Erik's child." She whispered to the sleeping baby. "And you possess his joy, his pain, and his rapture. Never forget that, ma petite."

The sleeping child did not stir, but continued to slumber. Giry said nothing for a few moments, and then began to sing, quietly.

Sweet, immaculate beauty

Thou comest to me in silence

But I hear thine voice

In rapture forever

She stopped suddenly, and thought of Armand, probably lurking in the shadows. No doubt he had heard her, as the house was so silent. But he did not.

"Erik," she murmured. "I wish you could see our child, darling Meg Erika Giry."