11.
"I cannot begin to explain." His voice was dead, dull. He had reentered his chamber, at least an hour later, retrieving his clothing anxiously. He shooed me out with unconcealed agitation. "I cannot apologize. You must think me monstrous."
"No," I said, looking up. My hand rose uncomfortably to my throat. "I don't know what to think, Erik."
He shook his head derisively. "Do not mock me, Mademoiselle!"
Mademoiselle. He did not call me Manon.
"I do not mock you: your music is brilliant, as you must know, but not for this world."
He glared; yellow on black. "I will never play Don Juan again as long as I live." He spun around angrily. "It is fortunate, indeed, then that the time has arrived for your departure."
My hands clenched. "W-what?"
He cleared his throat, paced. "You have been ignorant; your brother's Charivari has been silent of late, but I have heard things."
"What have you heard?"
"Revolution, Mademoiselle," he said, his golden eyes gleaming. "Paris is about to vomit forth her second revolution, and we will be in the middle of it."
"But we surrendered to the Germans," I murmured. "You said—"
"They call themselves the Provincial Government of the Third Republic, and they will take the Opéra within days, I predict . . . civil war, Mademoiselle."
I considered for a moment. I had known terror and uncertainty for so long. But within Erik's crypt I had known certain peace, sometimes excitement and sometimes hope, for the first time I had seen Jean. Now, to have it destroyed, even for my own safety . . .
"Why did you conceal this from me?" I lashed out.
He turned away. "Conceal? I concealed nothing . . . Do you not have such an attachment to your life as I thought?"
"When did you begin to care about my life, Erik?" He stopped, astonished. "I did not mean that," I amended. "You have been . . . very kind to me," I said, thinking about the warmth of his lips, wanting him, wishing he wanted me . . .
"Yes," he murmured, coming to stand beside me. "And now, Mademoiselle, let me do you one more kindness."
I sighed. I did not deserve him. I had to relinquish him. "What must I do?"
"Tomorrow," he said gravely, "I will escort you out of the Opéra. You must promise to obey me explicitly. Do you understand?" I nodded. "There will be a house on the opposite street with a broken window. You will run to it when instructed. Inside is a man I have paid to smuggle you to Belgium and then to England. He is fearful and should give you no trouble, but you must take the remainder of the morphine and give it to him only when he delivers you safely."
I stared deliberately at my hands. He hated people and yet he risked so much to save me. I knew he did not love me but acted out of some dormant compassion in his long-neglected heart. Oh, Erik: why did you have to be so good, underneath it all?
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Then what is wrong?"
"Nothing," I lied.
"Then you will be ready tomorrow?"
I grabbed his arm, even as he recoiled. "Thank you," I whispered, releasing him and leaving the room.
I slept that night. I tried to keep the enormity from my mind. I had grown frightened to live without the ever watchful phantom behind me. I knew I would miss him, but that he would go back to his lonely existence immediately. He had given me my life: and I only wanted to be a small part of his.
With his superior knowledge of the Opéra, in its half-completed shelter, navigating to an obscure corner where the Communards would not be watching was relatively easy. I was required to crawl through unfinished pillars of masonry and tiny corridors, but it was nothing beyond my state of mind. I had no possessions save my clothes and the morphine I had been instructed to keep, and a small scrap of parchment with "ERIK" written on it to convince the smuggler I was indeed the one bought and paid for.
Paris was still cold, choked in smoke and fog; the distant sound of cannons firing convinced me Erik's predictions, this time, were right. The snow was more a muddy brown mire, and not a soul was seen.
Erik stood before me, a ghost yet, all in black, his fingers pale, his eyes golden-grey, his clothing masking the scars on his body as completely as the mask hid his face. But I had seen them both, and I would not forget.
"Mademoiselle Lapaine," he said, gesturing to the house with the broken window.
"Yes, I know," I said, smiling at him.
He reached for my hand and bowed. "Your servant," he said.
"Thank you for my life." He nodded uncomfortably." I know we are neither of us native Parisians," I said, "but I think this fire has baptized us anew, don't you agree?" He looked at me quizzically, but I merely reached up to his impeccable collar. "Then let me say goodbye in the Parisian way." And I pressed three kisses to the cheeks of his black papier-mâché mask, then drew back to look at him.
He was trembling, his yellow eyes gleaming. He was beginning to form a reply, but a shout was heard in the street. I turned to see a mob fleeing as the cannons grew louder.
"Go," Erik urged. "Go, Manon Lapaine!"
And so I ran, not looking back to the strange masked man, until I reached the house with the broken window. That was the last time I saw him.
Author's note.
Sorry this one was so short. Hopefully the final chapter will make it worth it. Thank you for your time and reviews.