A/N: In which we find out one of the things Anne feels guilty about.

Erik:

Lyons being a city of some size, there was an attendant on duty at the train station until midnight. I asked him a few questions, and discovered that the law offices of Bontriomphe and Bontriomphe were located in the same area of the city as the registrar of births, marriages and deaths. Not a surprise; it was the professional/governmental quarter of the town. I decided to take a hansom cab, both for the sake of expediency as well as my sore muscles.

The cab dropped me at the intersection half a street away from the registry office, at my request. If, as it might be, I left things in disorder, I didn't want the driver to be able to say he drove the perpetrator there.

At that time of night, that part of Lyons was almost entirely deserted. I observed a gendarme down the avenue, and ducked into a doorway, where I changed masks. After he had made his turn and disappeared around a corner, I crossed the street and picked the lock on the registry door.

It was not an elegant workplace. Spare wood paneling, hard benches, a balustrade that divided the room in half, battered desks and, most inconveniently gas lighting. I could not light the room without lighting up half the building.

That was annoying. I needed more light than that to read by. A quick rummage through the cupboards turned up some sticks of sealing wax, of the sort. that had a wick like a candle. The light they produced was uncertain, and they were inclined to drip and go out without warning, but it sufficed. I rejected the first two registry books I found as being too recent—I was looking for the records of four years ago and more—nine months before my boy was born, at the very latest. Anne and Christine would have wanted him to be legitimate.

My search was complicated by the fact that I was not looking for an entry. I was attempting to prove a negative, after all, and to do it without calling the attention of the authorities to Anne Norbert's false certificate of marriage. I wanted my son to be legitimate as well, and exposing what Anne had been a party to could only heap misery and humiliation on her.

And so I almost missed the entry, appended as it was, at the very bottom of a page, in a space not really meant for another entry.

Anne Norbert, cook, to Erik Touchet, architect. The date was July 30th of five years before—eleven months before my estimation of his birth.

I looked at it with a growing sense of unreality. The printed entry was perfectly clear, as was Anne's looping, semi-educated script. The signature of 'Erik Touchet' was a mere scribble. I could make out what seemed to be an 'E', a 'k', and a 'T', but they could just as easily have been a 'C', a 'b', and an 'F'.

My handwriting has never been good. Why, I do not know. I can produce complicated architectural renderings, draw infinite numbers of musical notes, draw a perfect circle without any instrument other than my hand, my eye and a pencil—but my handwriting is a childish sprawl. I could have made that scribble, had I wanted to produce something that looked like a signature.

I hadn't, though—had I?

I even doubted myself for a moment…

No. It was not possible. I had been in Paris at the time. Nadir could attest to that.

That meant Anne had perpetrated, or been a part of, a much larger fraud than I had suspected. I don't doubt that there are fairly many false marriage certificates about, and that many 'widows' with children are no such thing. But to have gone so far as to get it on record—there were only two ways that could have been accomplished.

First—someone, whether it was Anne or Raoul or Christine, could have found a man who was willing to pretend to be 'Erik Touchet', provided him with forged or genuine, but wrongfully obtained, identity papers, and had him stand up with Anne in front of the registrar, and marry her in my name.

Second, someone could have suborned the registrar and the witnesses, and induced them to knowingly make a false entry in that book.

Either one would have been expensive. The second one carried more risk—the jail terms would be much more severe.

Upon another moment's reflection, I calmly reasoned out that the first scenario could not possibly have been the case, as the registration would have been taking place at least eleven months later. Somebody had to have been bribed. I turned back to the registry book. How obvious a fraud was it?

I soon found out that it was an excellent one. If that had been the only entry crammed down into the footer margin, it would have stood out. It was not. They always began a new month on a new page, so when the last marriage of the month would otherwise have taken up one line at the very top of the next page, it was often appended at the very bottom of the last page of the last month.

Next, the handwriting for that entry. The registrars—there were two, going by the differences in their writing—always printed the name of the couple and the witnesses themselves, most likely for greater legibility. One of the registrars was an older man—his spidery, light script scrabbled across the pages. The other seemed like a younger man, whose frustrated, florid script drove across with unnecessary force. He was the one who had entered Anne's un-marriage lines. I went back to the more recent books, to see if I could determine anything by comparing the relative ink colors. There was no appreciable difference among the books—all the entries were made in a non-fading, indelible, Indian ink, as coal-black as they day they were made. But the older man's handwriting appeared less and less often, I noted, as I went back and forth between the books. For the last three months, he had made no entries at all.

I was going to have to forgo breakfast at the inn. I had to stay and talk to Rene Giscard—that was the name of the registrar I needed to see. Because I had to find out how, and I had to find out who.

I started to put the registry office back into a semblance of order—but I then abandoned it. I would come back here and lie in wait for Monsieur Giscard in the morning, and extract the story from him then. In the meantime, there were the offices of Bontriomphe and Bontriomphe.

Inevitably, I found out nothing from their files. I picked the lock as neatly as I have ever done, and looked about for the information I sought—and quickly discovered that the sheer numbers of client files made my task a Sisyphean one. I found nothing under C, for Chagny, nor under Grey Goose, nor under Daaé. I tried Norbert. Nothing. Touchet—still nothing. Then I realized that there were not two Bontriomphes—there were three, Alphonse, Aristide, and Apollyon. Each of them had an office of their own, and client files of their own.

Time was not on my side; dawn was beginning to silver the sky outside. I returned the law office to very nearly the same condition in which I had found it—perhaps a few of their files were not in their proper places, but otherwise, I left it pristine. I was glad that I had thought to make less disorder this time, and returned to the registry office, where I finished picking up the pieces.

Then I secreted myself in the glorified closet that served as the private office of the registrar, with the relevant book open to the page where it stated that Anne had been married to me.

To pass the time, as the light which filtered in through the single window grew brighter, I took out my notebook and pencil and began to draw miniature portraits, first of Anne, and then once I realized that perhaps my sketches could help to prompt Monsieur Giscard's memory, of Christine and Raoul. Finally I drew the most difficult portrait of all—of Erik, of my son. That one was for me alone.

I waited for an interminable epoch. I changed my mask, and did some thinking. I was going to hold down my less rational tendencies. I would not begin by putting a noose around Giscard's neck, I resolved. If at all possible, I would not threaten him. I was conducting an investigation. If I were to go into it professionally, I would have to be professional, after all!

Then a marvelous idea came to me. I knew exactly what approach to take. I was now really looking forward to speaking with the Registrar. As the hour of nine approached, I heard footsteps, and the rattle of keys. Someone was entering the Registry Office. His feet scuffled on the floor, and the hinges squealed.

I deduced that whoever it was didn't notice anything amiss with the office, for he neither paused nor spoke as he came in, and proceeded directly to where I lay in wait for him, sitting behind his desk. He came in, and hung his hat on the rack, not noticing me.

He was a tallish, pudgy, young man. His excessive weight overbore the advantage conferred by his height and made him slightly ridiculous. His hair was dark red, and thinning on top. As he turned around, I saw that he had oily, pimpled skin. An unappealing specimen of humanity.

He saw me, and his jaw dropped in astonishment. "Who?—what are you doing here?" he asked. "How did you get in?"

"Monsieur Giscard?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"I let myself in. I needed to see you, and to do so discreetly and quietly. You see, I am investigating a legal matter—over an inheritance, you see. Quite a large one. It comes down to the question of a marriage—a marriage performed by you. This one." I laid my finger on the page.

He squinted at it, and took out a pair of round, black framed glasses. "But—Oh."

It was an eloquent 'Oh', a guilty 'Oh', an 'Oh' which spoke of a cannonball of dread forming in his stomach.

"Yes?" I asked. "What can you tell me about it?"

He rallied slightly. "What did you want to know? There is the record, there is the date. Can it be any simpler?"

"There are complications." I told him, being stern. "Before we begin, can you identify her from one of these two illustrations?" I held out the sketches I had made from memory of Anne and Christine.

"Her." he said, ungrammatically, indicating Anne.

"Very good. Did she have any accomplices with her?"

"No. That is—she had her baby with her, but no one else. A very young, new baby, too." His eyes closed spasmodically, and he swallowed the memory of revulsion. He had seen him—he had seen my son.

"Yes, there is a child involved. Now, when the child in question was born, 'Erik Touchet' was not the name on his original birth certificate. I have been to the convent hospital. I have seen it." I lied. "Yet, two months later, a new certificate was issued, with that name. Now, if Anne Touchet who was Anne Norbert is the mother of the child in question, why did she not use that name at the hospital? And if Anne Touchet is not the mother of the child in question, then a fraud concerning several thousand francs is being committed. And if Anne Norbert is not Anne Touchet—then you, my friend, are in a great deal of trouble. Talk."

"I can't—she said no-one would—Are you wearing a mask?" he asked.

"What if I am? I do not want my identity known. If you tell me all—it may be that I can see to it you are not prosecuted for fraud along with the others…"

"Prosecuted!" he yelped. It occurred to me that I seemed to have a talent for this. "Oh, Monsieur! I—I don't know where to begin—I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm stupid till I have some coffee, can't I—no, I'll do without… She said nobody would ever question it, M'sieu. She came in one evening, as I was closing up the office for the night, and she said—she said she had to have a marriage certificate, for the sake of the child. She said that the father had promised to marry her, would have married her, but he was gone."

"Gone how? Dead? Gone to America? Gone insane?"

"I don't know! She just said gone! She was such a beautiful girl—she looked so upset. I wanted to help her."

"Had you done things like that before?"

"No! Not—what I did for her. She said she wanted an unshakeable proof. She said she needed it for the child. If I'd known…" He was sweating.

"And then? Did she offer money?"

"Yes…and I should have known, because she… I didn't do it for money, M'sieu!" It came spilling out of him. "I didn't take a sou. Can they prosecute me if I didn't know why, and if I didn't profit by it?"

"What do you mean by that? What did you do for, if not money? Out of the kindness of your heart?" I had drawn very close to him, and that was not a pleasant experience. He smelled rank, as if he had not washed in several days. I observed a line of dirt on his neck which told me that was almost certainly the case.

"She offered money—but…"

"'But' what?"

"She was so beautiful, M'sieu! I'd never been so close to a girl so beautiful—and she was nice. A lot of the girls around here, the ones I know, anyway, they're not friendly, not the respectable ones, anyway—and I'm, I'm afraid of the other sort."

I was starting to see where this was headed, and I did not like it. "What did you get out of it?" I asked again.

"I—told her if she'd meet me at a hotel, I'd do it."

"You what?" I snapped back. A cloud of fury was beginning to coalesce behind my eyes, I could feel it. "And did she?" I was as angry as if Anne were my wife in truth, as if she had broken every marriage vow. It wasn't sane—it was something red-fanged and dripping…

"Yes…" he choked out—literally choked out, for I had him by the throat. I forced myself to loosen my grip, took several deep breaths, and asked, "What happened then?"

"You have to understand, M'sieu, Even ordinary girls don't give me the time of day, and she was beautiful—She let me touch her. She wouldn't let me do everything—she said it was too soon after having the baby, she said that it would hurt her inside, and I didn't want to hurt her…I still think about her, sometimes."

I was sure he did. That foul, greasy, smelly, rusty-headed pig. "And were you satisfied? Were you happy, afterwards? Did you stay all night with her? Did she use her mouth on you?" I hit him with one question after another, like bullets.

"I—she was nice to me, m'sieu. As for—using her mouth. She didn't." He flushed bright red. "I didn't—didn't have the courage to ask her to do that. I mean, just because she had a baby didn't mean she was a bad girl. I would've—I told her, in the morning, she didn't have to have a false certificate, that I'd marry her, I'd say I was her child's father, if she'd be my wife, and I would have, too—but she said it wasn't possible—Then she showed me the baby. I think she'd given him paregoric or a little laudanum, to make him sleep through the night."

"She showed you the baby." I was feeling calmer now. I mean, what had gone on didn't actually sound as though it amounted to much—not that that made it right.

"Yes—Oh, God, that child! That face."

"That face, yes. M'sieu Giscard, I have been lying to you." I said, perfectly calmly once more.

"You have?"

"I am not investigating this matter because of an inheritance."

He began to struggle in my grip. "Why—you—you! I'll have the gendarmes in here, I'll—."

"I am Erik Touchet." He stilled.

"Oh—oh, no. Then the mask…"

"From what you say, my child, my son, takes after me. Now you will listen to me, and listen well. What she told you was true. I would have married her. I promised to marry her. That I did not was a matter of bad timing. She did what she could to correct that. While I cannot take back the payment she made you for your assistance, you can redeem yourself somewhat by swearing, should it ever be questioned by anyone, ever again, that the marriage of Anne Norbert and Erik Touchet is as true a fact as was ever written. I will not have my son called a bastard. I will not have my wife shamed or humiliated. How did you manage the witnesses' signatures?"

My sudden question caught him off guard. "I—traced them from other things they'd signed. They often act as witnesses, they won't remember her or not remember her."

"Good. And you will stop thinking about her, do you understand?"

"Yes, M'sieu. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you are. Look, if you want girls to give you the time of day," I had let him go and was smoothing his lapels back into place. "I can tell you this. You need to bathe more often. However often you do it, it isn't enough. Take a bath at night and wash yourself in the morning. With soap. And any garment that comes into close contact with your skin—change it every day."

"I—thank you, M'sieu Touchet. You think that will help?"

"Yes."

After I impressed on him the necessity of remembering what I had told him regarding Anne, I took my leave. I had to see some lawyers.

A/N: Allegratree—thanks. I was striving for tasteful. This one has some vulgarity, I know, but I tried not to make it too detailed.

Josette—I appreciate your point. As for being OOC—I wanted to make the episode as sad and sordid as I could. I was striving for realism, in contrast to the overly florid romantic fantasies. I tried to give Erik a somber dignity in the face of it. (And I'm glad the meatballs were a hit!)

ButterflyGuitar: How's this for soon? Same day!

Pickledishkiller: Thanks! ;-)

Ocean Queen Kai: Consider it continued!

MetalMyersJason: Oh, great, more threats! Can it be by Punjab lasso? I'm a traditionalist.

Thanks, Sarah Crawford MaybeI'll be inspired to do an E/C some day. I'll keep this one going, though.

Sue Raven: Exactly the effect I was aiming for. Thanks. I'm glad I succeeded.

HDKingsbury: Hmm. A Phantom/Phantom crossover… Yes, the kind of critic who says, "Well, although I liked it, it didn't fit in with my preconceived notions, so it isn't any good." is everywhere.

Erik For President: Thanks!

Bella: Thank you for pointing out those allegories! I worked hard on them, and I love it when people notice.