Le Cadeau Chapter 3
"Put the hot milk next to the coffee pot. You may leave, Jeanne Marie."
Jeanne Marie's hands tremble a little as she obeys the command. She bobs a quick courtesy to the salon's sole occupant, and dashes back down the stairs to the kitchen. A smile plays over the visible portion of Erik's face. It is still so new, this business of being obeyed.
The salon has been turned into an impromptu breakfast room. A small table and two chairs rest by the picture window. A sideboard holds an assortment of pastries, fruit, and a coffee service. It has become Erik's habit to rise even earlier than usual, so that he can be sure all will be ready when Blandine joins him in the salon.
By now, the maids have become thoroughly terrified of the tall, slender young man who has grown to be such a presence in the Ollivier household. Although he lives over the stables, his bearing and manners have transformed from those of a humble laborer's to a young gentleman's within a month. There is no easy familiarity with the staff from this masked man–he is rigidly formal, using his new-found education to draw a protective curtain around himself more impenetrable than any mask. Each night, the kerosene lamp in his little room burns into the late hours, as Erik reads one book, then another, from Emile Ollivier's library. Each morning, he seems to materialize out of thin air as he supervises the breakfast offerings for Mme. Ollivier--nothing too heavy or oppressive for her delicate digestion.
Blandine is completely unaware of the upheaval her pupil has caused within the household. Everyone below stairs knows that her pregnancy is causing her discomfort, that her health is precarious. If it pleases Mme. Ollivier to keep a freakish presence in the house, so be it.
Erik hears Blandine's distinctive footfall as she nears the salon. He opens the door for her and makes a bow as she enters. Blandine allows herself a small amount of pride as she observes Erik's feline grace.
"Good morning, Monsieur Mason. Have you eaten?" Blandine allows Erik to seat her at the little table. She has now eschewed corsets and hoop skirts in favor of loosely flowing Persian robes, a fad that is far more comfortable to her expanding figure. Her sharp eyes immediately note the bundle resting on the piano's lid, but she says nothing. Yet.
"Yes, Mme. Blandine. Will you take your hot milk plain today, or would you prefer café au lait?" Erik stands over the young woman attentively. It is important to him that she be especially alert and ready to teach him this morning.
"With chocolate, I think. What do you have on the piano?"
Erik carefully sets the hot drink before Blandine and goes to retrieve his parcel. He holds it tenderly, almost as though it is a baby.
"I found it in the Marche aux Puces. The idiot only wanted five francs for it." Erik unwraps the rough muslin from his prize. An old, battered violin, its cheap varnish orange in some spots and flaking off in others, winks up at Blandine. A weathered violin bow also emerges, in desperate need of a re-hair job and fresh rosin.
"I see. I hope you didn't pay too much for it, Erik…" Blandine takes the instrument and looks it over with a practiced eye. She lightly thumbs the strings and listens at the f-holes.
Blandine gazes at Erik with curiosity. "Can you play it?" He takes the instrument away from her and holds it close to him, almost protectively.
"Let me show you." As Erik tucks the violin under his chin, a faraway look comes into Blandine's eyes. She seems to be seeing someone else in the room, he thinks. Not me.
Erik strokes the bow over the surface of the violin's strings. His hand curls around the neck of the cheap instrument. The wild chords of a Gypsy melody bounce from the salon's genteel walls and mirrors. Blandine's eyes grow wide as the stirring tune comes pouring forth. Unconsciously, Erik's foot starts to beat time with his playing. His body bends and sways with the rhythm of the piece. The music evokes the images of blazing campfires, flashing ebony eyes, tambourines and whirling dancers.
And just as suddenly, it is over. Again, it is a crisp, early morning in April. Erik removes the violin from his chin and looks to his teacher for her opinion. Blandine is motionless for a moment, and then begins to speak.
"You must decide what you wish to do, Erik. That is a ratty fiddle pawned from a drunkard--"
"No, it's not!"
"I know my instruments! I studied with Cesar Franck for eight years and he made us take apart musical instruments so that we would understand how they were made and how they work. Your violin is barely worthy of the name."
Erik is hardly able to contain his anger. This is not what he expected. "I do not currently enjoy the means to purchase a better one," he snaps defensively.
"My point is," Blandine spits out, "your playing made that nasty fiddle sing like a nightingale. You have a gift for the violin. And for the piano. And for composition." Blandine is satisfied to see the rage drain from her pupil's face, at least the part that she can see.
Erik sits opposite Blandine at the little table and looks out the picture window. He is unaccustomed to compliments and she has just given him three. "Madame, are you telling me I must choose?"
Blandine nods a tight, sad assent. "The violin is a beautiful instrument, as is the piano. Do you wish to be a performer upon the concert stage? With a year of training, I believe you could rival Monsieur Paganini himself. I am not unknown in Paris. Doors would be opened to you."
Erik quickly shakes his head in disagreement. "Madame, I shall never consent to be exhibited like a beast in a cage again. I mean, ever. In the future."
Blandine casts a quizzing eye upon her pupil, but decides to let the question lie. "Then you shall have to make composition the main focus of your studies. It can be a quiet life, or as boisterous and dissolute as you might choose it to be."
The young man pulls his violin close to him. "Are you saying that I must eschew my playing for my writing? Because, truly, I could not do so."
Blandine struggles to her feet. "Not at all. You will have to play for your patrons, no matter what. It helps if you are able to play your compositions well." She makes a little wave of her hand. "Get up. I have to make some corrections. You hold the bow like a savage."
As Erik patiently allows Blandine to mold his long, spidery fingers around the bow — "Thumb curved under, fingers resting on the top. You're pulling it like a German Bürgermeister." — he assimilates the information Blandine has given him.
"Madame, why did--"
"Lift the violin higher–don't hold it straight down from your chin," Blandine commands as she tries to prop Erik's arm into the correct position. "What did you want?"
"Why did you stop your own studies?"
Blandine freezes, her hand caught upon Erik's sleeve. In a low voice, she responds, "It was not my choice. My father did not think serious musical study was suitable for a young woman."
Erik is incredulous at this. "Your father the virtuoso?"
Blandine nodded. "Even so. Maestro Franck came to Papa's house and had very stern words with him, but Papa was implacable. No life for a decent girl."
"You must hate him for it." Erik's eyes, usually a striking bluish-green, begin to give off a heated golden glow. Hate is something the young man knows very well.
Blandine shakes her head in disagreement. "He wasn't wrong; it is a very hard life for a woman. But I'm taking a lesson from him. I intend to create my own circle of artists, writers, composers, just as he has done."
Erik nods in understanding. "You will be the doyenne of your own salon. Famous and esteemed. A much better revenge."
"And you will be the first among equals if you will please get that arm up! Now, hold the bow as I showed you…"
Erik begins the Gypsy tune again with a reinvigorated fury. Now, as he holds the violin properly upon his shoulder, as his bowing arm can extend to the limit of its power, he fills the room with the knife-like melody. Create my own circle…first among artists… the heady words swirl in the young man's thoughts even as he makes the tune spin and dance.
I will create my own world of art and music and beauty if this one will not give me what I want.
The arched casements of the windows that overlook the Tuileries Palace are deeply set into the façade of the Ollivier home. The window ledges are generously deep. There is a presence, a dark shadow at a window. A latch lifts. The heavy velvet curtains contain the sudden breeze as the window slips open for a moment, then closes again just as quickly.
The room is dimly lit. Erik is here, in her boudoir. Not even really sure why he felt compelled to steal in like a thief. He can still feel the pressure of her hand on his arm correcting his bow technique. Straightening his posture. I'm worried about Blandine. She seems tired. He wants to make sure she is well and safe tonight. He is protecting her.
That is what he keeps telling himself.
Blandine emerges from her dressing room. She wears a soft nightgown of quilted cotton lawn. It is warm enough for an April night, but still beguilingly feminine. Her hair cascades past her shoulders in long, rippling waves. Blandine rubs her back a little, and the soft curve of her belly protrudes slightly. She leans over the tiny lamp on her bedside table and lengthens the wick. Warm, golden light pools in a halo around the young woman's figure. Blandine carefully steps up on the footstool and gets into the high tester bed. As she settles in and becomes comfortable, she picks up the novel she has been reading and finds her place again.
She's fine. I should go. Erik knows that he is doing something unforgivable if he is caught, but he can't seem to make his body stir from his hiding place. He keeps his breathing inaudible, slowly pulling in the oxygen, until he is soundless, weightless, almost a ghost instead of a young man made of flesh and blood. Blandine's hair spills over the pillowcase and reflects the lamp's gentle light. If I were her husband, I would never let her sleep alone, he muses.
The heavy door that connects Blandine's room to Ollivier's creaks as it swings open. A substantial man of forty, his hair silvered but thick, pads into the room. He wears a nightshirt, yet still manages to convey an air of gravity. The man comes to Blandine's side and leans over to give her a kiss. She puts her novel down and clasps her hands around his neck.
"How are you feeling?" Ollivier smoothes a stray lock of hair from Blandine's brow. "You seemed a little tired at dinner."
"Better, now that you're here with me," Blandine replies with a smile. She pats the blankets companionably. "Are you coming to bed?"
Erik is panicking. He can hear a surging, pounding rhythm in his ears. Every fiber of his being is screaming for him to get out of the room at once. But it is impossible to move a muscle without possibly drawing attention to himself.
Ollivier sits down by Blandine's side. "I must discuss something with you, but you will not like it. I am concerned about the amount of time you are spending with this protégée of yours."
Blandine furrows her brow at this. "I don't understand what you mean, Emile."
Erik's heart leaps into his throat. If he finds me, he'll think Blandine has been betraying him with me. Another man, in her bedroom…Erik desperately begins to sidle closer to the window he came in by, moving muscle by muscle so as to create no sound.
Ollivier continues, "This stonemason you have taken up, are you sure he has talent? I don't want you to be embarrassed in front of your father." Ollivier bows his head a little. "I think I should have reinstated your lessons after our marriage."
Blandine caresses Ollivier's cheek lightly. "Oh sweetheart, it wouldn't do for a statesman's wife to be gadding about on the stage. I am happy to take the best part from my mother and my father. My mother's salon was good enough for you to meet me, right? Who knows what miracles we can create together?"
Ollivier nods at this. He slides his hand over Blandine's rounded belly and lets it rest there. "We've already created enough of a miracle for me. If it means so much to you, keep your mason. But I warn you, the staff doesn't like him."
Blandine tosses her head at this. "They couldn't understand. He's an artist who has just been given the gift of sight. A dancer who has just had his legs unbound. Just wait until you hear him play, Emile!"
Erik hears the heavy linen coverlid slide back as Ollivier joins Blandine in the big bed. She believes in my playing. Despite my face, he marvels. The window is closer than ever–just a few more inches and he will be able to make his escape.
Ollivier takes Blandine in his arms. "You know the niceties of your music are lost upon me." He burrows his head into the crook of Blandine's throat. "Have you given any more thought to what you wish to name that beautiful little girl you're carrying?"
Blandine tosses her head back, clearly enjoying Ollivier's tiny kisses. "It's a boy. And I still want the name I told you. It's important."
"All right." Ollivier's kisses become more insistent. Erik can hear the shifting of weight as the big bed creaks. Finally, he feels his hand upon the window's latch.
"And I want you to try to stay in town more. I don't want to have the baby all by myself," Blandine manages to get out before Ollivier's mouth covers hers.
"Mm hmm."
The sudden rush of a cold night breeze is not felt by the couple entwined in their marital embrace. Just as quickly, it is gone. A shadow flits over the face of the building, and is seen no more.