Le Cadeau Chapter 6
Blandine struggles to sit up a little higher in the bed, so Erik props a pillow behind her back. It seems to take all of Blandine's ebbing strength to keep her eyes open. She motions for Erik to lift up the heavy lid of the trunk.
The fittings are stiff with long disuse, but finally, the top swings open. Erik looks into the chest to find a portrait gazing up at him; a teenage boy with soft blue eyes and blond hair that curls gently around the nape of his neck. Blandine feebly stretches out her hand to receive the picture.
"Give him to me," she breathes. Erik carefully lifts it from the trunk and hands it to Blandine. With infinite tenderness, she clasps it to her breast for a moment, and then turns it so that Erik may have a better look.
"This," Blandine states simply, "is my Daniel." She becomes so still, with half-lidded eyes and shallow breaths, that Erik fears that she has fainted again. However, Blandine comes back from her reverie and looks at her worried student with a smile.
"I think—it's clear—you must have loved him very much," Erik stammers. He is unsure how to proceed. Is this her first love? Could this be the child's true father? Erik thinks in fleeting, panicked flashes. He does not wish to cross Blandine's wishes, yet he would not compromise her modesty for the world…
"My love for Daniel was the purest, most fulfilling love that I have ever known. Do you not see it, Erik?" She pushes the portrait closer to the young musician.
"See what, Madame?" Erik looks again at the boy who stares up mutely at him from the gilt frame.
"Our resemblance! Daniel was my brother, my little brother. My little love."
Comprehension floods through Erik as he finally perceives the same Roman nose, the same Hungarian tilt of the eyes and the cheekbones. The missing member of the family, he thinks. I see it now.
"Where is your Daniel?" Erik whispers to Blandine, although he already suspects the answer.
"He is with the angels. Daniel cut himself while sharpening his quill…such a little cut…but it festered…and blood poisoning set in. Papa held him in his arms for hours after the life left him. We were all mad with grief."
Erik swallows hard. The lump in his throat is the size of a boulder, and he struggles for words. As he casts his eyes to the trunk again, he can make out the remnants of a young boy's life—a rubber ball, a hoop, a few books, a bird's nest…
Blandine finds a little more strength to reach for Erik's hand. He draws the back of his hand over his eyes in a futile attempt to conceal the tears shining in them, then clasps her cold hand in his.
She whispers with more urgency, "Daniel was only thirteen years old when we lost him. But, Erik, you and he would have been the same age! With you, I was able to experience that pure, joyful love of music again. The joy of giving to someone again!"
"Madame, it is you who have given--"
"Listen to me! This is the gift you gave me, and it is only right that I be allowed to give you something in return. There is a parcel in the bottom of the trunk. Take it out."
Blandine watches as Erik carefully moves the trunk's contents to reveal a lovingly wrapped case. Its distinctive shape and handle tell Erik what it is before he removes the linen shrouding it.
"Open it, Erik." Blandine commands with just a hint of her old authority.
The layers of cloth give way to a polished case with fine brass fittings. The latches snap open to reveal a beautiful rosewood violin, Italian in origin, with a satiny lacquered surface and an exquisite pernambucco and mother of pearl bow. Erik takes the instrument from its fitted case and thrills at its perfect balance and proportion. He turns it over to admire the flawless curve of the flamed back when his eye is drawn to the ebony tailpiece. In a childish scrawl, he can read the name 'Daniel'.
"I want you to have it, Erik." Blandine collapses back into the pillows, exhausted by her efforts.
Erik shakes his head and backs away, even as he cradles the violin in his arms. "No, Blandine. I am not worthy of such a gift."
"Your music makes you worthy." Blandine whispers.
Erik's head is reeling. He protests, to himself more than to the prone woman on the bed, "You don't understand! I'm nothing, a throwaway. Fit for the shadows, nothing more. I don't deserve your kindness, Blandine."
"No," Blandine replies. "I don't accept that!" Flashes of her old fire dart from Blandine's eyes. She reaches for Erik and he at once is kneeling by her bedside.
Blandine gasps, "Promise me that you will use the gift. Promise me that someday, you will teach another to live in music. You have to promise me, Erik!"
"I promise," he brokenly vows. His mask is now wet with tears as Blandine's hand gently caresses Erik's face.
A sharp knock on the door breaks the moment. Jeanne Marie opens the door to usher the midwife in. The old woman takes one look at the scene and shudders with dread at the sight of the young man whose shoulders tremble with his sobs.
"Is that the husband?" she asks of Jeanne Marie.
"Lord, no, that's Madame's freak," the resentful maid replies, quite sure that her insolence will have no repercussions today.
Erik is rooted to a chair directly outside Blandine's boudoir. The midwife has called for boiling water, clean rags and cognac to calm her nerves. Jeanne Marie has been pressed into service to assist the midwife and has rushed from the room twice to empty the contents of her stomach. Every once in a while, a weak cry or moan can be heard.
Finally, the doctor arrives in his morning coat and silk tie. Erik allows himself a modicum of hope as the man of science enters the bedroom. A few moments pass, and the door opens once again. The doctor wipes his hands with a large silk handkerchief as he prepares to leave.
"Where do you think you're going?" Erik asks with astonishment.
"My boy, it's quite hopeless. Terrible shame, of course." The doctor turns to go, only to feel himself lifted bodily by the masked man.
"You get back in there and help her, or by God, you will not see the sunrise," Erik growls with a feral intensity that even he did not know he possessed. He flings the door open and pushes the doctor back inside, then re-assumes his tormented vigil.
The sun sinks in the west, but the sultry heat keeps its hold on Paris. Erik lifts his head as he hears footfalls on the stairway. Please, let it be her husband, Erik silently prays. A Jesuit priest in a sweat stained cassock labors to climb the final stairs. Erik can only point to the door in despair.
As the priest opens the door, the plaintive cry of a baby can be heard. Erik dashes inside with the Jesuit, to see the midwife cleaning a tiny infant. It is a boy, puny and weak, but alive. The doctor huddles in a corner of the room, still fearful of the strange young man in the mask.
"The child is alive—you should be satisfied," the physician calls out as he makes a bolt for the door. Erik makes no move to stop him, for all his attention is fixed upon the still, ashen figure in the middle of the bed. The Jesuit bends over her and anoints her with chrism as he swiftly pronounces the last rites.
The midwife weeps as she swaddles the little boy. "I did everything I could for her, sir. She told us to save the child, and we did. Please, sir--"
"Don't let him die, or I'll kill you" Erik says without emotion. Blandine is almost completely motionless. Only the slightest fluttering of her eyelids indicates that she still lives.
The Jesuit leaves Blandine's side. "My son, let us have no talk of killing. What name should I baptize the child with?"
"Ask his father, I don't know." Erik's mind is foggy now, unable to accept all that has happened. How can she be so still, he ponders. She looks like an ivory carving.
"There is no time. We should baptize the baby at once," the Jesuit insists.
The midwife chimes in, "It strengthens a baby to have a name."
Finally, Erik comprehends what the priest is asking him. "Call the child Daniel, for her brother. She will like that."
The Jesuit motions for the midwife to follow him from the bedroom with the mewling infant. Erik kneels at Blandine's bedside and wipes her brow with a clean cloth. With a mighty effort, Blandine opens her eyes to see her pupil again.
"Baby?" she asks in a faint whisper.
"A beautiful little boy. He looks like Emile." Erik tries to smile, but his resolve fails him.
"Where…Emile?"
"He's coming, Blandine. He's just so far away. You have to wait for him." Erik ducks his head so that Blandine will not see the fresh tears welling in his eyes.
"Sing to me, Erik. Please." This is requested so softly that Erik almost thinks it is coming from inside his head. With a shaky voice, he begins to sing the berceuse that Blandine is so fond of:
Sleep now, sleep little lamb
The sky is heavy with stars
Sleep so close to your dam
Sleep in peace, little lamb.
Sleep now, child of my heart
Angels will keep you safe
Sleep will not keep us apart,
Sleep now, child of my heart.
As Erik sings the ultimate phrase, he hears a deep, agonal breath escape from Blandine's white lips. And she is still. So still.
A warm rain fell at dawn, leaving the grass in the cemetery soaked with the moisture. As the summer sun rises, the water condenses and turns to mist that hangs between the tombs and headstones. The solemn funeral procession that will bring Blandine to her final rest emerges from the fog as if from a dream; the casket drawn by a single black horse, followed by Emile Ollivier, numbed as an automaton, a hysterical Cosima borne up by a grey-faced Hans Von Bülow, and Franz Liszt, bowed and weeping, slowly pushing the wheeled chair that holds his old love, the Countess Marie D'Agoult.
The D'Agoult family tomb has been opened to receive yet another member this morning. As a priest swings the incenser and sprinkles his holy water at the doorway, Liszt's sensitive ears pick up an unexpected counterpoint to the Latin ritual. He raises his eyes to see a tall, thin figure on a hill a little distance from the tomb. The man has a violin tucked under his chin, and the strains of Liszt's "Liebestraum" float down to the mourners like a benediction of a different sort. The grieving virtuoso takes comfort in the lyrical lines, and recognizes the timbre of the instrument as one he thought he would never hear again. What a gift, the stricken composer thinks, what a beautiful, fitting gift.
After the rose-covered casket is placed in the tomb, next to the smaller white one that had been the most recent addition, the mourners slowly embrace and disperse. Liszt carefully ascends the hill where the young masked man awaits. He does not walk quickly; his grief weighs too heavily on him and he feels as though he has aged ten years overnight.
Erik has replaced the violin into its fitted case and offers it to the older man. Liszt waves his hand in refusal. "No, Erik. I believe my daughter did the right thing in giving it to you. An instrument must be played, after all."
They stand together for a time. Erik keeps stealing glances at the tomb in shock and disbelief. Finally, Liszt is the one to break the silence.
"I have so many things to thank you for, Erik."
"Thank me, sir?" I am cursed and I brought my curse upon her, Erik thinks with despair.
"She wasn't alone…someone…you were with her when she…" The older man's voice falters at this and he sobs without shame for a moment. "And you made sure there was a priest, so I have no fear that my Blandine is in Heaven with her brother."
"I have no doubt that she is in Heaven, sir, as sure as I am in Hell!" Erik replies in a strangled voice. His eyes meet the composer's reddened ones to again find complete compassion and understanding.
"Do not despair, my son. Where will you go from here?" Liszt inquires with real concern.
"I must leave Paris. Too much of my heart is in the ground right now. Perhaps if I go to the ends of the earth, I will be able to outrun this pain." Erik turns from the virtuoso at this and doubles over with sorrow. At this moment, he is no more than a devastated youth who desperately needs to weep.
Liszt puts his arm around the young man's shoulders and lets the sobs rack his body. When it seems as though Erik has no more tears to shed, Liszt embraces him and puts the violin back into his hands.
With great emotion, the composer reverts back to his native Hungarian. "Nem elhagy tehetségetek, az én -m Cigány fiú." (Do not abandon your talent, my Gypsy son)
Erik holds the violin close to his chest as he replies, "I never can. It is a gift she gave me. It is a gift that I will carry with me all my days."
FIN