Chapter 3
Dinner was a tense affair. Having eaten little of what was served in restaurants, I was at a near loss upon being presented with a menu; barely was I able to manage a selection before the server came for our orders. Christine was allowed no chance to offer her own opinion; the Vicomte assumed with frustrating ease that he had the privilege of ordering for her. I watched her carefully, and was pleased to see an almost angry look pass through her eyes, before it quickly faded behind the gentle, kind sapphire surface. A somewhat smug grin managed its way upon my lips.
"So, Monsieur.. Sartre, was it?"
Yes, that's right, boy—attempt an insult by feigning forgetfulness. "Oui, Monsieur?"
Smiling, Raoul leaned back in his chair and began careful placement of the napkin upon his lap. "What, might I ask, is your occupation at the Garnier?"
A hand waved quickly, and then swept up my wine glass—bearing a rather exquisite wine that the Vicomte had ordered. I had to give the boy that much: he had excellent taste for wine. "No, no, Monsieur, I do not work in the Garnier. Although," and here is where my pride managed to get the best of me, "I did aid in its construction."
Eyebrows lifted. Christine offered a politely interested smile, lips then parting to ask a question before the Vicomte cut her off. (To his credit, the boy did not intend to interrupt her; I do believe he had all but forgotten her presence, so busy he was to unveil me as some dirty scoundrel in gentleman's clothing.) "A man as well-off as yourself, Monsieur, working in construction? How is it that you came upon such great fortune?"
I laughed disdainfully. "Again, Monsieur, you have assumed irresponsibly—I did not work in the construction directly (though I often dirtied my hands where the workers had not the skill), but rather acted as an architect and director of construction, beneath the wishes of Monsieur Charles Garnier himself."
"Oh my," Christine murmured, eyes lighting up. "That must have been quite the hon—"
"Really?" drawled the Vicomte, leaning forwards. "Please, Monsieur, tell me—"
I held up a hand. "Excuse me, Monsieur, but before you go on I feel there is something I must admit." The boy grinned, thinking he'd pinned me in a corner. "The first, Monsieur, is that I do not appreciate this.. inquisition. If you would not mind, I would prefer to take my supper with pleasant conversation, and not while under siege." The grin had vanished long before I progressed to my second point. "In addition, Monsieur, I must insist that you not again interrupt the lady when she attempts to speak. If I must once more endure that hurt look upon her face that appears at every interruption, I shall have no choice but to remove you from her company immediately."
Christine's cheeks flared, as quickly innocent protests rose up. "No, Monsieur Sartre, please—it is of no consequence, I do not mind. The Vicomte, he does not intend to—"
"You, Monsieur," the boy said, as one finger jabbed in my direction, "are far out of line."
Suddenly realizing the weight of my own words, I tensed, and turned my eyes down to the soup that had been set before me. "Ah, forgive me—Monsieur, Mademoiselle. My words... They escape me, in moments of passion, I am afraid." The wolfish gaze rose to focus upon Christine's, and I was shocked to find a quiet smile of understanding resting just beneath her placid exterior.
The remainder of our meal passed with little animosity between myself and the Vicomte, though there were more angry glances than I care to recount. It became quickly obvious that the rivalry between us would not be a mild one; the struggle for Christine would be a long one.
As we exited the restaurant, the Vicomte and I putting on our hats and cloaks, and Christine wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, my head turned upwards to observe the Parisian sky. As the moonlight shown down, mingling with the light from the streetlamps, I allowed my eyes to close. It was comforting knowledge, that the sky so brashly illuminated a face no man or woman would shrink from, and it was wonderful to rejoice in the sensation of moonlight upon bare skin, without fear. To think, that only seventy-two hours prior...
One cannot know what it feels like to have moonlight upon the skin, until one has gone for so long without it. It is something that man does not appreciate as he should.
"I don't suppose, Monsieur," the Vicomte was saying, "that you would prefer to walk home?"
I turned my gaze on him, eyebrows rising at the brashness of the suggestion. Christine immediately expressed her displeasure—I cut her off with the raising of a hand. "Please, Mademoiselle, the Vicomte is correct in his assumption. A walk would be beautiful, on such a night as this." In truth, I was thankful of the easy escape the Vicomte had offered me; too difficult it would be to view the affectionate parting between them, and with only a slight smile and a "good night" to me—and too difficult it would be to explain why I would prefer to be dropped off at the Garnier.
Without awaiting the argument I knew would come from her, I turned and slid my hands into my pockets. I kept my stride at a rolling gate, not too anxious to return to the dreary home that awaited me. Truly, after spending such an evening, how could I ever view my home with the same appreciation I once had?
I heard their voices behind me, slowly rising in volume until the conversation was ended by a rather sharp retort from Christine. It was not long afterwards that I heard quick footsteps behind me, and her sweet voice calling: "Monsieur, please, wait for me!"
I stopped, and waited until she had fallen into place beside me to again pick up my stroll. It was difficult to contain the elation that was driving my pulse to race as it did; after half a century behind a mask, one night was hardly sufficient to teach one to suddenly guard their expressions. "Was there a disagreement with the Vicomte, Mademoiselle?"
A sigh was brought forth. "Oui, Monsieur—but please, you mustn't think him a horrible man. He is usually very kind, very thoughtful..." She risked a glance at me, and then quickly focused her eyes on the sidewalk again. "Though I must admit, Monsieur.. you certainly bring out the worst in him."
I laughed, without thinking. "Yes, Mademoiselle, I seem to have that effect on many people."
She laughed as well, though I'm certain she did not at all catch the joke; how could she have, without having known my identity? Still, that she was sweet enough to laugh simply for the sake of laughing merely endured me to her further. "So, Monsieur, where do you live?"
"Not too far—and yourself?"
"Oh, just a few streets over... That is why the Vicomte dines with me here: it is close to Mama Valerius's home."
I nodded. "Of course, I would be happy to walk you home, Mademoiselle..."
"I'm quite sure that is unnecessary, Monsieur," she mumbled, head lowered.
My steps paused, and a hand reached out to touch ever so lightly against her shoulder. Tingles thrilled through my arm. "Really, Mademoiselle—it would be no trouble."
Eyes wide, she pursed her lips. "Oh... I, I mean, merci. It would be greatly appreciated..."
Nodding, I continued walking, hand returning to its cozy pocket. "So, yourself and the Vicomte—you are.. lovers?"
Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see her face light up in a heated blaze. "Mais non, Monsieur!" she cried immediately. "The Vicomte and myself—we are friends, only old friends, from long ago..."
Methinks thou doth protest too much—but I did not say as much aloud. "I see."
Blushing even more furiously, she asked, "And why does Monsieur wish to know of the affairs between a singer and a Vicomte?"
I grinned. "Why does a singer wish to put reason behind the idle curiosities of a composer she hardly knows?"
Her eyes locked with mine, and she smiled. "Touché."
The rest of the walk continued in silence, and ended far too soon; it seemed barely had we fallen into such comfortable quietude, that she was declaring this next door to be hers. I walked her to the door, watched as she slipped her key within and gently pushed the door open. As she stepped inside, she paused, and turned to look at me. "I am sorry the evening was not more pleasant, Monsieur. The Vicomte... he is simply very protective of me, you understand..."
Smiling, I bowed low over her hand, and kissed it with such delicate reverence. As I straightened, fingers still stubbornly clinging to hers, my eyes met hers, and I murmured softly, "Believe me, Mademoiselle—the evening could not possibly have been more perfect."
The comment was rewarded with another delicate blush. Her fingers slipped from mine, and she took a step back, becoming nothing but an angelic silhouette against the light of the indoors. "Goodnight, Monsieur."
"Goodnight, Mademoiselle."
As I entered my home in the cellars, it was with a flourish of limb and a quick spin on the toes. Such as had happened tonight had before been naught but mocking dream; how was it possible that I could ever have imagined it might happen in truth? Delight of the sort I had never before experienced was welling up within me and threatening to overwhelm.
Ayesha trotted up to me, pushing against my moving legs and purring loudly. In one graceful motion, I swept her up in my hands, clutched her to my chest, and spun 'round the kitchen with her. The idea of dancing did not at all appeal to her; yowling, she scrambled free of my arms and vanished in a streak of fur down the hallway.
The blunt refusal did not at all injure me; a merry laugh instead took the place of what may once have been a moan of despair, and the gloomy little house seemed to light up with the presence of gaiety. "Oh, Christine!" I cried, again spinning, and nearly crashing into one of the chairs that sat at the small kitchen table. Love before had been a horrible affliction, a thing that devoured and destroyed, a thing that left me wallowing in such despair that not even I had known before.
But now! –Now, Love was a thing for which to be overjoyed! Love brought me happiness, brought such lightness of spirit as I had not before known. She left me dancing about my home like a foolish young man who has experienced his first boyish crush! I laughed not only for the merriment of my disposition, but for the foolishness of my own actions. And yet, how could I help but act foolishly? All men do, they say, when they are in love, and now I was only a man. Only a man, only a man! Naught but a silly man in love! An older man than most in my situation, true, but still just a man. No elegantly tragic situation held me apart from them now, unless one counted my living situation...
As I paused to consider my finances, and how quickly my living arrangements could be adjusted to more suitable ones, I felt a sudden coldness of limb. Now that I was of flesh and blood, would the chill of my home disturb me? Or...
Acting almost in chorus with the chill, my face felt suddenly as if it were on fire. Disconcerted, I raised my hands to touch against my face; the collision of ice and fire was not at all appreciated by the skin involved, and immediate and merciless pain was its expression of such. As a result, my hands jerked away from the skin, and instead caught my clumsy stagger as I lurched towards the Louis-Philippe room, and my mother's mirror.
What I found in that reflecting glass was enough to make me cry out. The skin upon my head, be it face or scalp, was slowly oozing from my skull like melted rubber. Hair, cartilage, blood vessels—all slipped in mudslide formation down to my neck, dripped off to fall in sickening puddles on my shoulders and on the floor. My nose was the most horrible to observe; it slowly deformed, and then in one startling moment, dropped off and onto my hand, burning into the skin there.
The mirror collided with the floor and cracked, as in my haste to reach the bathroom my fingers merely released it. Barely did I reach the toilet in time to avoid being sick all over my bathroom floor.
As I sagged against the wall, hands braced against the floor, only one thought could pass through my mind:
Thank heavens this did not happen in front of Christine.
