Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Not even the plush horse…(read on!)
Side Notes:
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please do not give anything away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! I saw in an Aria review that someone offered you chocolate and fifty bucks for a few hints. Thanks for not caving :)
An Angel's Sanctus
Erik had sat on the cold, hard bench just shy of an hour, silently observing the ebb and flow of Londoners meandering about St. James Park. The bench was next to a small stone bandstand, now filled with the dried leaves and bramble of winter, positioned in such a way that it afforded him a clear view of the path to the Birdcage Walk. Though the sun was uncharacteristically bright for the briskness of late November, he still pulled up the collar of his new fawn-colored coat, as if to block the breeze, and tilted the brim of his dark felt hat to shadow his face. The reclusive man uttered a quick "merde!" as he longed for the concealing comfort of his great black cape and fedora. But to have retained them in the midst of London fashion would have immediately labeled him as an outsider, and most definitely would have called unwanted attention in his direction. He already had more than his share of that, thanks to his mask.
Nadir was correct, the man thought. It is much more difficult to return to the world of the living than I had anticipated.
Even though he had often been forced into the daylight hours of Paris to "shop" for the necessities of life, he had always dealt with the same small handful of secluded vendors and tailors. Now in London, he found that there was no way to shield himself from gawking shopkeepers and pedestrians, the humiliating stares of children and their mothers, who were quick to avert their faces and whisper "its impolite to stare, dear," to their wide-eyed sons and daughters. Men would glide past him on the sidewalk, glance briefly at his masked face, and then concentrate on some interesting point just beyond his head.
Even his meeting with the London solicitor had been an extremely uncomfortable situation. As soon as the little pig of a man saw that his new client had no title, he abruptly became dismissive and arrogant. Only after Erik used his superb skills of persuasion (first with money, then with the rope) did the sweaty bald man crack a nervous smile, and fawn over the 'most excellent gentleman' in the manner of a pathetic lackey. Their painful beginnings put aside, the masked man found that he was able to acquire a town home in a secluded upper-middle class neighborhood not far from Kensington—much to his liking—in no time at all.
So whether he liked it or not, necessity called for interaction with the human race for whatever length of time was required, if he was to set himself up as a Londoner.
His first task had been to meet with two of Nadir's informants—Mr. Murry and Mr. Hale (or so they called themselves)—at the docks upon his arrival three days ago, to ascertain whether anything of consequence had developed. The Sûreté members were quick to inform him that the Narodnaya Volya had not yet reached London, which lifted an enormous weight from his mind. It was amazing that the People's Will was not kicking down the door of the Comtesse's home after a rather large blunder the young avocat had committed. If Erik and Nadir had not taken the proper measures to cover the man's tracks, the situation could have been all the graver for it.
Simply amazing, he contemplated. And then that foolish avocat practically gave this deadly group everything they needed to find Christine! He ground his teeth in anger and frustration, once again ruminating over the frantic preparations that had taken place before he could travel to London.
The lawyer, in his eagerness to care for Madame de Chagny, had transferred a large sum of money in the form of bank notes from the Comtesse's personal bank account to a new account, established for her in London. As most of the paperwork had been sent to M. David's solicitor friend in England the previous day, nothing could be done to retrieve the letters. In fact, the only reason Erik and Nadir found out about the transaction at all, was because the young lawyer had asked the masked man to convey a personal message to the Comtesse, informing her that the bank notes were hers to acquire anytime she wished.
Covering the mistake had required a bit of artful stealth in the field of safe-cracking, something Erik was only slightly familiar with from his former life. So after their somewhat productive visit with M. David, the Persian and the master thief spent the remainder of the time before dawn breaking into the vault of the Banque Nationale de Paris.
After rendering two guards unconscious, then spending several tiring hours working at the vault door in slow concentration, fighting to steady their nerves, they obtained the personal account ledger of Madame le Comtesse de Chagny. And, as suspected, the large transfer to the London Middlesex Bank stood out like a sore thumb among the records, as there had been no other account activity written in the ledger for several weeks. Erik prayed that no other eyes had seen the ledger, or the paperwork sent to M. David's London solicitor.
Only time will tell, Erik sighed.
For good measure, several lovely jeweled necklaces belonging to one Señora Carlotta Guidacelli, also placed in the large vault, were procured to cover the true theft. Alas, amidst the frenzy stirred at the opera house the following morning by the already widely publicized robbery, Erik was forced by Nadir to relinquish the dazzling pieces. He secretly placed them in the managers' office via the trapdoor in the floor of the room, positioning the diamonds' green velvet box upon the managers' great mahogany desk. Resting atop the box was the following note, scrawled in red ink:
Dear Messieurs Firmin and André,
It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the extended leave I shall be taking from my official position as Opera Ghost. Several unfortunate events call for my services elsewhere, and thus necessitate that I relinquish my presence at the Opéra Populaire for the time being. In my absence, I must ask that you refrain from venturing too far into the cellars, as any dangers that reside there will continue to function after my departure.
Messieurs, be warned, however, that I shall return, and most probably when you do not expect it. And as I would be dreadfully unhappy to find that certain details had been neglected in my absence, please continue to follow the guidelines I have set for the smooth operation of my theatre.
Again, please accept my sincerest apologies for this inconvenience, along with this exquisite gift as a token of my affection. I remain
Your most humble and obedient servant,
O.G.
P.T.O.
Give my regards to La Carlotta, and convey my adamant wish for her recovery from the sad malady that seems to continually plague her – her miserable excuse for a voice.
And so, with extremely little sleep and quite a bit of exertion, Erik and Nadir set about sealing the secret doors into the labyrinth with a cement mixture to prevent as few dalliances into the passages as possible. Once the long and grueling task was completed, the exhausted men fought away the sleep that threatened to engulf them, and ironed out any remaining details. Well into the afternoon, they made plans for correspondence, travel aliases, and meetings with the London informants.
At last, after packing a small valise of items that included a fortune in bank notes, several changes of clothing, a spare mask, Christine de Chagny's bank ledger, the beloved Don Juan Triumphant, and a few select lassos and daggers, the men slowly made their way up through the black passages one final time. At last, they emerged into the hazy above-ground world of Paris. The Phantom of the Opera closed the heavy door to the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house, then locked and chained it, tucking away his home from the world.
As the shadowed indigo of evening bled into the late afternoon light, the two friends said their brief goodbyes outside the Gare Saint-Lazare railway station. One man was to depart for London; the other, to remain in Paris for the time being, gleaning what information he could from the Sûreté.
"As-Salaam Alaikum, my brother," uttered the Persian, grasping his friend's hand. "May Allah be merciful."
"Wa Alaikum Salaam, Daroga," the masked man replied, taken aback by the force of his friend's words.
Brother… Frère…
No one had ever called him by that name before. He let it roll from the tip of his tongue, deciding that he was rather partial to the sound of it.
Once again, Erik peered down the path to the Birdcage Walk of St. James Park, watching for any signs of an elegant young woman dressed from head to toe in mourning black.
It should not be long, now…he reasoned, yet again pulling out his gold pocketwatch to check the time—a quarter after two. Evensong began at three.
The one task he had not yet accomplished—that he had, in fact, put off as long as possible—was to actually meet with Madame de Chagny and inform her of his presence in the city. He had attempted to see her right away upon his arrival to London, but when the man was within yards of her posh home just blocks from Royal Albert Hall, he had halted the cab, leapt to the walkway and strode straight past the Comtesse's residence.
Never one to rush into a situation, Erik carefully weighed the potential for disaster if he were to simply walk up the steps to her home and rap on the door.
If they are watching, there could be no doubt that they would never forget a masked man, and in the future, when they looked for her, would watch for me as well.
No, rushing upon her household like a madman was not the way to do things; he needed time to think through his course of action. And as he had information from Mr. Murry and Mr. Hale that there was still no word of anyone searching for the missing Comtesse and her little son, Erik granted himself the small luxury of setting up a bit more fool-proof plan to speak with Christine.
However, the knowledge from the docks this morning sent him reeling at his cowardice and neglect, scoffing at his incessant penchant for elaborate planning. According to the informants, two men, dressed in the bowler hats and waistcoats of the London lower middle class, had arrived at the shipyard the night before, and had immediately inhabited the pubs. They casually remarked after the recent influx of Parisians to the city, and then asked whether any of the French aristocracy were settled in London. Of course, the patrons of the taverns would have shrugged off the comments as simply an odd vein of discussion over pints, had it not been for the fact that they had been forewarned (and well-paid) to listen for such conversations. In addition, the men's strange lack of accent was sure to set off alarm bells in any cockney sailor worth his salt; wariness of strangers was a part of everyday life in the grimy, foggy, cobblestone streets along the Thames.
So immediately after receiving the message, Erik had fairly flown from his home, grabbed up his coat and hat on his way through the foyer, and sprinted down the lane until he reached the more highly trafficked Barons Court Road. As he flung his hand into the air to hail a Hansom cab, all thoughts of his masked face and passerby's gapes fled from his mind. Every cell in his body was pulled toward the center of his chest, constricting, knotting tightly with fear.
And then he halted his mad rush in frustration, once again two blocks from her home. If the men from the docks had found this place, and were watching…
But he did not have long to ponder over the decision this time, because the very object he sought swept through the front door; the youthful widow, elegant in her tailored black merino dress and cloak, her lovely face framed by a short crape veil attached to a trimmed hat that shadowed her fair brow. She was followed by a rosy young woman of no more than thirty, who was also in black, but more simply and practically dressed than her companion.
That must be her lady's maid, the one who lost a child…Erik realized.
He started as the maid reached back and grasped a small boy's hand, struggling to get him through the doorway. The poor woman endeavored to rebutton the child's coat, but he stubbornly resisted her ministrations, twisting and turning from her fingers. Then Christine knelt down to face the lad, straightened his little coat and hat, and took his other hand to help him down the stairs.
"Please Jean-Paul, ma petit, do not fight so," she lightly scolded, tugging at the scowling boy's arm. The child let out an angry whimper and jerked his arm back from her grasp. Sighing, the weary mother understood that no amount of cajoling would sway the boy's mind, so she lifted him into her arms, carrying him down the front path. But as she took her little son into her embrace, he fought even harder against her until she relented in exasperation, once again setting him down upon the ground. It seemed to Erik that the child preferred to walk alone, with no assistance whatsoever.
Christine's child…so Jean-Paul is his name…he mused. It was odd, how the name pleasantly surprised him. He had assumed that the little Comte de Chagny would have a much more aristocratic name, such as Louis, Georges, Philippe….or Raoul. It was comforting, however, to observe that the boy was his own little person. Oh, Erik could see that the child had the look of his beloved Christine about him—the soft dark curls and slight frame, even for a two year old. But the stubborn streak in the child seemed to be unique to Jean-Paul, for both of his parents were devoid of such a characteristic.
As the small party made their way down the path to the waiting carriage, Erik swiftly ducked around the corner of a neighboring house to avoid being seen. He waited as the three strode past him, then he picked up pace behind them, just close enough to hear a few phrases float back to him…
"…must stop at the millinery's before we go to Westminster for Evensong."
"Perhaps we can walk through the park from the millinery's to the abbey…"
The voices faded again, but that bit of information was all he needed.
Christine and Papi sauntered along the promenade, each carrying a hatbox, their cloaks tucked tightly about them to block out the brisk air. Jean-Paul was toddling along the path ahead of them. The boy darted back and forth through the trees, sometimes veering away to examine a rock, or other pedestrians, his curious mind continually churning.
"Maman!" he cried as he bent to reach little fingers after a pigeon or squirrel, the frightened animals scampering away in fright before they could fall prey to the boy's grasp.
The young mother laughed in delight at her beautiful son's antics, and knelt next to him, her arm coming around his middle in an affectionate squeeze. She took up his tiny hand in hers, and with her index finger, pointed his smaller one along the path the squirrel had taken up the tree, until both mother and son saw the furry creature chatter at them from his perch in the branches.
"Squirrel, Jean-Paul. Can you say that for your Maman?" Christine brushed her fingers lightly over the boy's forehead under his hat, pushed back the wispy curls, and planted a little kiss on his cheek.
Jean-Paul squirmed from her embrace and ran towards the tree, squealing with glee as the squirrel leapt from branch to branch, eventually ducking inside his home. He then looked back to the smiling woman behind him, as if daring her to follow. Christine straightened her legs, handed her box to Papi, and chased after her little son as he darted through the trees, his shrieks of laughter trailing along behind him.
Suddenly he halted, the laughter dying away as something caught his attention behind a large empty bandstand just off the path. He scampered around it, and then called back to his Maman with pride at his discovery.
"Man!" he cried, his little finger pointing behind the structure, just as he had pointed to the squirrel.
Christine's face flushed red in embarrassment as she jogged over to her little son. "You should not bother the gentleman, my dear," she scolded, lightly grasping the boy's hand.
"Sir, I apologize," she began in halted English, but the words died away as she circled the stones, and found only empty benches. She frowned in puzzlement, turning to her little son.
"Jean-Paul, are you sure there was someone here?" The boy nodded innocently up at his Maman, his solemn eyes all seriousness. The red flush of her cheeks quickly drained away as her face went ashen at the possibilities.
Where could the man have gone to so quickly? Is someone following us?…Are they following us? The young mother scooped up her boy and dashed back to the path in panic, as the questions flooded her mind. Her eyes darted about nervously, searching for any person walking away from the bandstand, or perhaps along the path ahead, but not another soul was around, save for an older gentleman and lady several yards behind Papi.
I am going mad…there was no one there, of course. They are not there.
Since she had fled from Paris five weeks ago, she had heard not a single word from them, nor received their ominous notes or frightful visits. The first week in London, she had held her breath every time she walked through the front door, anticipating another horrible message. But none came. And when she hailed a hansom, she would nervously glance over her shoulder, expecting to see a shrouded man with a twisted sneer behind her. Yet time and again, there was no one there. So she eventually began to laugh away her foolishness, becoming comfortable in their safe new home and routine. However, when something out of the ordinary happened, even if it was as trivial as a mysteriously vanished man, it unsettled her a bit.
And so she darted back to Papi, saying shakily, "perhaps we should move on, or we shall be late for Evensong." Papi nodded, concerned by the paleness of her mistress' face, and the fear shining in her eyes.
The two women swiftly made their way across the footbridge, and along the Birdcage Walk. Once they reached the gate of the park, they continued on to Great George's Street, skirting through the pedestrians about the highly trafficked area. The strolled down the street for several blocks, past the Royal Aquarium, and onto the great yard of Westminster. The ancient bells of the Abbey had begun to peal, calling the faithful to the great place of worship, the house of kings.
Christine paused in the yard before the door, struggling to keep her arms around a squirming Jean-Paul, who had become extremely indignant at the park excursion being cut short. She halted, abruptly turning her son in her embrace so she could see his face.
"Jean-Paul, I am at my wits' end—enough of this behavior. We can visit Hyde Park tomorrow for a long time, if it is not too cold. But now it is time to go to worship, ma petit."
Unfortunately, her promise had the opposite effect on her cranky little boy, and she saw the telltale tears began to gather in his eyes, his face flushing red. The aggravated mother sighed wearily, bracing herself for the great cry that was soon to follow.
"Don't you want to here the boys sing, and the great organ play?" she cajoled, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, trying desperately to calm her little son before the tantrum ensued. "Listen quietly, you can hear it now," she whispered into the boy's ear, as the strains of one of Mendelssohn's organ sonatas wafted through the great doors
"No!" he cried, his little fists rubbing at the tears in his eyes. Sobs began to gather in his chest, the dreaded wail welling in this throat. And then it rose up, unleashed in all its glory—a great howl that echoed across the yard. Churchgoers making their way into the nave turned their heads as nonchalantly as possible, to see whose child had emitted such a sound. Christine stomped her little foot in frustration, desperately bouncing the child, hugging him to her, anything to stifle his cries.
"Please, Jean-Paul, no more tears!" she begged. She could see, though, that her little son's sobs had reached such a point, that the wailing would only end when his tears ran dry, and sleep mercifully claimed the drained boy. She turned to the woman anxiously looking on at her side.
"Papi, the choir shall begin in minutes. You may go on, if you wish, and I can stay out here with my son until the service is over." She nodded towards the doors, both arms occupied by the wayward boy.
"Madame, I can remain with Jean-Paul; you listen to the music. After all, you were the one who wanted to hear the choir to begin with. And I find that my heart is just a little too heavy, still, to listen to the boys sing." The maid's voice cracked with sorrow at her last words, as thoughts of her own little boy surfaced once again.
Christine's face clouded with pain for her friend's grief, and nodded silently. "There is a sheltered cloister with a courtyard just beyond the nave, Papi, if you find that the air is growing too cold. Benches line the walls, and you can rest with Jean-Paul, if you like; I am sure he will cry himself to sleep in no time." The woman nodded at her mistress' words, straining to hear them above the little boy's cries. "I should not be more than an hour."
The young widow made her way through the heavy black oak doors and into the ancient nave of the abbey, her little footsteps across the stone floors echoing through the church, rising to join the reverberation of the last strain of music from the organ. The sound resonated throughout the Confessor's majestic house, and faded into the vast recesses of the massive vaulted ceiling and flying buttresses. The Comtesse glided along the side aisle, her eyes skimming the great names of the entombed along the wall and floor. Pausing at the edge of the pews, she spanned the immense gothic hall, breathing in the infinite splendor of the heart of the kings' and queens' venerable past – here was where they were crowned, and here was where they were buried. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her as the chill of the cold stones crept into her bones.
Passing between two ornate columns, she slid into a dark wood pew, settling into its smooth, hard back. Her eyes traveled over the elaborate choir screen at the head of the nave, and she listened with pleasure as the first sounds of the boys' choir rose up from behind it. The soft, pure strains of Purcell's Music for Queen Mary snaked about the room and reached her ears, sending pricks and tingles down her spine.
"Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts…"So enthralled was she by the voices, that she was not aware of the graceful man that quietly slipped into the pew behind her, slightly to her left. He also settled himself, tucking his fawn-colored coat around him, and placed his hat on the bench at his side.
And so the pair silently sat through the Evensong, attending to the measured harmonies of the Purcell, then the gentle strains of the Latin cadence. Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli swelled, floated about them, pulling and drawing at all the senses of their bodies.
Erik leisurely closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the pew, the lilt of the Kyrie eleison…Christe eleison engulfing him. One motet after another, the Gloria…Credo…the voices rising and falling like a rhythmic dance…
"Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis…"
A vision of years ago descended upon him as the gentle Latin graced his ears. One of Christine's voice lessons, in her dressing room…
"You are late," came the smooth voice, icy in its irritation. "We were to begin your lesson in Latin today."
"My dear Angel, please forgive me," the girl pleaded. "I was so caught up in my visit with César, that I did not notice the time. I swear to you, it will never happen again!" she cried, desperate to soothe her teacher's anger. But instead of being calmed, the voice rose in fury at her words.
"May I ask, my dear pupil, who the devil is César?" the voice hissed with contempt in a tone rather unlike that of an Angel.
Christine stuttered a bit at his question, unsure of whether to grin at the misunderstanding, or tremble at the rage seeping into the room. "Angel, I would never disobey your orders! César is not a man, but rather, a horse—the white one from The Prophet. I do love him so, and every now and again I visit him in the stables to bring him carrots and sugar."
The girl paused, waiting for a reply from the voice. When none came, she continued with a sad sigh. "Sometimes, I grow very lonely here. It is silly, really, but César always seems so happy to see me, as if he looks forward to our small meeting throughout the week…" her voice trailed away in embarrassment, her pretty cheeks flushing red as they always did.
Erik lowered his head at her words, loathing himself for his anger towards her. For once, he was glad that he had the mirror to serve as a barrier between them…her words about the horse could have just as easily been spoken about him.
"My child," he murmured, "all is forgiven. Besides, we have much to accomplish today. You see the music at your table? It is a solo soprano part from Mozart's Great Mass. We shall work on your Latin intonation, for I believe that it will help to improve your diction in other foreign language pieces, as well. It is important for you to understand opera's origins…"
That evening, in her blind gratitude for his forgiveness, her song rose up in glory, surely as an angel's did; the innocent purity of the Sanctus grasped at his heart, drew his very spirit from him in its sweetness. And as she sang, he once again let his soul soar with hers…
"…SANCTUS, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth…"
Erik was vaguely aware of a slight shuffling about him, and opened his eyes to see that the heads of the worshippers were now bowed. He leaned forward, his elbows propped at his knees, hands clasped in front of him, as if he was also in deep concentration, reflecting on the Latin's meaning. In fact, he meditated on the delicately pinned curls directly in front of him, and studied their soft sheen, glowing from the diffused light streaming through the abbey's high windows. He softly inhaled her scent, the gentle lavender mixing with the cold mustiness of their surroundings.
Another hazy memory flooded upon him…a dark, dank labyrinth…the horrible pain in his chest…Christine struggling in vain to support him through the cold passages, her arms wrapped about him, hair smelling of lavender…
His eyes followed the intricate twists of her chocolate-colored locks, weaving in and out in some elaborate pattern, like the music spiraling about him. The man smiled gently as he remembered the girl's efforts to save his worthless life…her loving hands, blistered from the heat, diligently massaging poultices into his chest…Her beautiful young face, gazing upon him with tears clouding her eyes.
"…Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…Hosanna in excelsis…"
Gloria…he whispered inaubibly, echoing the Sanctus. Mon Ange…my Angel of Mercy…
The boys' voices rose again in crescendo, the mass weaving a trance over the masked man. He lost himself to the swell of the music once again, the harmonies rich in the dank air of the church. Powerful waves of emotion swept over him; visions of Christine, the music, all swirled together into one grand composition. The passionate strains flowed through his very being, his mind frantically trying to sort through the notes, overwhelmed by how swiftly and violently the music possessed his soul.
Christine…"…Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis…"
With a start, Erik realized that the last part of the mass was being sung, and he still had several tasks to do. He shook his head to clear away the trance that he had been woven into. Sadly, not yet ready for the time with his beloved to end, he hesitated a moment, then gave in to the urge to touch the silky sheen of her hair. He leaned forward, running a long, thin finger under her black crape veil, and softly caressed her neck, burying his hand in the fine dark curls.
The young woman shuddered, then stiffened in fear at the feathery touch, paralyzed, too frightened to turn around.
He moved his face forward until his lips just grazed her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.
"Anywhere you go, Christine…" he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. Then he swiftly withdrew his hand, slipping out of the pew and into the aisle.
The Comtesse quickly whirled around, her wide eyes shining with disbelief at the words that had just seared her ear. She rapidly scanned the back of the nave, her hand flying to her brow to block the glaring sunlight spilling through the abbey's open doors, streaming through the floodgates.
There!…
Her eyes followed the retreating silhouette of a man hastily making his way through the nave and out into the yard. She began to slide out of the pew in pursuit, but a small bit of white paper caught her attention in the vacated seat behind her. Gingerly, she picked it up and read the name scrawled across the front in red ink: Madame de Chagny.
Hesitating momentarily with desire to read the words, she instead pocketed the letter and flew back through the abbey, heedless of the echo her footfalls were producing, and that they were interrupting the last Agnus Dei of the Evensong. She burst through the illuminated door and into the light, her eyes tearing and squinting at the sudden brightness.
The Comtesse scanned the yard for any sign of the man, intently glaring through the other pedestrians leisurely mingling about the grounds. She could spot no hurriedly retreating person among them; in fact, she did not even know what type of clothing to look for. Dejected, she slowly wandered about the yard, searching for Papi and her little son, and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of a white mask amongst the faces. After several minutes, she wandered past the deanery and into the cloister's courtyard.
The maid was leaning lightly against a cold, stone bench along the wall, her little charge playing at her feet with some small treasure. Christine smiled at the picture, noting that her stubborn son was still very much awake, the solid tantrum he had openly embraced earlier not having the tiring effect they had hoped for. Poor Papi, however, was very close to sleep, her eyes drooping slightly and head nodding back and forth. The Comtesse seated herself next to her friend, causing her to stir from her drowsiness.
"Oh, Madame, is the Evensong over then? I am sorry – I was just so tired, and the music floating through the abbey was so lovely, that I fairly fell asleep," the maid abruptly apologized, shaking the last of the fuzziness from her mind.
Christine laughed, taking her hand. "My dear Papi, there is no need for apologies. After I left you with my son, in the state he was in, it is I who should apologize." She leaned forward to ruffle Jean-Paul's now hatless head. "He seems much more content, now," she said, peering more closely at the little thing that amused him – a plush white horse with small eyes, mouth, and nostrils stitched in black, and creamy bits of yarn for a mane and tail. The mother knelt next to her child, puzzling over the toy. For the life of her, she could not remember acquiring the animal.
"Oh, that, Madame," said Papi, in explanation. "The strangest thing happened not ten minutes ago. A man, rather odd, strode into the cloister, as if he had specifically sought us out. Well, of course I was rather panicked and such, because he wore a mask; but he just nodded at me, and then glanced down to Jean-Paul. He knelt next to the boy, just as you are now, pulled that pony from his cloak, and placed it in the child's lap." The maid looked up to her mistress, unsure of whether she would be upset with her for letting the man close to her son.
Christine nodded anxiously for the maid to continue, her hands trembling at Papi's every word.
"Well, then he smiled at Jean-Paul, touched his gloved finger to the tip of the lad's nose, and said 'His name is César, and he is a fine horse that is highly thought of by a lovely madame, so you must take very good care of him.' And then he rose again, leaving straightaway, without another word. Oh, Madame, I hope it was not wrong of me to let Jean-Paul keep the animal. I could see no harm—"
But the maid's words suddenly died away as she saw her mistress' face blaze with some unreadable expression, something akin to hope and fear, mingled together.
"It was him, then; I am not mad!" cried the Comtesse, jerking the note from her pocket and running a finger under the wax seal, almost ripping the paper in half, in her eagerness to read its contents. Only a few words, written in the same red ink, graced the inside. A stiff piece of paper fluttered to the ground, and as she stooped to retrieve it, she saw that it was, in fact, a ticket of some sort.
My dearest Christine,
Grant me the pleasure of your company this evening for a night of opera. I shall anticipate your arrival at my acquired box, numbered 'five,' naturally.
The Comtesse studied the details of the ticket again, amused at his choice of seating. Yes, the opera—Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice, she noted—was indeed this evening at the Royal Albert Hall, at eight o'clock. The hall was not far from her place of residence, but she was still left with only three hours to return home, find something suitable to wear, and meet Erik for the performance.
Meet Erik…she mused, suddenly nervous with both dread and anticipation. After their last conversation, and every heated word he had proclaimed to her, the girl did not quite know what to make of the latest developments. But in the midst of her uncertainties, one piece of knowledge overshadowed them, driving fear to the back of her mind…
He has come to me in London, after all!
Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )
If you are itching for more Fraternité and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "Frat party" on my website for some interesting story-related diddies. See my profile for details. Don't forget to sign the guest book, when you are there!