The snow drifted slowly from the inky sky, and settled on the vehicles traveling along the wide, Parisian boulevard. Carriages slipped past each other, sliding ahead on snow slicked, icy tracks. A wintry hush blanketed the street. Occasionally, raucous laughter split the air as a carriage full of rambunctious, young partygoers careened through the crowd of vehicles.
Jade stared out of the carriage window at the dancing snowflakes. Tilting her head up, she tried to see the sky above as bits of snow blew in and settled on her dark hair. As she pulled her cloak about her throat, her gaze fell to the large building ahead. The church of St-Vincent-de-Paul was swinging into view.
They were traveling towards Montmartre along an expansive street—the Boulevard de Magenta. To their left was the ninth arrondissement, the neighborhood where the Opera Populaire was located. To the right was the train terminus—the Gare du Nord, behind which lay Parisian slums, abattoirs, and wine shops.
Sitting back in her seat, Jade glanced at her companion who was quietly watching her. Mme. Pissaro had said little since they had entered the carriage. For once, she was silent without her usual flow of conversation and ideas.
Jade leaned back further into the seat, and shut her eyes.
After some reflection, she had decided to go to the holiday gathering that Mme. Pissaro had invited her to. The house was far enough away from the Opera Populaire that the chance of being seen by someone who knew her was practically nonexistent. And she needed to get out of her room. Her melancholy was getting worse. In the last two weeks, she had slipped further from day to day life, and plunged deeper into her dreams.
She had spent Christmas alone in her room with a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese. It had rained heavily that day, so a walk had been out of the question. Instead, she had pulled her chair up to the window, and watched the occasional pedestrian slog along the flooded streets below.
What is Pierre doing at this moment? she had meditated while staring at the leaden sky. And how were her other friends faring—Manette, Jean, and Paul Rascon? She had even wondered what Madame Truffaut, that steely willed tyrant, was up to on that dreary day.
Then of course, her mind had settled on Erik. She couldn't contact him—the post didn't carry letters to the Opera Ghost—and she was vaguely worried about him. Her letter of farewell had been terribly inadequate. She had wanted to pour out her feelings to him, to say that she was deeply sorry about their parting. But what good would it have done to make such a declaration? He would have ended up despising her even more. And it might have reinforced any idea that he already had to pursue her.
She had sent letters to her friends before Christmas to reassure them as to her health and safety. There had been an especially long one to Pierre. She knew that he would be worried about her.
Looking out the carriage window, Jade focused on the buildings, and breathed in the crisp air. She thought of the pair of gloves that was sitting on her dresser. They were to have been a Christmas present for Gillian. But after consideration, she had decided to wait until next month to deliver them in person. If Erik was still searching for her, he would have anticipated her visiting the child on that special day.
"Are you comfortable, my dear?" asked her companion.
Pulled out of her thoughts, Jade smiled slightly. "Yes, thank you, Mme. Pissaro. And you?"
The older woman gave her a bright smile, and replied, "I am looking forward to seeing my friend Etienne and his family. It has been too long."
Monsieur Etienne Coupeau was a successful businessman who was an old childhood friend of Mme. Pissaro. According to her, M. Coupeau was well enough off that he could afford to send his son to art school and indulge in his own lively passion for the arts.
"There will be people of all ages at the party," she had explained to Jade. "I'm certain you will enjoy yourself."
Perhaps the older woman was correct, and the party would be a pleasant distraction. Jade needed to lighten her mood. Lately, she had been thinking of how much she needed to leave Paris which had become extremely dreary. If I work hard and scrimp, then by spring I'll have enough money to leave,she had pondered.Winter was a bad time to be traveling the country with little money. She hadn't forgotten the misery of her first ten days in Paris.
It was depressing to be stuck in this city, impoverished and isolated from her friends. Since leaving the opera house, her melancholy seemed to be growing worse by the day. She was troubled by the fact that she had lost interest in daily life.
But the worst part was the self doubt. She no longer trusted her intuition. It had betrayed her when it had signaled that Erik was to be an important part of her destiny. When he had attacked her with his music, it had shattered her confidence.
Without that intuitive guidance that she had always depended upon in the past, the best she could do was to rely on her common sense. And that told her that when the seasons changed, she should abandon Paris and seek a new home.
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The two women stepped through the front door of the large house. Inside, seated in the salon, were several dozen people clustered into groups.
The first thing that Jade noticed was the large number of paintings hanging on the walls. It was a tastefully arranged display of classical and contemporary art. After the introductions to her host and hostess, Jade left her companion, and slowly moved across the room as she viewed the paintings. Excitement stirred in her as she approached a small, highly colored work that hung in a distant corner. Facing it, she caught her breath. Before her was a pastel by Degas that depicted diminutive ballerinas gathered together in casual poses. One of the children had white hair.
Tears rimmed her eyes as she stood glued to the spot, and stared at Gillian's image. She forgot where she was as a wave of feeling rushed through her.
"What do you think of it?" a voice behind her queried.
Turning, Jade looked into the smiling eyes of Raoul de Chagny.
"It's lovely," she replied quietly. She turned away, and composed herself.
"How are you, Mlle. Bouta?" he asked gently.
Jade wiped the tears out of her eyes, and turned back to him.
"I am well, M. de Chagny. Although, I'm a little surprised to see you here this evening."
Raoul chuckled, and offered her his arm. He escorted her to a group of people, and invited her to join them.
"Mlle. Bouta, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Christine de Chagny," he said with shining eyes.
The brown haired woman looked across at Jade, and for the second time that night, she caught her breath.
She's beautiful! She marveled.
Reaching across, Christine touched Jade's hand and said, "My husband speaks highly of you, Mlle. Bouta. He says that you are a lover of the arts."
Tongue tied, Jade simply gazed into those beautiful, luminous eyes, and pondered, She is the one he loves. Erik chose well. Then she smiled shyly at the young woman.
Parisians were notorious for their expressiveness. It was a lively group of educated people that Jade found herself in the midst of that evening. Their witty comments ran the gamut of music, theater, and art. She listened silently, fascinated by the opinions around her. Eventually, the topic turned to recent imports from the orient, particularly from Japan.
"I'll grant you that their goods show a certain refined delicacy," said one young man, "but their architecture does not possess the monumental character of ours. Theirs is an example of over refined thought that lacks the thrust of French masculinity."
A few witty remarks followed about French architecture being the result of an unfettered male drive. After a momentary lull, Jade spoke.
"I don't believe you can compare the two in that way. The purpose of Japanese architecture is different than that of its European counterpart."
"How so?" queried the young man. His eyes raked across her, and she could see unhidden contempt playing about his mouth. Jade suddenly became acutely aware that her plain clothes revealed her lower social status in that elite group.
However, that didn't humble her enough to pass on his challenge.
"It is easy to see if you take the time to study the Japanese style and its relationship to their geography, and religious beliefs," she replied as she firmly looked her opponent in the eye. "Japan is a set of volcanic islands with an abundance of forests and with little stone. They are regularly beset by typhoons and earthquakes. Their architects have ingeniously chosen to use the materials on hand in order to live in harmony with the forces that surround them. That choice is reflected in unique designs using wooden columns and beams to create gentle curves. The result is an elegant, simple beauty, which is not only in harmony with the elements of nature, but also protects their structures from natural disasters."
As she spoke, she was remembering her discussion with Erik on that topic. One evening, he had explained to her the sketches from his book on Japanese architecture. Erik was a wonderful teacher, capable of taking the most complicated concepts and transforming them into simple statements. Fascinated, she had asked him question after question until he had finally closed the book, and told her that they would continue their discussion on another day.
As she held her audience's attention, Jade thought of the slight smile on Erik's face when he had answered her questions. His eyes had sparkled as she had continued to probe deeper in an attempt to go beyond the basic ideas that he had first presented to her.
Suddenly, Jade stopped talking, and stared blankly at the faces that were turned towards her. She was realizing how alive she had felt with Erik.
After a brief silence, Raoul interceded. "Brava, Mlle. Bouta. That was well put." Then he turned to the young man and said, "You have been trounced, my friend."
The rest of the evening, Jade kept her peace as she listened to the others. She particularly enjoyed hearing Christine's musical voice, which had a sweet, joyous quality. As the young husband and wife spoke to each other with glances and gentle touch, she watched them with tenderness and sadness. Their love was soothing and delicate. Was that the reason that the young woman had chosen Raoul over Erik? Had his dark passion and fierce temper frightened her away?
Later, as Jade and her companion prepared to leave, Raoul approached her and spoke.
"It was fortunate that we met again tonight. Christine and I would very much like to have you visit with us. Shall I send word to you through the address that you gave me the last time we spoke?"
Jade hesitated, and then gave him her new address. Once he knew where she lived, he might reconsider his offer. And what if Erik was still keeping tabs on Christine? Her instincts were telling her to be careful, but in the end, it was her loneliness and curiosity that won out.
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The first days of 1875 had come and gone, and the abnormally cold winter continued. Paris alternated between being buried in snow or drenched by rain.
Erik sat in his snug, heated home. In front of him were a stack of papers that he'd been collecting since Jade's departure. At the top was Jade's letter to Pierre, the one she had sent him shortly before Christmas. It had been deftly lifted by one of Erik's spies, and replaced with a copy that had been sent on to his rival.
The letter indicated that Jade was still living in an unknown part of Paris, and that she intended to remain there until the spring.
Erik picked it up, and studied the handwriting again. There was something strained about the script, as if she had been under duress while writing it. And although the content was not unusual, on reading between the lines, he had sensed her distress.
It was a month and a half since Jade had left the opera house, and he was no nearer to finding her. She had proven to be an elusive prey.
"No surprise there," he murmured. She was by nature a survivor, and she'd gone to ground. Unfortunately, he had become the enemy. Or at least, someone she feared.
Moving to the organ, he played for a half hour as he tried to empty his mind. When he finished, he donned his cloak, and exited his home.
Traveling through the cave, he made his way to the ice slicked streets, and hailed a cab. He was scheduled to meet Jules at the office, and receive the weekly reports from the provinces.
Staring out the window at the traffic, Erik considered the harsh winter. Signs of its effects were easily seen by any one who cared to look about the city. The impoverished were suffering in their unheated homes, and the city morgue was loaded with unclaimed bodies of the homeless who had frozen to death on the subzero nights.
Erik had breathed a sigh of relief when Jules had handed him Jade's letter to Pierre. It meant that she was alive and probably well. But that had been before the drop in temperature. Who knew what conditions she might be enduring at the moment? The thought of her potential hardship weighed heavily on his mind.
Along with the stolen letter, Jules had also handed him a report from his man in Burgundy. The fellow was confident that he had discovered Jade's family home. It matched the facts he'd been given. Erik had poured over that report, and been puzzled by it. It said that she still had a living relative, her father, who continued to reside near the village of . There was no evidence that Jade had been back to visit him since she had left six years before.
That mystery needed solving. The man had been ordered to stay in Burgundy, and continue his investigation.
The carriage pulled up in front of the office, and Erik smoothly stepped out. Once inside, he slid off his cloak, and hung it on the rack. Then he silently sat down across from Jules, and raised his eyebrow in a question.
He knew Jules didn't approve of his activities in regards to finding Jade. Already, because of it, the business had suffered. Erik had turned away new clients' and refused new requests for construction. He and Jules had continued to work on their existing projects, but a number of them were now near completion. He understood Jules' need that the events that had occurred two years before not be repeated. The man had a large family to support.
Jules handed Erik a half dozen reports. Opening up a dirt grimed envelope, Erik perused its contents, and his face stiffened. After a moment, he handed it to Jules.
"Take a look at this," he said gruffly.
Jules read the letter, and then quickly glanced up at Erik with a frown. "Do you believe this?" he asked.
"It needs further investigation," replied Erik. "Order me a carriage. I'll leave this evening, and tomorrow I'll meet with the man who sent this."
Striding out of the office, Erik entered the waiting cab, which sped back to the opera house.
His mind was racing. The information that the letter had produced felt wrong—like a badly written drama. He needed to attend to the matter quickly. If Jade were to discover the news before he got to her… Fortunately, the weather was bad enough that it was unlikely that she would leave Paris, at least for now. That gave him some time.
He shook his head as he thought of the report. "Damnation," he said as he let out an explosive sigh.
At what point would luck turn and again be on his side?
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Jade shut the travel bag, and put it in the corner of her room. Standing by the window, she watched the rain fall. There were still no signs of it letting up. It had been like this for days.
Turning away, she picked up her sewing, and finished the last piece from the basket. Tomorrow morning, she would take the completed work back to the shop, and from there go to the train. Then she would travel to the port of Le Havre.
She needed a holiday. Her mind was numb from the meaningless routine and unending isolation. She had a serious case of cabin fever, and desperately needed to get away from this dismal city. It was January the thirteenth, and a long way from spring.
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The next evening, Jade arrived in Le Havre. After making a few inquiries, she hired a driver to take her to the nearby village where she checked into the local inn. Unpacking her few items, she left the inn and headed towards the church.
A bitter January wind was blowing across the coast. She pulled her cloak close as she briskly walked to the end of the village where the church and the rectory were located. It was a good place to start in her search for Gillian. The priest would be familiar with all the families in the area, and could point her to the house where the child lived.
But first, she needed to ask him a few questions about the people who had taken Gillian in. Would her sudden visit be welcomed or regarded as an intrusion into their affairs?
It was one of the reasons she had chosen not to visit during the Christmas season. Gillian's new parents might be possessive of her and not want someone from her past to steal her attention. On the other hand, if she was careful to not tread too heavily on their parental rights, they may feel comfortable with her visit. Jade was determined to approach the situation carefully, and the priest was the key to providing the information that she needed.
The rectory's drapes were drawn but a hint of light showed that the priest was there. Knocking on the door, she waited. The heavy door swung open, and a man in a black cassock stood in front of her.
"Good evening, father," she said in a respectful voice.
"How can I help you?" the priest asked brusquely. Jade could smell the delicious odor of meat cooking, and she guessed that she had interrupted his supper.
"Excuse me father for disturbing you. But I'm from out of town, and I'm trying to find someone."
The priest looked her over, and then motioned for her to come in.
He ushered her to the table, and passed her a bowl of stew. Nodding her thanks, Jade hungrily ate it. She hadn't had anything to eat that day except for a meager breakfast. The moment that she had smelled the stew, her stomach had started to growl.
After finishing the meal, which was accompanied by fresh bread with butter, she sighed happily. Then she turned her eyes to the silent priest who was watching her.
"Father, I've just come in from Paris on the train, and I had hoped that you could help me find someone who moved to this village a couple of months ago. She is a little girl who used to live at my place of employment. Her name is Gillian, and her new guardian is M. Noir."
At the sound of that name, his mouth fell slightly open, and he began to cough as if a piece of bread had lodged in his throat. When he had finished, he looked solemnly at the woman.
"Are you a relative of the child?" he asked slowly.
Shaking her head, she replied, "I am a friend. I used to have supper with her and her teacher every night in the opera house where we lived. I was away from Paris when her new guardian took her away. I had hoped to visit her sooner but it was only now that I could get here."
The priest looked at her steadily as she spoke, and then rose from the table. He signaled for her to follow him to the front room. After she was seated, he poured some brandy and offered it to her. "Drink this," he said firmly.
Obeying, Jade drained the glass, and then handed it back to the man with a question in her eyes.
After making short work of his own glass, he sat down across from her.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mademoiselle, but the child you seek is no longer with us," he said gently.
Jade stared at him for a few moments, and then asked, "What do you mean?"
Shifting in his seat, the priest gazed at her for a long moment and said, "The little girl died late last month."
The color drained from Jade's face, and she stared at him blankly. Then she gripped the side of the couch and steadied herself. Swallowing hard, she looked into his hazel colored eyes and whispered, "How?"
After determining that she was not about to faint, he answered. "It was a fishing boat accident. Her guardian and a friend were fishing off the coast, and had the child with them. A storm blew in, and she fell into the sea and drowned."
Drowned!
Jade slowly rose from the chair and said "No." Then she staggered towards the priest who grabbed her around the shoulders to steady her.
Swinging her head from side to side, she said, "No. Not her."
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," the man said gently as he guided her back into the chair.
Slumping into her seat, she emptily stared into the space between them. After several minutes she asked, "Where did you bury her?"
Shaking his head, he replied cautiously, "Her body was never recovered. However, her family did have a marker placed in the cemetery."
She lifted her dull eyes to the man, and looked through him to the wall beyond. "Please take me there, father."
The church yard was still except for the sound of the wind. The priest showed her the small, white wooden cross which had the child's name carved on it. It was in a part of the cemetery where children were buried. Jade's gaze fixed on it. The priest watched her for several minutes, and then left her alone.
The wind died down, and the heavy stillness of the night settled around her as she stared at the cross. The waxing half moon spread a bleak light across the naked ground that blended shadows with pale tombstones. Later, the wind returned, and furiously whipped across that small sequestered yard. Jade stood there with her mind empty of thought or sensation. All that remained was a dull cloud, and a numbness that had taken over her body.
After an hour, the priest returned, and led her to the Inn. There, she packed up her things, and asked if she could hire a driver to take her back to the port that night. An hour later, she was sitting on a crate, and staring at the ocean.
Drowned, she thought as reality began to set in. She had lost the child the same way that she had lost Jean-Luc.
Everything is gone, she mulled emptily.
On the next day, she rode the train back to Paris. As she entered the city, Jade felt a crushing weight settle upon her.
Dragging herself back to the tenement house, she mounted the four flights of stairs to her room where she opened the door, and then shut out the world.
A/N: Dear readers, I know that this is a lot of angst. It was a hard chapter for me to write. After one more chapter, the direction of the story will be changing, so please hold on a little longer.