"Where is she?" Panic rises within his chest. The beads of perspiration forming on his forehead threaten to run down his face. Tucked within one of the confessionals to observe the services without fear of being exposed during Mass*.
Even though the faithful were unable to seek the sacrament of Confession during the liturgy – the priests preferred separating one from the other – on two occasions he was apparently observed entering the confessional. The penitent, the same female – too youthful to call a woman, judging from her voice and offenses - began to list her sins expecting absolution and a, hopefully, minimal penance. A prostitute – new at the work he assumes – selling her body to earn enough to take care of her sick mother. While he had no idea what one of the actual reverends might say to her, he merely told her to say ten Hail, Marys, also suggesting she visit the rectory to seek more substantial aid, so she need not "sin" anymore.
For any child to be exposed to a world where their bodies and lives only seem to exist to entertain those who lack compassion and seek only their own pleasures is the true sin. Even the ten prayers to the Mother seems particularly harsh to him.
It has been two weeks since her last visit, so perhaps she took the advice. Thankfully, Christine need not worry about such things. The money he gives Madame Giry is sufficient to provide for all three women, so none are exposed to the need of selling themselves for survival.
He removes his mask to wipe away the moisture. Preferring the barbe mask when in his quarters to keep his skin dry, the porcelain is worn when outside the confines of the opera house. The fabric too vulnerable to wind or other weather. However, any dampness underneath the finely crafted facial covering creates havoc with his skin making his deformity not only ugly, but painful. While he creates any number of salves to sooth the rashes, not having to deal with such issues is preferable.
The homely task is enough of a distraction to allow his heart rate to return to normal. Rhythmic breathing and quiet words spoken to himself, all act to once again allow him to look out into the church, his amber eyes taking in those in attendance with a semblance of calm.
Perhaps she is not wearing the capelet – there is no reason to believe she would wear the finely knit garment. Perhaps she does not like the shade of blue. She most certainly likes the color itself – both of the two dresses he observed her wearing are blue – one dark, one light. The shawl is suited to either gown in shade.
"Wherever did this come from?"
The look on her face when she found the garment tucked away in a corner behind her dressing screen warmed him. Melting a bit of the ice settled around him over the years as protection. I do not care. I cannot care. If I care, I will surely die. Turn to ice instead – nothing can hurt you then. There was danger here…with her bright smile and soft laugh she called a giggle. He found himself smiling, too. Yes, the color was perfect – matching her lovely eyes. Certainly not a gift from an Angel. Angels did not deal with the tangible items in the physical world. Let her believe it to be a piece of clothing left behind by another woman at another time
The present surveillance, however, as he found earlier before the panic seized him offers no relief. The dancers are sitting in the nave, in their usual seats. Giry is there. Sorelli, as well – strange because she seldom attends Mass. Likely the rats told her about the treats and she feels some obligation to offer thanks to a spiritual being. His eyes take in the as much of the congregation as possible, but he cannot sense her presence. Over the past months, he knows when she is near. Much as he wants to follow her at all times, feel her near him, he restrains himself. The girl seldom leaves the Garnier, except when retiring home with the Girys, and when she does, she returns quickly.
An orphan like himself with nowhere else to go.
Observation of others – behaviors of those in courtship – holds him back from seeking her out overly much. As he senses her presence, it appears she knows when he is near. Their lessons must suffice, and he, participating only as the Angel of Music. The idea of her seeing him as he really is – a fellow human being – is too terrifying. If she sees his face – knows he is no angel, but merely a damaged man – she will certainly leave…likely in horror. He could not bear that. It is a miracle she still does not suspect he is, in fact, mortal. What sort of life did she have with that irresponsible father of hers she would believe in angels? Well, that belief acts to his favor, so he will not mock it. The joy she has injected into his life is often unbearable at times – maintaining a relationship with her is all he can focus on. Despite the pleasure derived from her company, a quiet voice within tells him this cannot end well.
When she is away from the opera house, at risk of being possibly assaulted if not in his protection, he does follow her. One never knows who might be lurking in the streets and alleyways of the city. Having spent much of his time in the shadows, he knows only too well the sort who might accost a young woman walking alone.
Her attendance at Mass every week found him buying the goods he has taken to providing for the group and leaving the petite dejeuner for them before going to the Madeleine. No reason to risk being seen – either leaving the food or following them.
Missing the Mass is no great loss for him. Despite his mother's devout Catholicism, he was never allowed to attend Mass. There was a time when he left the house during the dead of night and made his way to the Abbey of St. Georges – he found one of the monks praying his Divine Office – Matins – in the garden.
"Who goes there?"
Terrified of being discovered, he pressed himself into the shrubs, catching his sleeve on a rose bush. "Ouch."
"Come out now. Are you injured?"
"No, Father. A prick from a thorn, is all."
"A child? What are you doing out at this hour?"
"Walking. I wanted to see the Abbey."
The monk towered over him – fearsome is his black habit with only the barest light from the lantern he carried. "Come out, let me see you."
"You do not want to see me."
"I think I know what I want and what I do not want. Now, come forward, I am not fond of standing in the bushes."
Erik stepped forward.
"What is that on your face?"
"A mask. I wear a mask because I am ugly."
"May I judge for myself?"
A rough shake of his head is the only answer Erik can give, placing a hand over his face for additional protection.
"Alright, I shall not force you."
"May I see the inside of the church?"
"Of course."
When, after a year of his odd nighttime visits, and he finally revealed his face, the young monk only gazed on his face and smiled.
"You have a beautiful soul, young Erik, and a wonderful voice. Do not allow this challenge to discourage you.
Then he gave him the book – The Lives of Saints. "Read this every day – there are devotions. The book is about people who suffered greatly for their faith. Perhaps you can find some solace in their stories."
Despite his hopes, Erik found no comfort in the tales of those who died for love of God. God was not his friend, and he found no joy in considering dying for a God who had forsaken him. However, he did keep the book. Father Mansart was his friend and the book one of the few gifts he ever received. Over the years, with miles of wandering behind him, the little book holds a place of honor in the home he created below the Garnier atop his organ.
Finding himself more or less trapped in his hiding place, he settles in to listen to the Mass, praying in his own way for Christine's safety – giving whatever thanks he can muster to a spiritual being he has no faith in for his good fortune – for her presence in his life.
The door to the confessional opens, rousing him from his reverie.
"Father? It is Cecile…Jammes."
Jammes – a ballet rat? "Yes, my child."
"I went to the rectory as you suggested, but when I asked about the priest who hears Confession on Sundays, they told me there was no such priest."
"Ah, that is because I am not with this parish." This hiding place is no longer safe. Thankfully, none of the priests has investigated the girl's assertion.
"Oh, well. I see. I told them I was a dancer at the Palais Garnier and earned money, but that my mother took ill, and I was finding…um…other ways to earn money…that you suggested I seek their assistance."
"And were they able to help?"
"Yes…they are helping her…us. I just wanted to thank you."
"I am pleased."
"Father?"
"Yes?"
"Nothing, I guess. Just thank you. I am not sure I could have gone on…with the men."
"No, selling oneself to survive is not a happy circumstance."
"I shall not be making a confession today."
"Very well…Cecile. Go in peace then."
The door closes softly behind her. "Little Jammes?" Erik rests his head against the back of his chair. "I suppose you expect me to thank You?" he mutters, rolling back his eyes to face the top of the wooden shell. "I wonder what Father Mansart would say about this."
The sound of the magnificent Aristide Cavaillé-Coll organ rouses him. The recessional begins and he takes this opportunity to leave, blending in with the crowd. Next week he must seek out a different place to shelter himself. For the moment, however, he is safe from discovery.
*The idea of going to Confession during mass is heavily debated. Some condemn the practice because it easily distracts the faithful from the Mass itself. Others ardently defend it as an excellent opportunity to offer the sacrament when the faithful are present in significant numbers and likely to be moved to confess by the mere fact of availability. Cultural factors also come into play. Priests and faithful hailing from an Irish, Anglo-Saxon and North European heritage are, by and large, accustomed to a separation of the two sacraments. The priests are generally reluctant to make confession available during Mass. For the sake of the story, I opted for no Confession during Mass.
