A/N—In which Christine has had enough…
Lots of description in this chapter. Bear with me! I decided to split a very long chapter into two parts. I promise E/C angst in the next chapter.
a)}—'-,-'-,- Cyber roses to Mominator 124, Guest 1, Guest 2, Glacifly4POTO, PeterPanNeverLands, ZePhan, and RosieLilyIce93 for your deeply appreciated reviews on Chapte 13!
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
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A Second Chance
Chapter 14
Copyright 2016 by Riene
Anything but lonely
Anything but empty rooms
There's so much in life to share
What's the sense when no one else is there?
Anything but lonely
Anything but only me
Quiet years in too much space
That's the thing that's hard to face
-Sarah Brightman
Anything But Lonely
It had taken very little time for the rumors of the latest misfortune to spread around the Opera. Money, missing from the till before it could be taken to the bank. An office boy had been sacked, but the true culprit had yet to be found
She had left the note in the usual spot, behind one particular carved lyre, knowing that his sharp eyes would detect the tiny corner of white. It had been rare for Adele to initiate any contact, but always important. Erik had waited until the building was largely empty that evening and only a crack of light under the door signaled she still wished to speak with him. The encounter was brief and heated.
"I will not be questioned!"
"Erik! Ten thousand francs are missing from the office strong box!"
Enraged, he slammed the ebony cane against the nearest pillar. "And I have told you I know nothing about it! Despite having extensive repairs to my home, I have not taken a sou. You must find your thief elsewhere!" He had vanished moments later and Mme Giry stared after him, shaken. For if Erik had not taken the money, then who?
Forcing his rage to calm to simmering irritation, the former Opera Ghost found his feet propelling him to the one place that almost always soothed his mind. It was still early afternoon, but there was a strong chance Christine would have arrived. She had been spending a great deal of time at the Opera or with Meg recently, saying only that her block of flats was increasingly empty and quiet, as families moved out.
His angel reclined on the small chaise in her dressing room, feet tucked beneath a shawl, a lamp pulled close to cast light on the novel she was reading. For a moment he watched her in silence, feeling his heart rate slowly return to normal, before knocking softly on the mirror.
She rose gracefully, an uncertain look on her face. He released the catch and stood in the darkness just beyond the portal.
"Erik…good afternoon."
He inclined his head, acknowledging the greeting, casting about for some topic of discussion.
"Have you given thought to our conversation of the other night?"
"I have considered."
"And?"
"I will accept your offer of the apartment, but only until the performance series is over and I am able to find elsewhere to live." She spoke deliberately, wanting there to be no misunderstanding between them.
Long pale fingers clenched the brick so tightly the edges left indentations in his skin. She had accepted. "Agreed," he said coolly. "What of your own preparations? Nadir has offered Darius's assistance as needed." He forced himself to not pace behind the mirror.
Christine frowned. "I don't know that it will be necessary. I truly have very little. Father sold all of our furniture and most of our belongings when we left Sweden. The few pieces in Mama Valerius's house are to go to an old cousin of hers, a friend from childhood, as soon as I write her. I really have only my clothing and shoes, a few possessions. All would fit in a trunk and a bag, at most," she said bleakly.
Erik inclined his head again. "Then it is settled. I will continue to make the rooms inhabitable. You will complete your preparations, and I will have Darius transport your trunk and bag when you are ready." He stepped backwards into the darkness and vanished.
She did not see Erik the next day, nor the next. Christine went about her schedule of rehearsals mechanically and distracted, her mind elsewhere, wondering if she had been foolish. Meg questioned her closely but got nowhere. Mme Giry watched her with narrowed eyes but said nothing, and Christine began to avoid them both. Her nerves were stretched so tightly it was all she could do not to scream when Luigi cupped her backside during the full rehearsal. She turned and slapped him hard enough the entire ensemble froze.
"Mlle Daae?" The director sounded strangled.
Christine glared. "Sr. Bartoldi has been told many times to keep his hands to himself. He chooses not to, and I am tired of it."
Luigi drew in an outraged breath. "You think you are so beautiful no man can…"
"Sr. Bartoldi," the director interrupted, furious, "I have had complaints about you from other cast members. You will act in a professional manner while on my stage—is that clear?"
Luigi's face turned an ugly color. "All lies."
"I think not." M Dumont turned to the wide-eyed script boy. "Get M Firmin or M Andrè—it does not matter which."
M Dumont explained the matter flatly, when the managers arrived. "Either he behaves or I go. I will not work with such unprofessional behavior."
Flustered, M Andrè turned to Luigi, "Sr. Bartoldi, what have you to say?" he stuttered.
Firmin's eyes bulged. "It does not matter. Sr. Bartoldi, you are on probationary contract and I advise you to keep that in mind."
Luigi Bartoldi stood breathing heavily, his fists clenched, then abruptly he relaxed and laughed. "Oh si, si. The ladies, they are not used to a real man. I will try hard to…resist…their charms." He threw up his hands and walked away. The cast looked at each other uncomfortably and Léon rolled his eyes heavenward.
"Take a break," snapped M Dumont, signaling the crew overhead to break as well. He stalked off the stage and slammed his office door. Christine followed the young man to the door of his office and knocked.
"Thank you, M Dumont," she said softly.
M Dumont smiled tiredly. "No need, Mlle Daae…my wife was once party to such things…only worse. For her sake, I will not tolerate it on my stage." He ducked back into the office.
Meg had crept up behind her, and wide-eyed, squeezed her hand. "Christine, you were so brave," she whispered.
"He lacks the manners of a cur," Gabrielle said calmly. "Thank you, Mlle Daae. Perhaps now we shall make some progress. I suggest we all refocus our energies toward this performance."
Léon patted her arm awkwardly. "I offer my apologies, Christine. I was unaware he was behaving in such a boorish manner or I would certainly have spoken up much earlier," he said ruefully, his face was full of concern.
She smiled up at him. "Let's hope he stops now."
She had made an enemy, she knew. Luigi made a point during the rest of the afternoon of exaggerated courtesy to the point of absurdity, causing the director to become increasingly irritated. The electricians were working somewhere in the building, and the flickering power was causing no end of troubles for the lighting technicians. Finally, M. Dumont threw his hands in the air.
"Dismissed," he snapped, "We'll work on this tomorrow. God willing, it will be a better day," and with relief the principals headed back to their dressing rooms.
The gaslights caught a golden spark on her dressing table. It winked in the dim light, demanding her attention, three brass keys tied with a distinctive black ribbon. There was no label, but the ribbon told her more clearly than any note from whom they'd come.
She weighed them thoughtfully. He meant for her to have them, therefore he meant for her to use them. Impulsively, she dropped the keys in her reticule and tied her hat at a rakish angle. Down the corridor, light spilled from Luigi's dressing room and she heard his coarse laughter and the clink of glasses. Shuddering slightly, Christine turned and headed to the rear entrance.
After business hours the street was deserted and the carriage driver looked down worriedly. "Are you sure this is the right address, Mlle?"
"Oh yes," she smiled. "Please, don't worry about me…but would you wait until I am safely inside?"
He nodded, and she walked briskly toward the heavy polished doors. The largest of the brass keys fit the lock and the mechanism turned easily. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lobby and Christine repressed a shudder, but turned to wave an acknowledgement to the driver and secured the door behind her.
Several flights of stairs up she paused on the landing, absorbing the changes. A heavy door of polished, carved wood had replaced the original, and she thought the dimensions of the landing were somehow smaller. Two heavy locks secured the door. Frowning, she raised the keys.
On the other side of the door lay a small, elegant entryway. Stained glass had replaced the window to the street, inlaid tile graced the floor, bordered by a swirling pattern. A small gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling, a teal blue jardinière sat in the corner holding an unfamiliar umbrella and walking stick.
Carefully she relocked the door and fumbled for a switch. Much more work had been done since her initial visit; it was obvious where Erik's attention lay. Before her were two more doors, framed in carved wood, also inlaid with delicate stained glass, with a long rectangular window above. These were unlocked and she paused a moment, her hand on the brass knob, before quietly pushing them open.
The foyer was much as she remembered, but now a large pier mirror hung behind the console table and the ceiling was bordered with a classical patterned paper. Leaving her hat and bag behind, Christine wandered the rooms, studying the changes. Though largely empty, the grand salon was slowly taking shape, a beautiful airy room of ivory, blue, brown, and gold. A graceful desk occupied one corner with a dainty chair before it, a dining table and chairs waited at the far end near an empty china cabinet. Dominating the room was an immense piano, inlaid dark brown wood lustrous as satin under the warm lights. A Bösendorfer, she saw, approaching it and lightly stroking the polished wood. A tapestry and several paintings adorned the walls, and a gleaming silver tea service stood ready on a sideboard. There was no other furniture. The rooms seemed to hold their breath, a scene from a fairytale, a stage set without the players, and resolutely she refused to think about it.
Twin carved Corinthian columns of some dark wood now framed a set of open double doors to her right. Erik had obviously chosen this smaller room for his personal study. She had rarely visited that area in the underground house; it was his private sanctum, but now she wandered through curiously. An enormous library table occupied the center of the room, the wood worn and scarred. It had come from a monastery, she remembered, wondering how on earth Erik had brought it here from the Opera. The table was ever untidy, the surface littered with pens, scraps of paper, bits of scientific or chemical apparatus, books, and teacups or glasses. Candle wax had dribbled down one edge. She touched it gently and smiled.
He had added more bookcases around the room, she noted. A heap of manuscripts spilled from one, rolled plans were stacked on another. His chessboard, a recent gift from the Persian, lay waiting along with several antique books. She bent to pick up the creamy pages from the floor and looked through them. Construction notes in his familiar spiky black handwriting, rough designs, pen-and-ink sketches, drawings. Christine caught her breath. Some were no more than lines suggesting shapes, others precisely detailed, but all were superb: buildings, the Opera, her face, the outline of a dancer, the mechanisms of the stage, a cat's lithe form, the city from the rooftop…all elegant. She'd had no idea he could draw. Gently she tidied the pages and replaced them on the shelf.
The kitchen was still rudimentary, a functional gas ring, a sturdy worktable and two chairs, a sink with running water. The shelves and cabinets were largely empty, holding only a tin of tea and a few glasses or mugs.
The far room had indeed become a sleeping chamber. These furnishings were obviously new; a carved mahogany headboard framed a double bed, twin wardrobes flanked a doorway. An empire bench waited at the foot of the bed. Bedside tables, a mirror turned to the wall, and a dressing table completed the room. Heavy dark green draperies covered the east-facing window and matched the patterns in the green, golden brown, and dark blue carpeting on the floor. Though the room held an unfinished air, it most closely resembled the underground house, and idly she opened one of the great wardrobes. Two suits hung to one side, immaculately tailored and of the finest most expensive wool, black and dark grey, along with an embroidered waistcoat. A half-dozen exquisite fine white shirts were folded on the shelf, still in their packaging, two pair of polished narrow shoes of thin leather waited below, a hat, such as city businessmen would wear, occupied the top shelf. Another shelf held an odd assortment of clothing, heather-corduroy pants and shirts of soft cotton, smudged and stained. Of course, she thought, smiling, he could hardly work in an evening suit. Curious, she opened the other wardrobe and found several of her own garments from the Louis Philippe room inside, one or two day dresses, tea gowns of soft pink and blue, small slippers beneath, nightgowns and undergarments and stockings in the drawers, sachets tucked in amongst them. Thoughtfully she shut the door and stepped through to the next room.
The opulence of the bath chamber was breathtaking. Golden brown satiny wood lined the walls as wainscoting and cabinets. A small fireplace flanked by jardinières was on the left. A wide basin with taps for running water, a deep porcelain tub, small chandelier, and soft rugs all spoke of comfort. Flanked by draperies, the northeast corner of the room was angled at a large window made of clear, blue, and green glass. A very feminine dressing table and mirror sat in front of it with a cushioned seat. A tidy heap of boxes awaited; curious, she untied the ribbons on them to find bath salts, floral soaps, and hairpins.
Perhaps he did intend her to occupy these rooms for some time. There was little evidence of him here, save for the clothing, and he had clearly gone to much detail and expense for her intended comfort. Though loathe to accept what was at best charity or at worst, being maneuvered into a trap, she acknowledged the bitter truth that she could never had afforded such palatial accommodations. Tomorrow she would ask if Darius could transport her trunk and bags.
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