A/N—in which Father Julien investigates

The spelling change in Father Mansard's name is deliberate, btw—I didn't want quite the same character.

Thanks to Glacifly4POTO, Child of Music and Dreams, seraph12, bellasera, Kenj3732, Mominator124, Stratagem Blue, Leopard1, and garasu-no-kamen for their kind reviews. You all rock!

Please be warned…the rating on this story is about to go up to an M or M+ probably around Chapter 21.

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.

Please read and review.


A Second Chance

Chapter 18

Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene

In the days that had followed, Father Julien found thoughts of his mysterious visitor often coming to mind. There had been an almost desperate intensity about the man, a suppressed bitterness and anger he could not forget. The official parish records had contained little of interest toward the matter of the strange visitor, and Father Julien rubbed his tired eyes. The problem was rapidly becoming a fixation. How could a child have been born in this village with no notice, no record? Father Mansard had been assiduous in his duties, and gossip was the very breath of life in a small community such as this one. A woman would have found it difficult to conceal a birth.

He got up, seeking his opinionated housekeeper.

"Marie," he began without preamble, "do you know anything of a Madeleine Rouillard? She lived in the village many years ago. Perhaps thirty to forty years, I'm not certain."

Marie lowered the cup and dishcloth, her eyes straying out over the peaceful garden as she thought. "There is a stone in the graveyard with that name. No one ever comes to tidy it."

"Yes," Father Julien agreed. "That would be the one."

She frowned. "No, that would have been before my time I think. Henri and I moved here back in '61. Or was it '60? No matter, now. Why?"

"I had a visitor asking about the family, the other day," he replied absently, and her eyes narrowed.

"In that horrible office of yours, too, I'd guess. Dust everywhere, and books stacked high…you probably didn't even offer them any refreshment."

"No," he said guiltily, then smiled wryly. "I'm not sure he would have accepted."

Returning to his office, he pushed aside the cold coffee. There was one place he had not yet looked.


The dressing room after the final Saturday evening performance of Zamora was filled with flowers and cards from admirers. Meg perched on Christine's chaise, trading point shoes for slippers and rubbing her toes as Christine read through the notes, blushing. "So many generous people," she smiled at Meg. "Please, take some of the flowers to the girls. They are a bit overwhelming in here." She searched through the notes and Meg, watching curiously, saw her pause. One card, written in an angular hand, was propped up under a single dark red rosebud on the dressing table. Christine read it, her expression soft, then slipped the note into her pocket and tucked the rose into her waistband.

Meg smiled, eyes delighted. "Christine was that one from your admirer?"

She looked up, puzzled. "My admirer?"

"The other girls say you have an admirer, a patron," Meg explained. "I thought …you didn't tell me," she paused, sounding confused and slightly hurt.

Christine looked at her friend blankly. "No, I don't have a patron. That was just….from a friend. What are you talking about?"

Meg frowned, wrapping the ribbons around her slippers. "It's all over the Opera. The girls say you have a patron…that's why you're gone in the evenings so much. You're with him."

Meg's hazel eyes met hers guilelessly. "I thought you might have told me."

Christine heard the undercurrent of hurt in her friend's voice. In the mirror, Meg's eyes held her own, open, hopeful, patiently waiting.

They had been best friends since they were little girls, since the day Mama Valerius had brought her ward, then a thin child with brown plaits and knobby knees, to the stern ballet mistress. Christine was in the children's chorus of the Conservatory, she had explained, but needed dancing lessons, as she was awkward and shy.

Meg, then only eight herself, had watched the new girl with narrowed eyes and folded arms, and pronounced her clumsy.

"Be kind to her," her mother had said sharply. "She has had no training, and I daresay you would be as bad if you were in her position. Christine has no parents and is still learning French. She needs a friend, Marguerite Giry, and you will help her."

Assigned the task of shepherding the newcomer, Meg had prepared to be haughty and superior, but those thoughts vanished swiftly the next day in light of Christine's obvious admiration. "You're so pretty!" she had exclaimed, awestruck at Meg's golden curls, ruffled floral apron, and dainty pink slippers, and Meg had melted instantly.

They had shared chocolates and confidences, had stood united against the bullying older girls, had explored the vast Palace Garnier hand in hand giggling, and confessed their sins together over the years. They had never kept secrets from one another. Christine met her eyes in the mirror.

"I don't have a patron," Christine whispered. "I…I'm engaged."

"What?" Meg's eyes widened and she rushed to grab Christine's hands. "Who is it? When did this happen?"

Christine swallowed. "It's Erik," she said quietly.

"Oh my god, Christine." Meg's hands went tight on her own, appalled. "You're out of your mind. He tried to kill us all just a few months ago. Is he threatening you or something?"

Christine shook her head. "No…I agreed to it," she whispered.

"But…what of your engagement to Raoul?" Meg stammered, her hazel eyes wide.

"We were never formally engaged…it was never given out….and his family was so opposed," Christine faltered.

"But…Erik? Christine, what are you thinking? He's hideous, a deformed monster…he's a murderer," Meg said flatly.

Christine toyed with her hairbrush. "He's changed. I'm not sure how to explain it. We're different people than we were a year ago."

"But you loved Raoul."

Her eyes were dark and sad. "I will always love Raoul. He was the last link to my childhood, and he was very dear to me. But he's gone….and this is different somehow." She could not explain to Meg that she felt a lifetime apart from the girl of last winter.

"But do you love him?" Meg searched her face.

"I don't know."


It would be easier to take matters into her own hands and inform her employers before rumors became worse, she decided. She's requested five minutes of their time, but realized quickly it wouldn't be that simple.

Christine took a deep breath and raised her chin. "I am engaged. He is an old friend, a composer. My father…knew of him, and we met shortly after I arrived here." It was, close enough to the truth. "He is the friend I spoke of earlier, who is allowing me to dwell in his flat."

The managers exchanged a long glance of consternation, huffed and muttered, but in the end nothing in her contract prevented her from an engagement. Christine assured M Andre and Firmin she did intend to complete her season at the Opera and hoped to remain employed for many more. She left their office with a feeling of relief. Facing Madame Giry would be much, much more difficult.


"I 'ave thought of someone you might be able to ask about Madame Rouillard," Marie said.

"Oh?" Father Julien looked up expectantly from the draft of his sermon.

"Old Tomas, Antoinette's father. He would have been here all those years ago, and no doubt would like a visit," Marie said cryptically.

"Hmmm, yes," murmured Julien, thinking. "It is probably time I paid a visit, just to check on him. He's not been to services in some weeks."

"That daughter of his won't bring him," Marie said indignantly. "Says he is too much trouble. I'd like to give her some too much trouble, treating her old papa like that." She ducked back into the kitchen before she could say more.

The afternoon Father Julien clapped his black hat on his head and took a stroll about the village. He admired babies, cabbages, and gardens, stooped to pet the local cats and dogs, and declined offers to 'come inside and relax for just a moment.' He made his way to a painfully neat yard on the northern edge of the village, and raised his hat to the elderly man sitting in the sun garden.

"Good afternoon, Tomas," he called cheerily.

The old man squinted. "Good evening, sir…and I'm sorry…I don't see as well as I used to. Who might you be?"

"Father Julien, from St. Vincent's," he called back.

The old man's face lit up into a smile. "Father Julien. It's good to see you, young man." He seized his cane and rose to his feet, taking a tottering step forward.

"Papa! What are you doing! You sit right down now before you fall and…oh, hello, Father." The shrewish voice rapidly modified its tone. A thin middle-aged woman with a pointed chin and sharp cheekbones stood at the side door, wiping her reddened hands on a towel. "I'm sorry, Father, don't let him pester you now, he's an old man."

Tomas had cautiously reseated himself, muttering something under his breath, and Father Julien hid a smile. "I don't mind, Madame," he called. "If fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to rest a minute here before continuing on my way." He laid a hand on the gate and waited.

Her expression changed to one of uncertainly. "Oh…of course, Father," she said hastily. "There's a bench here, by the wall." She ducked back inside.

Father Julien reached over and unlatched the old-fashioned gate and came to sit beside Tomas, making small talk about the garden and fine weather. A few minutes later, Antoinette stepped down from the kitchen door hesitantly and approached them.

"Father, if you're planning on settling a while," she began diffidently, "I need to run down to the market for quick trip, and it's hard to do with my papa here…I don't like leaving him alone."

"Of course, my child," Father Julien smiled. "Take your time."

A bare minute later she had tied a shawl around her shoulders and had set off, basket on her arm, for the town center. Suspecting she relished the chance to escape her duties for a while, and knowing it would be some time before she returned, he stretched his legs out before him and heard the old man breathe a sigh of relief. Father Julien smiled at the old man. "Tomas, I have a question for you."

He allowed the old man to ramble on, gently encouraging him to share his reminisces of his life, jobs held, escapades in the war, his brief but loving marriage, memories of earlier times.

Father Julien smiled. "Ah, I envy you your roots in this village, Tomas. I warrant there is little here you've not seen. Whereas I will only ever know some people by their names in the village graveyard. Francis Laramie, for one, the Rouillards…" He let his voice trail off as the old man chuckled.

"You'd have not known Francis Laramie anyways, Father. He was never one for darkening the doorway of the church. A hellion born, that one. Used to say he could hold his own in a drinking contest with the Devil. Probably would have won, too. Rode four good horses to death, he did." Even after all these years, the old man's voice held anger.

"What happened to him?" asked Julien, intrigued with the story.

Tomas laughed shortly. "Found himself hanging from a tree. Verdict of 'suicide' they said. Devil took his own, most likely."

"What do you think happened?"

Tomas leaned back, idly rearranging the cane and not meeting the priest's eyes. "There were rumors. Francis chased after anything in a skirt, old or young, married or not. Had them, too, willing or not. There were fathers and husbands who didn't like it much, see?"

"I see." Father Julien kept the judgment from his voice, reflecting that the headstone's terse epitaph made some sense now.

"The Rouillards, though…I worked for them briefly. Did the yard, the stable, drove the carriage."

Father Julien nodded encouragingly. "What were they like?"

The old man shifted in his seat, his eyes seeing into the past. "Master Charles was a tall man, dark hair and blue eyes, quite handsome. His wife, Madeleine, was a dainty thing, all dark curls and big eyes, like a little brown pansy she was." He smiled faintly. "I was half in love with her myself."

"What happened to them?"

"Master Charles was killed one night, coming home in a rainstorm. Horse slipped on the wet bridge, maybe. They both ended up in the creek. Horse must have rolled over him…his body was crushed, and he drowned in the river. We had to shoot the horse…it had stayed with him."

He was silent a moment. "Madame Rouillard was never the same. She miscarried the baby at the news, they said, and it died. Came too early. And after that, everything just fell apart. She sent everyone away, afterwards. I never saw them again."

"Where did they live?" Father Julien's voice was soft, not wishing to upset the elderly man.

"You've been down the canal road, where the linden trees are?" At his nod, Tomas continued. "The house was at the end of the road, just ruins covered in vines, the last time I saw it."

Julien frowned, remembering. "I'm surprised no one has rebuilt there. It's a lovely area."

The old man shook his head. "A lot of people believed it haunted."

"Haunted?" His voice was incredulous.

"Before the fire, you could hear cries and moans…sometimes like a woman, sometimes like a child. I always thought it was Madeleine…she was never right in the head afterwards. And then she died, in that fire."

"Was anyone else harmed?"

The old man's rheumy eyes were drooping in the warmth of the afternoon sun. "No…the only other person ever to go there was Madam Rouillard's maidservant, and she was away. Helene always thought that Madeleine had set the fire herself."

"Helene?"

At what point does curiosity cross into obsession, he wondered, walking down the unfamiliar country lane later that afternoon. He had caught a ride to this neighboring village with one of the local families on their way to visit relatives, and had a promise of a return. Perhaps his interest was bordering on obsession, but his strange visitor's haunted eyes would not leave his memory.

Helene Dupris was no longer living, but perhaps his trip was not in vain. Her younger sister Emmeline sat across from him, calmly watching the young priest as she poured tea into porcelain teacups. Her hair was snowy and blue veins crossed the back of her worn hands, but her posture was firmly upright, the brown eyes steady and assessing as she offered him the plate of sweetmeats.

"I did not know the Rouillards myself, you must understand," she said quietly. "It was my sister who worked for them, but she often came home distressed. I think it relieved her mind somewhat to share her concerns with me. At the time we were both so unworldly, you see." She sipped the fragrant tea.

He complimented her on the thin, delicate pastries, waiting patiently. Most older people did not like to be rushed.

"Helene was younger than I," she said, with that unmistakable pride some elderly people have, knowing they have outlasted most of their generation. "And she was often a fanciful girl. I was never certain how many of her stories were true. What specifically were you needing to know, Father?"

"I understand Madame Rouillard lost both her husband and child."

"Ah." Emmeline Bonneau gazed out across the garden. "It is true that she lost her husband, a tragic accident. And yes, she was miscarried of a child…" Her eyes, suddenly tired, met his. "I do not know why you seek this knowledge, young man. It was many years ago, and I have kept this secret until now."

"Please," he said softly. "I do need this information. I pledge you my word it is not meant to harm anyone or anything."

She nodded once, stiffly. "I will take you at your word." She began again her voice slow and hesitant, trying to put memories into words. "Madame Rouillard was miscarried of a child…but it did not die. It was too early…and I do not know if you've seen early babies, Father." He nodded. "They are not always well formed. This one was … My sister was the only one in attendance that night. The servants had retired back to their own houses. Helene was merely waiting until the master returned home. The news brought Madeleine into a swift and violent labor, with only Helene there to assist. There was no time for a doctor, no near neighbors. The child was grey at birth, not breathing and covered with blood and tissue, as most new babies are. But Madeleine was unstable, out of her mind with grief and pain. She…she threw the infant from her. How it lived I do not know. But Helene said the force of the blow caused it to take a breath, crying, but its face…the damage was done." She fell silent.

Father Julien took a deep shuddering breath and crossed himself. "My God."

"Madeleine never recovered from that night. She begged Helene to keep the child secret, afraid she would be blamed for its monstrous appearance, and perhaps she felt guilt for having nearly destroyed her own child. They hid him away for a few years. Madeleine was horrified by him, pushing the child away, striking him if he came too close, refusing to allow him to attend mass or have any schooling. He was never even baptized…she called him a demon and made him wear a mask over his deformed face."

"And then what happened?" he asked quietly.

"One night, she had struck him a violent blow for touching her husband's books. He was perhaps seven or eight at the time. Helene said he was a bright child, inquisitive, able to read and play his mother's piano, but silent, watchful, always creeping around and staying in the shadows. He ran away after that, or so they assumed. He was simply gone, his window open, his few possessions and some food missing. It was only a few weeks after that when the fire took her life." She fell silent.

Father Julien sipped his cold tea, his thoughts spinning. "Might there be anyone else who would have known of the child's existence?"

"Let me get you some fresh tea, Father." She took his cup and drained it into the slop bowl. "To my knowledge, no. Helene said their priest had taken to visiting, when Madeleine stopped attending services. He would have been perhaps the only one." She raised her eyes. "Please," she added quietly, "do not think ill of me. I did not know any of this until many years later, when Helene unburdened herself to me. Do not think I would have left a child in torment like that."

"This is no sin which needs forgiving," he assured her. "I am merely trying to piece together what happened so long ago."

She nodded, her shoulders relaxing. "I cannot imagine why you should need to know this, Father, but perhaps it will do some good."


He made no move toward the piano that night, but uncharacteristically poured himself a glass of wine and sat with it, staring silently into the embers, his face lined and weary. With a tired sigh, she sank gracefully beside him on the floor, nearer to the fire, leaning an arm on the sofa. The library music room was silent save for the hiss and pop of the flames. Erik studied her in the wan light, the curve of cheek and sweep of eyelashes, then reached out with gentle fingers and raised her chin.

"Christine," he said, his black velvet voice tired, "I am sorry, more sorry than you can know. I did not mean to frighten you the other night."

She looked up into his black eyes, seeing the exhaustion and regret. She leaned gently into the hand against her face, warming his cold fingers. "It's alright, Erik. We were…neither at our best."

He pulled his hand away carefully, turning her palm over, frowning at the bruised and swollen flesh.

"This is my doing, as well," he said quietly. "Christine…you should think over our engagement. I am not a …safe person to be near."

She looked steadily at him. "You've always said you would never harm me."

He looked away. "I am a monster, Christine, and monsters…do not always act as men," he said, his beautiful voice harsh.

"Stop that," she said fiercely. "You are no monster."

"I am no saint, Christine. These hands have killed so many men. They would defile you with their touch."

She took his hand into her own, stroking the palm and interlacing her fingers in his. "Your hands create such beauty, Erik, and they are the hands I want. And that…other…was over long ago. I am not afraid."

Hope and apprehension flared in his eyes. "Christine, you cannot truly want this."

She knelt in front of him, and when she spoke, her voice was both cautious and firm. "Erik, I want this. I want you. I think I've wanted this for a long time. But I need you to take things slowly." She swallowed, carefully treading." I need you to…"

"Have more self-control?" he interjected bitterly. "Believe me, Christine, I am trying." He took a deep breath, forcing himself to clasp her hand gently and not move, though every cell was rigid with tension. "You don't know…you can't know. No one has ever…touched me, ever. Not even my own mother could stand to touch me. It's... overwhelming. I have never been … close to anyone else. I don't want to hurt you, but I am so afraid I'm going to…and that you'll leave again." His breathing was ragged, and she squeezed his fingers gently. "You deserve a better man than me, my love." With his other hand, Erik reached out as if to touch her but dropped his hand, unhappy and silent, but there was no pity in her eyes, only compassion.


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