"Before you say anything disagreeably jovial, Reza, I must warn you that I am quite possibly in the worst mood of my life this morning—Bless you, Darius, you are a gift of the gods. No food, thank you, just—yes, you know."

After my hard-won interlude of bliss with Christine, I had lain awake most of the night wondering just what I'd promised in the dark. What does that mean, 'I'm not your property'? I know she's not, so what does it mean I have to stop doing that made her think I thought she was? What will I have to stand still for now with this Womens' Studies group? I thought I was standing still for more than enough, but apparently she didn't think I was showing appropriate enthusiasm, support, admiration, partnership. Or something. Is she going to start embarrassing me in front of Reza? Is she going to change? How?

"I'm so sorry, Erik. I hope this doesn't portend trouble in Paradise."

"'I'm not your property, Erik,'" I mocked. "'It's not silly, or little.' 'Lots of people take this very seriously.' Common decency forbids my describing the outrageous blackmail I was subjected to until I acceded to her demands."

"Oh dear. I take it the meetings will continue, then."

"Absolutely," I growled.

"Well, Erik, I shouldn't worry too much if I were you," the daroga replied, sipping his coffee.

"Oh, no? How much worse could this get?"

"No, I don't mean all this equality nonsense. I agree with you, it's perfectly dreadful. I mean that…assuming that you two are still, ah, speaking…the thing will be self-limiting. This women's rights thing will go out the window once she has something genuinely womanly to occupy her time. Shouldn't be too long now, my friend."

"What the devil are you on about?"

Reza chuckled ominously. "Why, the pitter-patter of little feet, of course. I think we'll need a larger house; what do you think?"

Now it was my turn to chuckle. "Oh, you think so, do you? Hah. This modern world is evil, my man. The ways it has to turn our women's hearts and minds…and bodies…against us are endless. Damn the wretch that ever birthed this women's rights plague! If I could get my rope around the bastard's neck…anyway, there'll be no babies."

My friend's eyebrows shot skyward. "You're quite sure...it sounds as though there will be babies, if you'll forgive me."

"If she's got anything to say about it, there'll be no babies." I colored brightly. "She's got these evil English things," I explained grudgingly.

"Oh, yes. You poor man. Erik, did you know that it's only in France they're called 'English'? Elsewhere, they're 'French'." For some reason, he was amused by this idea.

"FRENCH? I beg your pardon, Sir! I am a proud citizen of France, and I regard it as the supreme insult for you to suggest that any countryman of mine could ever have devised so reprehensible—"

"Erik, have some coffee, it will calm you down," he cracked.

"It's typical of the English; what do they know about love?" I spluttered.

Oddly enough, life went back to normal with nary a ripple after the Night of the Suffragette's Fury. Christine was as sweet and feminine as ever, to my endless relief. I endeavored to listen to her news with obvious interest; not that I wasn't interested, but it was critical that I APPEARED interested.

After about ten days of peace and bedded bliss, Christine announced that the date for her meeting had been set for 7pm Friday instant, and they'd been forced to let an upstairs room at the library, owing to their expected turnout. Reza and I passed quick glances and nodded appreciatively.

"Good job, Darling. How many ladies are you expecting, then?"

"About three hundred!" she gushed.

"Ahhhhh," the daroga and I chorused in admiration. God help us, three hundred rabid women in one place. One shuddered to imagine it.

"I would like you to come, too, Reza," Christine smiled hopefully.

"Oh, that's very kind, my dear. Thank you, but likely I'll stay here and keep Erik company."

"But Erik will be with me," Christine explained. Yet another self-evident to no one but her idea.

"Oh no I—" I sighed. "Christine…three hundred people. You know I'm not really much for…I can't even name three people I'd like to be shut up in a room with…please." It wasn't the rabid women; it was me in a room with three hundred anything. It was difficult enough making my way back and forth from work each day on the bustling streets, but at least in the street I could bolt and run. In a room…on the second floor…with no trapdoors…

"But Erik, I need your support."

"Oh, Christine…" I groaned. I shot a glare at Reza. "You're coming too."

My Persian friend looked as if he'd swallowed a live mouse. No matter, I knew Christine would work on him. Meanwhile, I would work on her--to get out of it.

That afternoon, I ducked out of work early and rushed home. The daroga was awaiting me, dear man that he is, with a cognac at the ready.

"Right, we've got a bit over a week to get out of this, and it must be a flawless excuse. I think that my scent changes when I'm lying."

"Really? That's the most extraordinary thing I've ever heard," he replied.

"What explanation have you got for it? She always knows. Uncanny creature."

"You could fall ill," he suggested lamely.

I glared at him. "Pathetic. Unless I burst into flame from fever, she'll drag me along. She's on the lookout for that."

"Perhaps you could injure yourself at work."

It was a rather extreme suggestion, but I considered that Jules would have no problem breaking any of my spindly bones. I nodded. "I'll keep that in reserve if we don't think of anything better. What else?"

"Why can't we whine incessantly about not wanting to be the only two men there? Or perhaps I can tell her that you're coming to me in a cold sweat about being in a room with so many people. I could tell her that your heart won't stand it."

I nodded again. "Alright. Start working on her about my panic. I'll drop some little hints as well. God help me, Reza. What does she expect me to do there anyway?" I demanded hotly.

"Support, remember."

"Bugger support. Can you see it? 'And this, ladies, is my,' ah…what the devil would you call me, anyway, daroga?"

"An ugly git?"

"Thank you, I've just found my out. I shall be in prison awaiting trial for your murder. I mean what the devil would you call me in relation to Christine?"

"In polite company? Oh, I suppose common-law husband or some such."

"Right. '…this is my common law husband, or some such. Yes, think of it ladies, I left the beautiful, wealthy, dim Comte de Chagny for this apparition because SO DEVOTED am I to our cause, that I'd rather bed this fiend than tolerate another minute of the Comte's demands for unquestioning obedience.' Now there's the way to clear a hall."

"Well, hold on. That's a good thing--that would kill off the movement cold," Reza realized.

"Mm. Quite so. Pity there's not more like me at home."

We did everything we could, laid it on thick all week, to no avail. Finally, Christine packed me off to work that fateful Friday morning cautioning me that she'd never believe it if I sent word that I was at death's door, having been crushed by a boulder the size of the Louvre itself. There was nothing for it, we were doomed. We agreed to bring two hip-flasks and lots of cigarettes and be as obnoxiously masculine as possible.

We slithered around to the rear of the meeting hall by the door, chiefly because we wanted to be able to set the door slightly ajar and smoke like chimneys. It afforded us the added benefit of being able to preview the buffaloes as they lumbered in. Fully eighty-five percent were ugly enough to be blood relations of mine; another ten percent had mustaches to rival the Persian's.

"The thing is, Reza, this is such a ghastly crowd that the remaining five percent are immediately rendered ravishing by contrast. It was a good job we came after all."

"I beg your pardon? Are you having me on, or are you farther along in that flask than you ought to be?"

"No, I was just realizing how excellent it is to come here and realize what a lucky ghost I am. Christine is the loveliest by far, don't you think?"

"Absolutely; though, Erik, I don't suppose either of us is entirely unbiased."

"Of course not; why should we be?"

"Well, I was merely pointing it out."

"Right, well, let's leave Christine out for a moment. In this entire place, and here we are, right by the door where we have an excellent vantage point, I only make out two—TWO!—that I'd actually give, ah, a piece of my mind, if you will."

"Oh, and who might those poor unfortunates be?"

"Ha. Ha. See that purplish-bluish orb over there? The chubby redhead? She's rather charming in a bouncy sort of way. Fetching smile, and I'll wager a delightful…bustle under that bustle. And then…hang on—oh, yes, you can't really miss this one, she's every inch as tall as I. Do you see, the dark, raven-haired one—do you suppose she's Creole?—wonder if she's a widow in that bronze dress. Lovely how she broods, isn't it? I haven't seen her smile once."

"Heavens, no. The chubby redhead is smiling and pink; I can see that. But that other one, Erik, you just fancy the challenge. You're morbidly fascinated and wondering if you'd escape alive."

I lit another cigarette and indulged a black fantasy about finding myself defenseless in that Creole Amazon's clutches. I was jarred from my daydream by the approach of a rotund chap with a stubby cigar and a fraternal smile.

"May I join you gentlemen? I feel rather—"

"Frightened?" Reza offered. They laughed and shook hands. I much preferred to rekindle my fantasy, but I reckoned under the circumstances I could be civil to a brother. The daroga offered introductions all around, and I offered our new friend Gaston a drink.

"Whatever brings you gentlemen here?"

"Erik is connected with that lovely rabble rouser there, in the yellow dress, and I am here to provide moral support. How did you come to be here?"

"I am reporting for L'Epoque, actually."

"Oh, god, no. Why? This isn't news!" I cried.

"Well, everyone feels differently, my friend," Gaston shrugged. "But, did I hear Reza say that you are connected with--the Comtesse de Chagny, is she not?"

"She is," I replied. I would have preferred that had not come out.

"It has been rumored that she left her marriage, but it seems that no one has been able to confirm it."

"I can confirm it for you, sir, but that is all I will say, if you take my meaning."

"Of course, of course. How do you come to know the Comtesse, if I may—"

"You may not." I snapped. Had I not just told him I'd say no more? Reza sprang to pour oil on the waters.

"You must excuse my friend, Gaston. He is, actually, every bit as cantankerous as he appears; however, there beats a generous heart under that grumpy breast. He treasures his privacy, you see."

"Of course, I understand," Gaston replied; agreeable chap. He proffered a cigar as a peace offering. I am not ordinarily much for such things; I worry about my voice, but his cigar smelled delectable, and after all, I was trying to be as obnoxiously masculine as possible. A cigar was…obligatory. I decided I'd take myself out for a bit of cool air and some tobacco smoke. I told my companions what I was up to. They were well satisfied; it afforded them an opportunity to gossip about me.

I found a desolate area out the side door of the library which suited me perfectly. It was a dark, damp alley, for all intents and purposes, and reminded me of my late ruined home. In this sudden fit of nostalgia, I briefly contemplated taking Christine back down below the opera house, but I realized that Reza genuinely enjoyed our company. He seemed brighter since I'd come to stay with him; now, with Christine there, he was positively thriving. He was getting on in years, and I hesitated to abandon him. I suppose I'm getting soft and rankly sentimental in my old age.

I enjoyed the damp, the smoke, the solitude. I leaned against the building, enjoying muffled city sounds: carriages, drunken singing, laughter, fighting, dogs, and somewhere, someone was playing a violin. I closed my eyes and let the music come to me. The playing was good, and I floated away with it.

I did not hear the door, but I was snatched from my private symphony by the scuffing of feet and heels against the cobblestones, approaching me. In the dim glow from the lamps I recognized a woman's outline. Brilliant, I thought; either she is leaving early or the revolution is breaking up already. Still she approached me; I dropped my chin and averted my face as best I could, reckoning to let her pass without giving her a shock.

But she slowed, eventually stopped directly in front of me. As I waited for her to move on, I had the improbable sensation that she was actually waiting for me to raise my head. I took my final pull on the cigar, dropped and crushed it. Making no particular effort to avoid blowing smoke in the bothersome woman's face, I growled, "May I be of service, Madame?" I donned my best glare and raised my head to face her. It was my grim Creole.