"I know you", she accused. "I was there; I was almost crushed to death as people fled the fire. My back still aches every time I move."
Improbable as it seemed, I attempted to convince her that I was not THAT masked man.
"No, Madame, you have me wrong."
"They claimed you perished." She insisted. Her smoldering eyes were certain of what they saw. Fearful of her calling attention to me, I relented.
"I did not perish," I confessed. "But, if you were there, surely you realize that it was not my intent to destroy the place, even less to injure anyone. I wanted only to effect my escape, Madame. Did you see the number of guns trained on me, or were they hidden from your view? It seemed I was surrounded by every police officer in the city."
"I saw…" she raised her hand to her forehead. "I saw you tear ropes free of the scaffolding; already people were beginning to scream and run. I don't remember," she moaned. "The chandelier…and Cesar grabbed my hand…"
I saw what was coming not a second before her eyes fluttered and she crumpled; thus I was able to catch her before she hit the cobblestones. Beautiful; a disfigured monster in a darkened alley with an unconscious girl in his arms. Christine will love that every bit as much as the public at large. I placed my accuser gently on my coat, hoping at least to keep her clean and dry, and I ran to fetch Reza. He'd gotten me out of untidier fixes in the past, and I hoped he had yet another magic trick under his fez.
I shoved my eyeball to the crack in the door and threw my voice.
"Reza. REZA!" I hissed. He and Gaston were already fast friends, chuckling and sipping away as M. le Guillotine tickled the back of my neck.
"Reza, you idiot!" Gaston heard me and turned. I shoved my skeletal hand through and indicated he should stay; I only wanted Reza, thanks. Typical reporter, fat Gaston could not be dissuaded.
Staying Gaston's progress with a strong hand to his chest, I rasped "I have a…situation. I require my friend." He glanced at my hand, then remarked, "I know you, M. le Fantome. I would be pleased to assist, if I may."
Suspicion crawled up my spine; a huge centipede. My eyes narrowed to disbelieving slits.
"Why?"
"Because I am by nature a curious man, and I would welcome the opportunity to learn more of you and your story."
"I have no desire to read my own story in L'Epoque, Sir." I replied frostily.
"That will not happen, I assure you."
I didn't have time to debate it with him; I had to get back to my unwitting victim in the alley. I tugged the daroga's arm and bade him follow me, with Gaston rolling briskly along behind. When he spied the unconscious Amazon who'd featured so prominently in our earlier conversation, my oldest and dearest friend wasted no time in jumping to the most sordid conclusions.
"Erik! Good god, man, what's become of you!" he sputtered.
"WHAT?" I hissed. "She tracked me out here! She was at the Opera the night of the fire, and was injured. I tried to tell her that I'd meant no harm and was only trying to escape, and she was overcome by memories, as you see. I did not lay a hand on her, daroga!"
"Let's get her back inside," he worried.
"Wait," urged fat Gaston. "If we take her in, thereby attracting attention, and then she begins to retell her tale, it will not go well for Erik. Perhaps you should make for home and let us see to her," he suggested.
"Christine—the Comtesse—expects him to be here," Reza cautioned.
"But make something up, man!" Gaston cried.
I passed my hipflask under the woman's nose. It wasn't smelling salts, but it was the best I could manage. She raised her head slightly and groaned. I lifted her easily to her feet, keeping a good grip lest she remain wobbly. She kept her back very stiff and unusually straight, I noted. It is difficult when the suffering I've caused wears a face.
"Are you steady?"
"I believe so," she nodded, her hands still on my shoulders. Her eyes were black as my caverns.
"You were overcome while recalling…that evening," I reminded her.
"Yes." Still she stared at me, as if some mystery would be revealed, if only she could watch long enough. I assumed it was my eyes; they can be unsettling in the darkness.
"I beg to apologize for injuring you." I removed my arms from her waist cautiously. As I stepped away, it seemed some spell was broken and she was startled to discover my friends in attendance. They nodded; the lady frowned, no longer muddled.
"I must return," she breathed absently. She lifted her skirts slightly for fear of the water in the alley and made haste into the library.
"Extraordinary," remarked fat Gaston when she had gone. Reza and I nodded.
"Ah, thank you, Gaston, for your quick thinking on my behalf," I remarked stiffly.
"You're quite welcome, Erik." I offered him a drink and the three of us brothers in arms wandered back into fray.
Christine, Reza, Gaston and I were the last out of that bloody hall. We extracted a promise from Gaston that he would come for dinner and stay for a Men's Studies group we'd decided to form—just Reza, Gaston and me; a worthy excuse to drink and smoke, to my way of thinking. Our first agenda was to come up with a political platform, and I was already formulating some ideas about banishing fat women and suffragettes with mustaches to Ethiopia.
"What a charming man," Christine remarked on the ride home. "I like him. It would be quite good for you, Erik, to befriend someone so jovial."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes; it might lift you out of those miseries that you're so devoted to."
I gazed at my Persian friend, uncomprehending. "Daroga, can the Comtesse be implying that I am a gloomy bastard?"
"I do believe so," he responded gravely.
"Christine! I'm crestfallen," I complained. "Besides," I continued, leaning closer and closer until she was fairly pinned against the side of the carriage, "you can always cheer me." I pounced. She shrieked and struggled and fussed about Reza's proximity, but really she enjoyed it tremendously.
. . . .>
It was our inaugural Men's Studies group, and we'd been debating the relative merits of motherhood, various feminine physical characteristics, dancing girls, votes for women, corsets, good tobacco and brandy. It was late; we'd begun our cabal directly after dinner, so we were all pretty oiled up.
"AND ANOTHER THING!" I roared. My comrades wobbled their heads in my direction.
"ENGLISH RIDING COATS! BANNED FROM THE COUNTRY! A CAPITAL OFFENSE, IF YOU ASK ME!"
"Erik, don't be absurd. You'd never permit Christine's head to be cut off," Reza scoffed.
"You're RIGHT! But we're the RULING TRIUMVIRATE! We can make exceptions in special circumstances. I'd pardon her. I'd SPANK her and then PARDON her!"
Fat Gaston and I brought out one another's ribald natures, we'd discovered, and in our current state, we agreed that was nearly the funniest idea ever proposed. We embraced, weeping with hilarity. Reza, on the other hand, gets more persnickety with every sip—so by this time, he was as mirthless as I am sober.
"Tsk, tsk. Look at you two. Disgraceful—you're drunk as a couple of lords! And you, sir, I cannot believe you'd speak so about your darling Christine!" he sniffed primly.
"THAT'S what you know," I chuckled. "She goes in for a playful little whack now and again," I added confidentially.
"One must be careful of the timing, is all," advised Gaston.
"RIGHT!"
"Gentlemen…Erik…"
"WHAT!" I spun toward the sound. My body stopped well before my head did. I was grateful for the carpet to cumple onto. Christine was tapping a little slippered foot, arms crossed.
"Erik, it is nearly half past one. I believe it's time you boys went to bed, don't you?"
"WHAT? GET OUT, WOMAN! WE'RE PLOTTING!"
"Ssshhh, Erik, don't tell her," Gaston cautioned.
"Oh, yes…ssshhh," I agreed.
Christine smiled indulgently and took me in hand. "If you gentlemen will please excuse my prodigal phantom…good night."
Somehow my angel managed to get me upstairs and undressed, though I felt rather boneless. She poured me into bed.
"Christine, I love you. Kiss your ghost…" I pleaded.
"Oooff, Erik, you smell like an ashcan. Here, what about a little kiss over here on your cheek. There, that will have to do until you've been aired out."
"Christine, I love you…" my hand set off on an expedition…or not.
"And I love you, Dear, but there'll be no proving it this evening. Ah! Erik, don't touch, I mean it."
I don't remember anything after that, but I suspect that all I got was slapped.