"His Grace will see you now." The snooty little friar had just a tinge of terror around the corners of his eyes which pleased me greatly.
I had secured my interview with Cardinal Richelieu speedily; apparently there are fewer faithful to minister to than I'd imagined. Chalk one up for us unwashed heathens. As I followed Brother Mouse down the hallowed halls, I reflected that I was holding up remarkably well. I didn't feel nauseous or dizzy at all; unless my gut was planning a last-minute churn, I felt I would be alright. I did not fool myself by imagining some newly found courage; no, I knew it was the slow-simmering rage for which I had yet to find an outlet. I promised myself that if I handled the interview well I would treat myself to some sort of violent rampage. Meanwhile, I delighted in frightening innocent people and being mean and surly whenever possible. Childish, I know; but compared to murdering a third of the city, I believe I was a model of self-restraint.
"His Grace Bertrand, Bishop Richard," Brother Mouse intoned.
Wheeeee! "Thank you," I purred, slithering past him into The Presence.
His Grace fairly leapt from his desk, aghast. Apparently my reputation had preceded me again; ah, the price of fame.
"I know you!" He crossed himself about a thousand times in the span of an instant. Amazing. "Fiend! Murderer!"
"Yes, Your Grace," I replied, eyes downcast. "It is I, but I vow I mean Your Grace no harm. I am not the man I was the night the opera burned. It is about this transformation that I would speak with Your Grace." I remained in what I hoped was a suitably penitent attitude until His Grace regained his holy composure.
Finally, he said, "You may approach, my son," with a barely quavering voice.
I knelt, kissed his ring in what I hoped simulated reverence, and managed not to cough up a hairball on the exquisite carpet.
"Rise, my son. Please be seated."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Bishop Richard had returned to the dignity of his office. He sat and regarded me silently. This prince of the Church was likely ten years my senior; his nose and cheeks belied a man who enjoyed a good bottle of wine. His hands were graceful and beautifully sculpted; his grooming was immaculate; I was certain he had never done an honest day's work in his life.
"What is your name, Sir?"
"Erik Rouen, Your Grace."
"Rouen?"
I nodded. "I understand I was born there, Your Grace. My mother, God rest her soul, never told me…" I paused and lowered my head, unable to continue.
"There is no need for shame here, Erik. We are all God's children."
I sniffed convincingly and managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Your Grace." I was feeling slightly queasy now; my own performance was making me sick, and I hadn't even gotten to the good part yet.
"Tell me what brings you here."
"Your Grace, it is the love of a saintly woman that has brought me to the Church. I don't know…is it alright to admit such a thing?" I worried.
He smiled knowingly, happy to be speaking in his area of expertise. "Of course, my son; quite often it happens that the love of a Christian woman will turn a man toward God. I am not a man of the world, but I am a man in the world. You may speak freely," he reassured me.
"We've sinned, Your Grace," I paused, nearly overcome. The hairball was threatening again. "She left her husband. We have a son. I nearly dragged her down with me, but she never despaired of me; she never lost faith. I've been a bad man…a horrible man! But now I've seen the error of my ways, thanks to Christine, and I want to make it right. I want to marry her, Your Grace. When I think of all the shame she's suffered for my sake…"
This was the point in the performance at which I dissolved into a blubbering mess. I pulled out my handkerchief, apologizing profusely. He waited patiently for me to compose myself.
"I want to marry her," I repeated, sniffing. "But there was some trouble with her annulment. I don't understand it all," I admitted.
"I see." He paused, thoughtful. "And her husband's name?"
"Chagny."
"Oh yes!" He cleared his throat and became quite grave. "Yes," he repeated. "Ah, John," he called to the mouse standing just inside the door, awaiting his master's summons. John scuttled over.
"Will you please fetch me the particulars of the Comte de Chagny's petition?"
We sat in uncomfortable silence; I felt the lack of ecumenical small talk boded ill for my case, but I was not particularly worried yet. The Trap-Door lover always has multiple plans of attack. I would have the annulment; it was simply a question of how.
I availed myself of the opportunity to observe my surroundings. The rugs on the floor were as nice as anything I'd seen in Persia. There was a sideboard holding a cut crystal decanter and glasses. The furnishings were of richly carved, fine mahogany. The artwork on the walls was excellent; he had a shelf full of delicious-looking books. His vestments were lace-trimmed and flawlessly tailored. His Grace was obviously a man of impeccable taste, and somehow he managed to find the wherewithal to indulge himself in this regard. I reflected that we might have made enjoyable companions under different circumstances.
John the Mouse scurried in with the Chagny file. The Bishop perused it thoughtfully.
Finally, he closed the folder.
"There is a child; an annulment is quite impossible. Do you see?"
"The child is mine, Your Grace. She left her husband in the fourth month of the marriage. She has been with me ever since."
He was clearly skeptical. "If this was so, why wait until now to bring it to our attention? Surely the Comte--"
"I told you I'm a bad man, Your Grace," I confessed. "When I learned what I'd done…I abandoned her! I…couldn't face the thought of…what if he was like me?" I had to pause to compose myself again. "Naturally, when the annulment was rescinded, the Comte did not have the heart to heap further disgrace on Christine. He is such an example for me to aspire to, Your Grace. A kinder, more generous friend to Christine could not be found anywhere."
If I was not struck dead on the spot for that lie, I never shall be. I continued.
"When I returned, the child was nearly a year old. It has been a hard road to convince Christine of my good faith, and that I have changed my ways. You understand, Your Grace; I've broken her heart so many times."
"Is the child…"
"He is a beautiful, normal child, thanks be to God, Your Grace. And baptized in the Church; his mother is teaching him well."
The Bishop pondered arcane theological matters for some time before he spoke.
"With an annulment, you two could confess your sins and be forgiven, and marry in the Church. But as far as the child is concerned, he is a bastard, conceived in sin; nothing can change that."
I do not know what held me in the chair when I could have—should have—wanted desperately to--bound over the desk and squeeze his neck until his eyes popped from their sockets. Yes, I do know: I wanted that goddamned annulment, and I refused to let my temper work against me. I swore to myself that once Christine had her heavenly passport in her virtuous little hands, and Jesus had restored her maidenhead, I would return and kill this flaming carrion turd bishop from the deepest realms of hell. Not for Christine; not for Masson. FOR ME.
"I understand, Your Grace." I tried to control my trembling.
"You two should not marry. You are an occasion to sin to her, this is clear; and she should return to her God-given husband, the Comte. If she cannot, she should remain in seclusion until her husband is dead," he oozed opprobrium at me.
"But if we can't marry, we'll continue in sin," I protested.
"Well, you mustn't! You must separate immediately!" The Bishop rose briskly. The interview was concluded, or so he thought. I knelt and kissed his disgusting ring again, appropriately contrite.
"And you, Sir, you must make a full confession and do your penance!"
"Yes, Your Grace."
He said, 'God Bless You', but it sounded more like, 'Get the devil out of here'.
I was almost to the door when I turned.
"Your Grace? If I may…it's about my penance."
"Yes," he replied, none too patiently. I believe I was cutting into his tea time.
"I am a fairly wealthy man, Your Grace." I approached him again. "I know that the Church does missionary work abroad, cares for the sick and orphans. I know there are poor, needy parishes even in our own diocese. I understand that one cannot buy redemption, but I wonder, if I made a gift with a full and contrite heart…do you suppose that God could forgive a monster like me? "
Hah. I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye. 'Passerino, go away; for the trap is set and waits for its prey.'
"Of course, my son. God forgives all who make an honest act of contrition, but you must endeavor to not sin again," he admonished.
"Yes, I understand," I nodded, looking hopeful.
"Well then, I am certain that God would accept your gift, and the parish would put it to good use. Ah, what were you thinking of—"
"Half a million francs; it's not much, but—"
"Half a million francs?" He struggled for control. He looked like Masson at the wedding, surrounded by the dancing girls. "I shall have the sisters say a novena for you!"
"No, no, please, Your Grace; I would not want anyone to know of this. Please, could it be our secret?"
"Of course, my son," he loved me again. "I understand perfectly. I shall remember you in my prayers, that you should be richly blessed."
"May I bring it directly to you, tomorrow, Your Grace?" I asked, all innocence.
"What, no bank letter of credit?" he was astounded.
"No, I prefer the anonymity of real paper money."
"Come whenever you like."
When I returned the next day, the Bishop handed me several documents across his desk.
The first was a letter, dated that very day. It stated that His Grace had been inspired that he had been remiss in overturning the decision of the Holy Father in Rome, regarding the matter of the annulment of the marriage of the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny, the Holy Father being the representative of Our Blessed Savior on earth, and therefore the ultimate authority on such matters. Consequently, the annulment of the annulment was annulled. (It didn't actually say that, but I wished it had.)
The second was the Official Document Itself. It did look quite official, and it said that Raoul and Christine had never actually been married in the eyes of the Church. Apparently they did not really understand what they were doing, presumably because they were too young. In Raoul's case, I could certainly argue the point that he'd never be old enough to know what he was doing, and sometimes I wonder about Christine as well.
His Grace blessed me numerous times and told me that he would forward Raoul's copies of the documents. It seemed a good time to bring up the sticky matter of my having not been communioned, confirmed, et cetera. His Grace assured me there would be no trouble about that; I could be communioned and confirmed simultaneously. I worried about catechism classes. Not at all, he assured me. John the Mouse fetched me a catechism book to read. The Bishop told me to let him know when we'd located a priest for the wedding; he'd see to it. Another ring kiss and I was home free.
Imagine me, the Opera Ghost, having a Bishop chum to smooth my way. I sang all the way home. I did not rush to Christine, lift her into the air and twirl her around. I took the documents to my room, secreted them with some other papers until the time was right, and located Reza.
"I need a favor."
"Oh god, no. What have you done?"
"My oldest, dearest friend, your confidence moves me to tears. I have not done anything. I would some like time to speak with Christine alone. Completely alone. Uninterruptibly alone. Not-a-soul-around alone."
"Ah. AH."
"Right. Take Masson to the zoo tomorrow afternoon? Give him whatever he wants; the longer you can keep him the better, but I need at least two hours."
"I can do this," he beamed. I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed each cheek in turn.
"I love you." I ran off to fetch Masson and Christine the cat; we had an appointment with our ducks.
"Hah! You say that now, you shameless hussy!" he called after me.
Christine was sitting at the pond's edge, flicking his tail and chattering at the ducks. The ducks were all familiar with Christine, they did not care about him anymore. Masson and I were sitting on our wall, swinging our feet. This was when we did our best talking.
"Why are you and Mama angry?"
"What makes you say that, Masson?"
"Mama doesn't sing anymore, and she doesn't twinkle at you. And your eyes are black, and you're hard when you pick me up."
Ah, Christine? He's not teething.
"Sometimes grown-ups quarrel, just like you and Mama quarrel, hm? Perhaps she thinks one thing and I think the other. Most of the time we can make a deal, but sometimes, neither one of us wants to make a deal. But it doesn't have anything to do with you, or anyone except Mama and me, and I love her just the same as ever."
He threw himself into my lap.
"Make a deal, Papa, please!"
"I will; I plan to." Instantly he was tugging at my lapels.
"Now, come home now!"
"Not today, son; not now. Very soon, I promise."
"NO! NOW!" Instantly, he was enraged.
"Masson, the time is not right now. I promise you that I will take care of it."
"NOW!" he wailed, throwing himself at me. He was trying to knock me off the wall.
"Right. Time to go. Come along, Christine." I picked him up like a sack of sand; a kicking, flailing, screaming sack of sand.
"You may not throw yourself at people that way, son." He was wriggling strangely; when I looked down I realized he was trying to pull himself up in order to bite me.
"No, sir," I growled, flipping him onto my knee even as I spoke. I gave him a couple of good smacks. It was a lovely afternoon; there were flocks of people in the park. Every single one was staring at the man murdering the screeching cherub. I resumed my walk home. Christine cut a wide swath and glared hatefully at me.
"Should you attempt that again, Masson, we can repeat the exercise as often as you like."
He chose to repeat it once more, went absolutely hysterical, turned red and threw up. My son. By the last block he was snuffling and moaning, "Papa…Papa…" He had exhausted himself, and so was passed out when we arrived home. I plopped the sweaty, stinky parcel into Christine the woman's arms. She frowned at his condition, and at me.
"He had a fit. He tried to bite me. I beat his bottom, twice. If you'll excuse me, I have to change. I have a grass stain on my trousers." I skirted around her and climbed the stairs.