Our first visit at Chagny after relocating to Perros-Guirec was excellent, even excluding getting my little wife back. We'd missed our friends—and the city—more than we'd admitted. It was good to catch up; it was good to ride through Paris in a carriage and experience her again. It was like returning to a lover's embrace. Raoul and I took turns running romantic interference with the babies so we could each lure our respective sweethearts away. I loaded a basket with picnic goodies, located a quilt, and kidnapped Christine down to the creek. Except for leaving windows open, we'd never gotten up to mischief in the open air, and it was a novel experience for me.

"Erik, your mask."

"What?"

"Take it off, you goose."

"No; what if someone happens by?" She laughed unmercifully. "I fail to see what's so amusing, Madame."

"What if someone happens by?" she cried, clutching her sides. "You're not so worried about the rest of yourself out in the sunshine!"

"That's different. Do take care you don't split your corset laughing so hard," I groused.

"Here, old man; help me out of it and then we won't have to worry."

-0-0-0-0-

The first order of business for me upon our return to Perros was to locate a goat for my little diva. The last time I had anything to do with goats—well, for all practical purposes I didn't know a goddamned thing about goats. Still, it stood to reason the thing needed some sort of shelter, and as I remembered, they'd eat anything, so an enclosure was wanted so it wouldn't set to work on the house after it had eaten all the grass, trees, shrubs, and children's toys.

"What are you doing?" Reza sashayed over with an inane grin on his face.

"What does it look like?" I gave him a pre-emptive Stink-eye, but it was no good. The man could smell mischief a mile away.

"He's making a goat house, but it's a secret!" hollered my snitching son. "Uncle Reza, push me!" He'd been hanging over his tree swing on his stomach and twirling around in circles, but now he was ready to go flying and crack his skull properly.

"I love goat," Reza grinned, giving Masson a shove.

"For god's sake, man! This isn't dinner; it's Miri-ange's pet!" I was mortified.

"You don't say; you'd better make sure you clarify that with Darius."

"Oh, god," I groaned.

"You might have drawn up a blueprint," Reza noted, sizing up the, ah, goat house. "It has some rather interesting angles." I saw no need to dignify that with a response, so he persisted. "Have you mentioned this new addition to You Know Who?"

"Not yet."

"It's just like the old days, Erik, only in a different way," the daroga chuckled. "You'll have to give me some sort of sign when you intend to bring it up so that I can give you two the privacy you'll need."

That's what a pitiful old bachelor knows. I didn't intend to bring up anything. I'd have the goat snacking happily away in the garden before I breathed a word of it to Christine. I reckoned she couldn't say no after she saw how transported Miri-ange was.

I took it as a sign of divine approval that I'd managed to get so far with the scheme before anyone took notice of my construction project in the back garden. All the banging and bustling, and Christine hadn't been the least bit suspicious. Right then I should have realized she was up to something herself, but I suppose we're both a bit oblivious when we've got a project to attend to.

My admission that I'd considered sampling the wares at the house of convenience when she and I were on the outs had Christine stewing about The Evils of Prostitution. She managed to procure a copy of The Subjection of Women and she was off to the races again. First things first, however; before she sallied forth to rescue the painted ladies of Paris, there was an entire sleepy little seaside town full of oppressed sisters to incite to riot.

I first caught wind of the fact that Christine was planning another outrage when I happened to see a leaflet in the bakery as Masson, Miri-ange and I made our daily rounds. There it was on the bakery counter: VOTES FOR WOMEN, blah blah blah. I may have blasphemed even as the dear woman handed over our coffee cake. I snatched a leaflet to carry home and confront 'Christine Rouen, Comtesse de Chagny', whoever the devil that was supposed to be.

"Christine, what is this?" I proffered the leaflet, whispering harshly. We'd just put the babies down for a nap. "Who the hell is Christine Rouen, Comtesse de Chagny? Make up your mind!"

"Silly," she breezed downstairs with me in pursuit. "It's just publicity. If you say 'Comtesse' anything, more people will show up. Don't worry," she cooed. We had reached the bottom of the stairs; she kissed me and fluttered away.

"Wait a minute! You think that makes it alright? It's not alright, Christine! You have babies now; you don't have time for this nonsense anymore."

She whirled on me, and her eyebrows said she was not persuaded. "Nonsense?"

"Um…"

"I need to do something with my mind, Erik. The babies don't occupy every minute of my day."

"Then let's make another one!" I whined.

"Erik! I don't care how many children we have, I'm not going to forget about votes for women."

"Not again, Christine, not again."

"You're being silly," she sang.

There was no reasoning with her, I knew that much. There was nothing for it except to inundate her with babies so she didn't have time to leave the house.

I was deep into plotting how I'd get to Christine—since Miri-ange she was back to pushing those English curses again—when I realized that Christine and I had become some sort of demi-celebrities in Perros. Imagine my horror.

Masson, Miri-ange and I did a daily loop stroll of downtown; bakery, confectionary, bookstore, fountain, with a detour to the fish market if Christine was tagging along. At the fountain, we'd struck up a wonderful friendship with a new flock of ducks and several pigeons. We were feeding our friends when I noticed a couple of women observing us a little too closely for my taste. Being seized upon and hauled away by police tends to make a shy fellow like me even more skittish. When Miri-ange took off screeching and racing around the fountain, I seized my opportunity to confront the biddies. I tried to put a smile in my voice.

"Good morning, Ladies; may I be of service?"

"Forgive our staring, Monsieur," said the thin dark blue one. "We couldn't help admiring those lovely children."

Well, obviously she was a brilliant and discriminating woman.

"Not at all," I nodded, preparing to excuse myself.

"Excuse me, but aren't you the paramour of the Comtesse de Chagny?" asked the rounder brown one.

God help me, but the women of Perros are a brazen lot.

"I beg your pardon, Madame. I am her husband," I fumed.

"And the Opera Ghost, aren't you?" My stomach did a little jig and my heart attempted an escape up my throat and out my mouth.

"Pa-pa, Pa-pa, Pa-pa," my little diva sang. She couldn't tolerate anything less than my undivided attention for more than the merest seconds.

"If you'll excuse me," I nodded once again and rushed after Miri-ange. "Papa's good little girl; thank you," I whispered, scooping her up and making tracks for home.