We had a several pieces of work in our little troupe. Madame d'Amboise, for example, was very handy with a paintbrush, but she was the most forgetful person I'd ever seen. We'd discuss something, and by the time she walked across the stage to the backdrop, I could see that she was puzzling over what we'd just agreed upon.
"Oh, um, Monsieur Rouen…"
"The trees, Madame."
"Ah, yes! The trees…um, Monsieur, what about the trees?"
A dear lady, genuinely.
Our Tybalt—who was also our Romeo understudy—Pierre Martin, was a wag. I spotted him immediately for one of those people who develops a morbid fascination with me. Always looking at me, leering almost. Most unsettling; in my feistier days I would have hanged him immediately and saved myself the aggravation. But he had an excellent memory and presence, and a good sense of comedy besides.
One day he sidled up to me as we were locking up for the night. "Soooooo, Eeeeeeriiiiiiik…."
Eeesh. He made me want a bath. "So. Pierre."
"Why ever did you get married, my good man?"
I don't know what I'd expected to come out of the man's mouth, but that was most definitely not it. My eyes were all but shooting out of my mask. "I beg your pardon?"
He moved even closer, confidentially. "Why'd you marry? All the women you must've had—"
"Oh really?"
"Mm. Fascinated with you and all."
Perhaps I've turned into a stuffy old granny. I rather glared at Pierre. "I adore my wife, Monsieur."
"Of course," he smiled, backpedaling slightly. "But why sniff only one flower when you can enjoy the whole bouquet?" He was leering, god help me.
I fear I stared at him for some moments. I was wondering how it was he'd managed to concoct such an inane fantasy. What I found most ironic was that it was one that Christine shared—all that rubbish about how I could have any woman I wanted. Where the devil all those women were for the first half century of my life, I'd've given the world to know. I was nonplussed, and as close to speechless as I'd ever been. Besides, my feet hurt, I was late for baths, and I wanted a brandy.
"Because. I found a flawless rose. Goodnight, Pierre."
-0-0-0-0-
Masson placed his spoon on his plate and wiped his mouth like a proper little man. "Papa."
"Yes, Son?"
"How did you let Mama know that you liked her?"
"I beg your pardon, Son?"
"How did you let Mama know that you wanted to get married?"
Tricky. I didn't long debate the wisdom of telling a precocious five-year-old that I'd kidnapped his mother under the Opera House. Surely that wasn't what was wanted here…but what was?
"I'm sorry, Masson, I don't quite know what you're asking." I glanced at Miri-ange, but she was still completely absorbed in her cereal; good.
"I found a nice lady to marry, but I don't know how to discuss it with her."
Discuss it with her?
"Ahem, where did you happen to meet this lady, Son?" I tried to sip my coffee as casually as possible.
"At our theater."
Oh. "And…may I know the name of your intended?"
"Mm; it's Mademoiselle Danielle," he murmured, sipping his cocoa.
Danielle…Danielle…unlike my son, I was not on a first-name basis with the ladies in our troupe. My boy sensed my bafflement.
"Juliet, Papa!" he sighed, exasperated.
Juliet; sweet suffering Christ. Once again my little diva came to my rescue. She slipped from her chair murmuring something about her baby and reached up for a kiss before she toddled upstairs. The few seconds interruption afforded me the opportunity to collect what was left of my wits—not much, I promise you.
"Son, I'm afraid you're much too young to be thinking seriously of marriage."
"Papa, Mama is way newer than you, too." He seemed extremely disappointed to have to be pointing this out to me.
"But, Masson, it's just not possible. No doubt Mademoiselle Danielle is quite fond of you, but I can assure you that she's not thinking of you as a potential husband."
"That's what you know, Papa. She kisses me."
Good thing I was sitting; my knees went to jelly anyway. "That's as may be, Son, but I'm sure it's not that sort of kiss." I prayed I was right about that; with Masson, catnip as he seemed to be to women, who knew?
Finally, I managed to convey to him that the problem was not so much the difference in their ages as that he was, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, still a little boy, (His brow dimpled when I insisted on pointing this out.) and that it would be many years before he needed to be thinking seriously about marriage.
He walked away most unpersuaded, I could see that much.
I took myself down to my music room to panic in relative peace and quiet. I knew we had not laid the matter to rest yet, and that further action was definitely required on my part. But I had no idea what that action should be.
Right; I reviewed my options.
1—send Masson to boarding school. A boys-only boarding school. In Switzerland.
2—accost Mademoiselle Girard and caution her against her innocent attentions to my son.
3—tell Christine.
I decided that option 1 was out; Christine would notice if her firstborn disappeared. Option 2 was a good one, but I preferred to leave that in reserve as a last resort, since it would likely be uncomfortable, not to say embarrassing, for at least one of us. So it seemed I'd have to bring The Mother in on it.
-0-0-0-0-
"It was the most extraordinary thing, Reza. I expected at least a demi-conniption, but there was nothing. Not even a puff of smoke."
I was telling my friend about the extraordinary—and, as it turned out, unnecessary—measures I'd gone to when I told Christine about Masson and his love affair. I'd pulled out all the stops; conscripted Silke and Anci to watch the children, drew a lovely fragrant bath, opened a nice bottle of wine and shampooed Christine's hair. Some time later, when we were, ah, feeling relaxed, I broke the news to her.
"Oh, Erik, don't be silly!" she laughed.
"I'm perfectly serious, Darling."
She laughed for another minute, until she saw the gloom in my eyes. "Oh, my poor dear, you really are worried about this, aren't you?" She cradled my horrible face in her hands as I nodded, feeling extremely pitiful.
"Aren't you?" I echoed.
"No. Not a bit," she smiled tenderly.
"Extraordinary," Reza intoned. "Then what?"
"Then she said, 'Don't worry, dear; I'll see to it.' And that was an end of it; we, ah, moved on to other things."
-0-0-0-0-
The next day, Christine caught me in the hallway and told me it was all settled with Masson.
"Oh?"
"Mm hm."
"What ever did you say to him, Christine?"
"I told him it was impossible, because his bride would want a home of her own, and I couldn't possibly do without his help with the girls just now. He asked me when I thought I'd be able to manage without him, and I said I felt it would be at least five years. So he agreed to wait," she shrugged.
There; simple as you please, Erik. Made me feel a foolish old nelly, wringing my hands and fretting as I had. I considered that perhaps I should turn more of this parenting stuff over to Christine.
-0-0-0-0-
We invited the Chagnys up for Opening Night; the whole household was coming. My three girls looked glorious in matching mother and daughter dresses, teal velvet and pink silk, ribbons in the babies' hair. It was little Carmen's debut and Miri-ange was extremely proud.
I was a wreck. The dress rehearsal had gone smoothly, which as any theater person or professional worrier knows, is a horrible, awful sign. It portended the greatest disaster for the performance. I actually tried to persuade Christine to remain at home with the children, lest the playhouse spontaneously combust, or the roof fall in, or…something.
So I was wanted at the theater in twenty minutes and I was prostrate on the sofa, berating Raoul and Reza unmercifully for not letting me at the brandy.
"You're not my friends. If I die of fright and leave Christine and the children to you, you'll have no one but yourselves to blame. Fiends!"
"Really, Erik, even for you this is a bit much," Raoul complained.
"That's what you know, Pinky! I'm an old man, I've got a fluttery heart! It'll all be on your head when I keel over, and I'll make sure Christine knows the truth of it when I go! Ha--that'll serve you!"
"Erik, what about your players?" Reza reminded me. "Shouldn't you be calming their last minute jitters? Surely everyone will be looking to their illustrious Artistic Director to set the proper tone."
"Gah. A man can't even go in extremis in solitude anymore!"
"Why did you leave your dungeon if you wanted to be left in peace?"
"You! You dragged me from my dungeon! All I wanted to do was—"
"Wallow in abject self-pity—"
"Lie down and die of a broken heart! Have you forgotten? Fiend!"
"And what if he had let you die, Erik?" Raoul chimed in. "What would've become of Christine then, when she came looking for you in four months time?"
"Never mind talking sense to him, my boy. It only makes him testier."
They left me then, and for a moment I thought I was home free, but they'd taken the brandy with them. Fiends. If that wasn't bad enough, they snitched to Christine. She came after me and drove me off to the theater, threatening me with a whipping of the unpleasant kind.
-0-0-0-0-
We came through it wonderfully. There were a few minor crises, all transparent to the audience: torn costumes, misplaced props, momentarily-forgotten lines, but really, it was a terrific success after all.
Now, you may say, you see Erik, you worried yourself silly for nothing.
No. It was only my magical worrying that caused the show to go off without a hitch, just as it brought my wife safely through the deliveries of our children, and made our children healthy and whole besides. The professional worriers among you will understand.
My troupe was tearfully, embarrassingly grateful to me. They dragged me out onstage for the final curtain call—it was nearly the death of me. I supplied the champagne, and had ordered a cake from our favorite bakery for a small backstage celebration before we all headed to the High Street Café for breakfast like proper theater people.
Everyone doted on the babies at the Café, and there were congratulatory toasts all around. Everyone made entirely too much of my contribution. I was embarrassed and touched; I felt rather…loved. Above all that, I was in my glory, because the loveliest girl in France was glowing at me with pride. It would be a late night, to be sure, but I felt reasonably certain of getting lucky, however late we finally got to bed.
-0-0-0-0-
Each performance got better, I think, as the cast got more comfortable with the fact of themselves in front of an audience. We only had four shows a week: Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, and a Sunday matinee. The first few nights, I accompanied the troupe over to the Café, but by the second weekend, I longed for my cozy home and a brandy with Raoul and Reza.
On our second Saturday, I bid everyone good night at the corner. They headed for the Café and I turned toward home. I had nearly reached the end of the block when something white flashed across my field of vision. Startled as I was, I wondered what a pigeon was doing fluttering about in the dark, but it landed with a slap on the pavement before me.
I bent to retrieve it; a gentleman's white evening glove. I straightened slowly, warily. A dark young man in evening clothes stood glowering at me under the lamplight.
"I beg your pardon; do I know you, Monsieur?" I ventured.
"Will you give me satisfaction?" My assailant demanded.
"I see no reason—"
"Have you any honor?"
God, I prayed he'd back away from the honor thing. I'm less interested in dueling than any man in the world, but if someone insists on calling me out, I must think of my family. What would be left for us in Perros if I refused? Still, I wanted to get to the bottom of it. I was confident I'd never laid eyes on this man; how could I have offended him to this degree? "I fear there has been some mistake—"
"No mistake, Monsieur. You are Erik Rouen, are you not?"
"I am. But—"
"I am Armand deLozier." He said it as if it should mean something to me.
"I am sorry—"
"I am not surprised you don't know my name! I call you out, Monster!" He was trembling with emotion.
"But on what grounds, deLozier?"
"On the grounds of alienation of the affections of my intended, Mademoiselle Danielle Girard!"
"Mademoiselle Girard? Our Juliet?"
"The same!"
I smiled. "No, no. There is some mistake, Monsieur; let me put your mind at ease. I adore my wife. I am the most devoted of husbands. This is someone's idea of a joke—tasteless, to be sure, but you must return to whomever you've heard this from and tell him he's been found out."
"I heard it from the lady herself, Monsieur. She has released me from my obligation!"
Though I heard the words, I still couldn't understand what this had to do with me. Perhaps I was turning obtuse in my old age. I'd never spoken a word to the girl outside of direction that I could recall. It was impossible; absurd.
DeLozier lost his patience with my floundering. "For the last time: will you give me satisfaction?"
The old Erik clawed to the surface: bargain for time, locate a trap door, evolve a plan. I heard myself asking "Will you give me a day?"
"What?" he spat.
"A day? I tell you, I have not trifled with your beloved; there must be some explanation. Will you give me a day to make sense of this? If I cannot, I will send my second to you on the following morning to arrange the terms."
DeLozier debated; clearly he believed I had no honor. I hoped it would not come to a duel; he looked to be a formidable adversary. He met my glowing amber gaze without a flinch. At last he nodded slightly. "This time tomorrow. If I do not hear from your man by eleven in the morning, I will know you for a coward and a scoundrel."
"Very good," I nodded. He spun on his heel and strode away without another word.
-0-0-0-0-
The house was dark and silent when I got in. I didn't wake Reza or Raoul, much as I wanted to. In some ways, I reasoned, it was better to curl up with my little wife and my two baby girls—since Carmen was in the bed, so too was Miri-ange. I would face this latest crisis in the morning with a clear head and some strong coffee.