"Erik? Hello…" I spun around with the rifle in my hands; Manon blanched and wilted against the door jamb. I dropped the gun and scrambled to keep her upright and conscious.
"I'm sorry, my dear; most unchivalrous. Here," I lifted her onto one of the huge trunks. She gathered her skirts and glanced nervously for unseen grime. "It's perfectly immaculate, you needn't worry. Are you alright?" I patted her hand. She was a bit daintier than Christine. Sometimes I felt that one solid 'god damn' would make her keel over. I whipped out the handkerchief; something about handkerchiefs always settles these types right down.
"Oh, yes, thanks." Her eyes fluttered. "It was just—"
"The gun, of course."
"Erik? What are you doing here? Oh, not that it isn't wonderful to see you, but I've never known you to be interested in hunting before." It must be difficult to have to be perfectly polite and try to extract information simultaneously. True, I'd been in Raoul's weapons room twice before, and I'd demonstrated no interest in his stupid guns, stupid dogs, or stupid horses. Neither did I care about any of it now, except I wanted to kill Gaston. I'd already frightened Raoul's hound and hunt man away. He'd snitched to Manon, who had come to see what the madman from next door was up to.
"I just thought I might take up target shooting," I smiled.
"Oh. Mathieu said you seemed a bit grumpy…" she worried.
"Right. Well. I always seem grumpy til you get to know me."
"Is everything alright?" Manon fished.
"Yes, of course, dear; everything's fine." I had just spotted a crossbow that might be a stylish way to finish the fat bastard off. I climbed after it.
"Well, then…I'll…"
I glanced over my shoulder to determine the source of Manon's huffing and puffing. She was trying to dismount the trunk in a ladylike manner. I lifted her down. "Thank you," she smiled, darting off.
I saw she didn't buy it; it was in her eyes. She'd skitter back up to the house and have Raoul down on me in minutes. I had to choose a murder weapon and get out, but the array was baffling. Why would anyone need so many guns, let alone crossbows, longbows?
"Right. What's all this, old man?"
"Raoul. Good. Glad you're here. What can you kill with that over there?" It was big and shiny; what the hell did I know?
"That's for elk, Erik. Why? Are there pests in the vegetable patch?" he deadpanned.
"No; no. Just wondering. I just realized, it's a hell of a thing to get to sixty eight and know absolutely—because I'm going to kill that fat bastard Leroux!" I grabbed the gun from the floor. "Just tell me what goes in here; show me how to work it!"
"The hell I will! What's happened to you?" Raoul looked scared of me for the first time in so many years. "Will you sit? I won't have you dying up here and leaving me to explain to Christine!"
I was too agitated to sit; I paced. "He sent me this manuscript. 'Oh ho, Erik, have a look, I've been thinking about this for a long time.' God dammit!"
"Well, what is it?"
"The goddam Phantom of the Opera, that's what! Yah, some ugly fellow named Erik—mad as a hatter—threatens to blow up the entire fucking Opera House if little Christine doesn't marry him!"
"No. No!" Raoul couldn't stretch his brain to accommodate it. I didn't blame him; I could scarcely believe it myself.
"Oh, yes, and who do you think comes to save her? Huh?"
"M-me?"
"You and Reza—only he never gets a name. So, you see, I'm going to kill him." I began digging in boxes for projectiles that looked like they went with the gun I'd chosen.
"Erik, you can't. Wait." Raoul struggled the gun out of my hands. "You can't do this."
I stared at him dumbly for a moment. "You're right. He's a fat bastard. Give me the elk gun."
Raoul threw his arms around me as I made for it. "No. You can't kill Gaston. We've got to find out what he means by this, Erik. There must be an explanation."
"There is an explanation. He's a goddam parasitic journalist, just like the rest. He weasels his way in, gets your life story and just pukes it out there for the entire world to see. What is he thinking? I'm only just able to go into Paris to watch Masson play, and Gaston would have the mad mob hunting me down again!"
"Erik, let's send for him," Raoul pleaded.
"No. I won't raise a glass with that reptile," I spat.
"Will you let me read the manuscript?"
"Suit yourself," I grumbled.
"Will you wait until I've read it to do anything? Has Christine seen it? Reza?"
"Yes. No. No."
"Good." He patted my shoulder, smiling his most charming smile. "Good. Want a drink?"
-0-0-0-0-
I was fairly calm when I left Raoul with the manuscript, but in the minute it took me to walk home, I found myself going insane again. It had been such a long time since I'd felt homicidal. It was disturbing to me that it was so unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. I felt a faint prickliness at the start; then I'd get ahead of myself, and analysis of the situation was no longer possible. And now someone was riding up the goddam road, a single horse by the look of the dust. I hate company. Definitely time for another brandy.
It was completely silent in the drawing room; imagine that. Wishing Christine was home, I picked up yesterday's Epoque for some mindless distraction. Soon enough, Darius appeared with a card on a tray. I frowned at it, stunned.
"Not for Chagny?" Darius shook his head.
"Etienne, Vicomte de Agrican," I read. "Are you sure—"
"He, ah, is calling for Mademoiselle Mirielle," Darius confessed.
"The hell he is," I flicked the card back onto the tray. "Let the villain in; we'll get this sorted."
Darius hesitated at the door. "I feel Madame would encourage you to remain calm."
"Well, it's a good job that Madame isn't here, then," I grinned viciously. Darius saw it was no use and made his silent escape.
Seconds later, I was smiling and making the usual platitudes to the scoundrel himself. He was taller than I by several inches; very thin. He looked like a sensitive, poetic type, with dark hair and eyes with long, girlish lashes. I guessed he was about twenty.
Mirielle's dashing young swain was gratified to find me at home, so that he could call properly. He was deeply honored to make my acquaintance at last; he had heard so much about me from Mirielle.
"I would be grateful to learn how you come to know my daughter, if we've only just met," I replied.
"We were introduced at Chagny, by the Comte himself. It was last month, at the young vicomte's birthday luncheon."
"Ah."
The boy's transparent face told me he knew it was not going well. He scrambled mentally as well as physically.
"We began discussing music, then learned we'd read some of the same books. Naturally, I was completely charmed in spite of myself. May I say, I admire the progressive way in which you and Madame Rouen are raising your daughters."
Rii-iiight.
"You know she is fourteen years old, Vicomte?"
"I do." He gave me a look rivaling Raoul at his blankest. I decided it was a vicomte thing.
"Right, so…what are we discussing? She is fourteen; you should go." I knew it was rude, but my back was hurting, and it had been a crap day before he ever showed up.
"My mother was married at fifteen, Monsieur; I assure you that my intentions—"
"Good for her. I'm not worried about your intentions, son. You see, I'm just a stonecutter; I don't understand about this infant bride nonsense," I dismissed him with a wave.
"May I at least call on her here?"
"No."
"Why?"
I studied him carefully for some time, trying to discover if he was really that stupid. I decided he was just young and persistent; like Masson without the muscles.
"Brandy? Smoke?" I offered.
He beamed; reckon he though her was getting through. I poured; lit his cigar, sank back into my chair.
"Etienne—may I call you Etienne?"
"Of course!"
"Etienne, you don't know it, but I'm your best friend. I'm offering you a drink and a smoke. I'm telling you nicely to go away and come back in five years or so. I'll tell you just what I told my son about young love: it'll keep. I know it's hard to believe at your age."
"Monsieur—"
"Hush, boy. I've saved your life here today. You haven't met my wife, have you?"
"No…"
"Well, I'm the reasonable one. If you'd tried talking to her about our daughter, she'd annihilate you. So, just finish your smoke and drink, get on your pony, and thank your blessings that she's out crusading today," I suggested.
The boy looked so much like Masson sitting there, looking as if his heart was irrevocably broken. Of course nothing ever goes so smoothly in my life, so just then Miri-ange flew in, glowing and breathless.
"Etienne!"
"Mirielle," he rose slowly. His dejection telegraphed itself to her, and she hesitated, turning toward me. I extended my hand. She's a good girl; she came to me though she'd have preferred not to.
"I was just telling the Vicomte what a pleasure it's been to meet him, and that nothing would delight me more than to receive him again when you're older," I murmured as gently as I could.
"Papa," she moaned.
"Tell him goodbye now, Angeline."
The boy stepped up and kissed Miri-ange's hand. He was handling it well; I almost felt badly for having to be such a father.
"Papa!" Miri-ange pleaded.
"I'm sorry, my darling." Children don't understand that it hurts their parents to do these things, too.
The Vicomte de Agrican bowed and took his leave. Miri-ange glared at me briefly before running away in tears.
Oh, god, I needed Christine. Yesterday, my boy; today, my baby girl. I wasn't ready. How could I ever be ready to give my baby girl away? I went in search of little Sofie. I wanted to hold a baby.