Christine threw her arms around me, weeping.
"Happy tears," she gasped. "There's no baby!"
Thank you once again, Lord.
"She can stay at home with us now, can't she Erik?" Her eyes, so hopeful; it broke my heart.
"Of course she can, Christine, so long as her reputation's not been ruined. That would only harm our other children, as well as Raoul's."
"We don't have to send her away! No one will know!" she insisted hotly.
"Christine, have you heard any talk?" I asked, as mildly as I could.
"No."
"No, nor have I—and we never shall. That's the way it works, don't you see? No one will be good enough to tell us directly, but suddenly people decline Raoul and Manon's invitations with regret; the hypocrites won't say it's because they fear the Rouens will be there. Little by little, the children begin losing friends as their parents forbid them. No, I think it would be well for her to travel for a few months at least."
"Erik," she blanched.
"Why don't you take her up to Perros?" I stroked her hair and tried putting a brave face on it. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Angel? Some time at the shore? It's not as if you couldn't use a rest."
"Alone?"
"Not alone; you and Miri-ange," I smiled a little.
"No. I won't leave you; what if you needed me and—"
I pulled her close again. "I always need you, but I take your point. I'm not ill, Christine, why won't you believe me?"
"Because you're an inveterate liar and you'll say anything to get me to do what you want," she pouted for effect. It was gratifying to see that I could still turn her fears away with a good cuddle, at least sometimes.
"You flatter me, Darling. I'm a shadow of my former scheming self."
-0-0-0-0-
"Now here's a turnabout; I have the pleasure of rousing you from your slumber."
"Gaaah. I haven't slept in days, Daroga."
"I'm sure of that." He set his plate on the table and arranged himself in his sunbeam. "I've spoken to Silke—leave my food, you!" He whacked my hand.
"Well, you should have brought me some." I made another snatch for his plate.
"You're a fiend!"
"I can't help it; there's never any pickled onions when I go on a raid. Darius and your woman hide them from me. You have an in," I whined. I'm not above whining for my onions.
Reza slid his plate over in helpless surrender. "There. Gorge yourself. I hope you get a bellyache. Now, do you want to hear what I have to say, or will you plunder the rest of my lunch as well, you Tartar?"
"Mm, no; go ahead. You've spoken to Silke…"
"And she would enjoy a holiday in Perros. Why don't you let us take Miri-ange? We're thinking of a month there and then perhaps on to England."
"England?" I grimaced. "You'll perish. They put milk in their tea. You'll starve. They eat the vilest things; oatmeal and sheep's guts and boiled beef."
"As usual, you're overreacting. And what is it with you and food all of a sudden?"
"I'm getting old; soon it'll be the only vice left me," I mourned. "Maybe I'll take on a new hobby: I'll get fat."
"That'll be the day. At any rate, I think it's Scotland and its culinary disasters that you're thinking of. I'd never take Miri-ange there; the men are big and burly and hairy," he chuckled.
"What makes you think she'd go for big, burly and hairy?"
"All women do; they just don't admit it. Perhaps it's the skirts," he mused.
"I see. Thank you for elucidating that point, Don Juan. So, you'd really do that? You'd take her in hand? Reza, she's--"
"I know perfectly well what she is. Of course we'd take her," he grumbled. "Erik, what other family do you suppose I've got? Let us take her. In a few months, Paris will be on to the next scandal, and with any luck, it won't involve any of our children."
-0-0-0-0-
I couldn't get Renoir out of my mind; I wanted to speak to him. I didn't feel I'd heal until I laid eyes on him. I was reasonably sure I wouldn't kill him; what an absurd scenario, two creaky geriatrics locked in mortal combat. I genuinely felt he was a bit of a victim, but with Miri-ange safely packed off to nurse her broken heart, I wanted to make sure he'd learnt a lesson, and show him just how lucky he was to escape with his neck. So I dusted off my best lunatic stare and went looking for him.
I almost lost my nerve right out of the gate; I called at his home. Little Madame Renoir took one look at me, gasped, and clutched her belly. Emphatically pregnant, she started to wobble. I dropped to my knees and steadied her with as much propriety as possible, murmuring apologies all the while. As she recovered, she pleaded for me to take no offense. God love her; you'd think she'd realize I'm used to it by now.
I explained I was looking for her lying, cheating, cowardly bastard of a husband—not in so many words—and she directed me to his studio. I apologized a few dozen more times before staggering away, begging my heart to stop its fluttering. I had to duck into an alley and whisper a tearful prayer that I hadn't marked Madame Renoir's innocent child; if the child came out wrong I knew I couldn't bear it.
The adulterous fiend was pottering about with some flowers when I caught up to him.
"Monsieur Renoir."
The start he gave said he knew me; I mean, he'd heard of me.
"At your service, Monsieur…ah…" he stammered. "Forgive me; please come in." His studio was neater than I'd expected; why do I always imagine artists' studios to be such messy affairs? "Tea? Wine?"
"Thank you, no." I took the seat he offered.
"You have me at a disadvantage, Sir," he confessed. "I know…of… you, but your name, if I ever knew it, eludes me now."
"Mm. Rouen; Erik Rouen."
He went ashen. Well, there's something, I thought; at least he had her full name…among other things. He tried to wet his lips, but I suspect all his spit had dried up the instant he realized I was his little dumpling's father and a homicidal maniac besides. Since it looked like he remained speechless, I continued.
"As you've been unable to accept my invitation, it falls to me to call on you. I quite understand; it must be difficult for you to slip away with Madame so close to her confinement."
I know I'm a bastard, but my tongue was all that was left to me if I wasn't going to strangle him. I had to see him squirm a bit. Besides, it feels good to know you've still got it when you're an old geezer.
"I can explain," he offered.
My eyebrow shot up of its own accord. "Can you? Really?"
His hope was fleeting; his expression crumpled like a spent blossom. "No. I can't," he admitted. "You're her father, what can I say to you?" He buried his face in his hands briefly, ran them through his impressive head of hair. The grey sprinkled through it did not detract from his good looks; he had the soft spaniel eyes which many women find devastating.
His anguish was palpable and it moved me. I've made my share of mistakes; I've made mistakes enough for several lifetimes. I relented.
"Did she tell you her fear?" I asked. Renoir's eyes widened with dread.
"There is no child," I assured him. He looked as if he might weep. He leapt up and hurried to the window. I gave him a moment, reflecting that someday it would be good for Miri-ange to hear about how she'd made the man she claimed to love so deeply suffer. I heard Reza and Christine: Erik, you've got to stop hurting people.
"Sir," Renoir brought me back to the present. "I—"
I raised my hand. "Don't; the less I know the better. Presently, my daughter is traveling in the company of relatives; it remains to be seen if there is anything left for her in Paris when she returns. I only came here to satisfy myself that you intend no further contact with her."
"No, no! I swear it! I told her it was impossible--"
"Yes," I replied blandly, getting to my feet. "I am sorry to have made your acquaintance under such circumstances," I admitted, "For I admire your talent."
"Thank you," he murmured, clearly ashamed.
I was nearly at the door when I paused. "Ah, and Bal Masque?"
"I shall destroy it immediately; immediately!" Pain lined his face; I understood. I nodded, though it gave me no satisfaction to ask a fellow artist to destroy his own creation.
"Thank you. By the way, I rather enjoyed the irony, under the circumstances," I chuckled, tapping my mask.
He took my hand like a nervous little shop clerk. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you. God bless you."
"He has. Plenty."