Life never returned completely to normal for me after that. I did the same things as before–and enjoyed them as much as ever, but in my quiet moments I always returned to that fiery night at the Opera House. I felt in my heart that it was that night that had made me who and what I was; I was as sure of it as I was of anything. I wished Mother had told me whatever it was she wanted me to know–because no matter what I'd learned so far, I knew I had not learned what she wanted me to know yet. I didn't ask anything further of Father, because I didn't have any questions that I could put words to.
I saw Lucie several times over the next few months. I'd present her with a single flower and flirt politely--the way one does with a brother's sweetheart. Each time I'd ask how my brother was treating her, I received the same answer: "The vicomte is very sweet." I would have preferred a more animated response. Lucie was pleasant to talk with, but we never spoke except in the kitchen garden. I ignored her in the big house or anywhere I thought Philippe might see.
-0-0-0-0-
I spent much of the Christmas holiday at the big house. It was a dismal holiday, and it was good to have Lili nearby. Father looked at a loss without Mother, but he was so moved by my presence whenever I came that it embarrassed me. Six months on from our first conversation about Lucie, Philippe was still hopelessly infatuated with her. He reported proudly on his progress. He'd been speaking to her regularly since October. He'd made her a Christmas gift of a silver hairbrush and mirror set, and he'd gotten a kiss for his trouble. They'd met out in the cold once since then for more kisses. Egads; another six months and he'd be fondling those breasts. What I couldn't have accomplished in six months with that little dumpling.
I brought Philippe to Zizou's for a special New Year's. He lost his virtue to a luscious Creole from America. Infuriatingly energized by the experience, he was compelled to relate it to me in excruciating detail on the ride home. Hung over and depleted as I was, I made a mental note to sample Honey's charms first hand as soon as possible.
-0-0-0-0-
In February it rained buckets for a week. It did nothing for my mood to be cooped up in my retreat with nothing to do but think about things, abuse myself and drink. After five days of that, I walked outside and got soaked just to clear my head of fires and Phantoms. Returning home, I spotted Philippe and Lucie in a clinch under the eaves of the kitchen entrance. Philippe's back was to me, and I slowed my pace to watch the pair. Lucie spotted me; she looked directly at me and I gazed back for a beat. She returned her attention to Philippe and pushed him away as I darted home.
A hot bath and two large cognacs put me to rights. I dozed briefly, but was awakened by the sense that someone was in the house. I don't worry much about intruders. If the sight of me doesn't run you off, I'm good with a gun, better with a sword, and I can beat the hell out of you for good measure if I get my hands on you. So I sat in bed and waited. My bedroom door opened and shut; I waited. I reached over slowly and turned up the lamp.
It was Lucie, back against my bedroom door. "Gaston…" She unfastened her cape and let it drop to the floor, kicked off her shoes and padded over to me. "I can't stop thinking of you. When I saw you tonight, I realized how useless it was." She raised the comforter and sheet and slipped in beside me. Her hands were icy against my chest. I pulled her blouse free of her skirt and over her head.
"You know Philippe is in love with you, Lucie," I murmured.
"I can't help it, Gaston," she whispered. She helped me slip her skirt off. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me as I'm sure she hadn't kissed Philippe. Her leg tangled around mine as I worked on the tiny buttons down the front of her chemise. I was salivating to discover those breasts. Meanwhile, her tongue danced around mine, tantalizing, inviting. At last the buttons were undone; my hands enfolded my prizes with reverence. Perfect; Lucie's breasts were made for my hands. I kissed; I nuzzled; in the lamplight her nipples were the most exquisite pink I had beheld. "Gaston, Gaston, Gaston…" Lucie made my name sound like a prayer. Her hands kneaded and stroked my back. We rolled back and forth across the bed, just experiencing how our bodies moved and molded with each other.
My brother…I surprised myself. I tried to speak, but Lucie wouldn't let me go. I was forced to speak between kisses as best I could. "Lucie, you don't know me. Philippe is the better man; just be nice to him, he'll marry you. Go now."
Lucie brushed the hair out of my eyes–a first–and held my hideous face in her hands. "Is that what you want me to do? Gaston?" She searched my eyes. I shrugged indifferently and remained silent. "No, it's not what you want me to do," she decided. She kissed me then as if I was a perfect, beautiful infant.
There was a pretty girl in my bed, welcoming me inside her, urging me to meet her ardor, saying she wanted me. I couldn't understand it; I had not paid her or promised her anything. Before she slipped away, I asked Lucie why she wasn't bothered by my face.
"You weren't bothered that I was a simple kitchen maid when you offered me flowers and made me feel like a princess."
"I just wanted your breasts," I confessed. Sleep was overtaking me.
"Of course you did."
I was obsessed with Lucie as spring approached. She tolerated my ugly moods; she said I made her laugh. I would stalk her while she worked in the garden, fully aware of my presence, catch her and drag her into the hedgerow behind my home. It was a dangerous game in many ways, but we were invincible in our passion.
-0-0-0-0-
They held a memorial service at the cemetery for the first anniversary of Mother's death. I was expected not to attend out of consideration for our guests. I stayed home and sang all the songs I'd learned from her. I smoothed the creases from her dress. I played jigsaw puzzle with the mask over and over until my tears blurred the pieces too much to see.
-0-0-0-0-
I heard heated voices from my window one morning. I crept out to investigate; it was Lucie and Philippe. I didn't eavesdrop on their argument; I went back inside. I sat in a sunbeam, pulled out a book, and set to work on my daily drunk. It couldn't have been twenty minutes before Philippe clattered in.
"Brother?"
"Gaston, I–"
"–need my help, I can see that." I gestured to a chair.
"I don't know what's wrong with Lucie!"
"Mm. Here, drink. Don't try to deal with women sober, that's your first mistake."
"I'm serious!"
"I know you are. So am I. Now, tell Gaston."
"She's so impatient with me all of a sudden. Everything was perfect at Christmas. I haven't done anything wrong!" he insisted. Poor puppy.
"You don't have to do anything wrong. She's a woman, I tell you."
"It makes no sense," he wailed.
"If you want it to make sense, you'll have to go catamite immediately."
"GASTON!"
"Women don't have to make sense, Philippe. What is she saying to you?"
"She says I crowd her. How can I propose marriage if I'm crowding her?"
"Philippe, we settled it last year that you can't marry this girl. She's unsuitable," I said firmly.
"Mother was suitable," he parried defiantly.
"Mother was different!" I flared.
"You don't know Lucie," he insisted.
"Oh, don't I?" I was off-balance; you don't insult my mother.
"What does that mean? Gaston!"
"Goddammit, Philippe, will you stop being such a baby! You've got everything, and still you're so insecure, you make me sick! No wonder she's tired of you! Be a man, have your fun with her, and find a nice pedigreed ice princess to marry as everyone expects." My guts were churning; I went for another bottle of wine.
Philippe was on the verge of tears. "I have a right to happiness in my life!" he cried.
"SO HAVE I!" I flung the bottle at him; thank God I missed. We looked at each other in stunned silence for several seconds before Philippe drifted away.
At my first opportunity, I pulled Lucie up short and berated her for putting me at odds with my brother. I demanded that she patch things up with him and leave me alone, reducing her to tears. Her pitiful sobbing made me so furious that I threw her to the ground, tore her clothes and savaged her. No matter how I mistreated her, I couldn't make her hate me.
-0-0-0-0-
I retreated to Mother's treasure chest. It was a prickly comfort, but the only one I had left besides drinking to unconsciousness. I felt the events of the past year had been too much; maybe I was losing my mind. My temper was too ragged to gamble; I came close to murder on two occasions. Going to Zizou's removed the physical edge of my marauding lust, but left me hollow. Mignonette, Honey, Crystal–one at a time or all of them, it made no difference. How does a man go from wanting women to wanting one particular woman? How did it happen to me?
-0-0-0-0-
Lili rested her head on my shoulder. We walked the length of the entry hall arm in arm. "I wish you and Philippe would stop arguing. He misses you so."
"We're not arguing. I'm a moody bastard and he needs to grow up." That summed it up.
"You're not always a moody bastard, Gaston," she reminded me.
"He wants my advice about girls. Lili, do I want to hear about HIS troubles with girls? He should spend a day with my girl troubles."
"Philippe says you don't approve of his sweetheart," she smiled.
"Did he happen to tell you who she is?"
"He says you're a hypocrite because you expect him to marry a noblewoman, regardless of Mother."
"The lady in question in nothing like Mother, Lili. Just leave it." I grumbled.
"You know her? Is she one of your…friends?"
"NO, she is not one of my friends. Little One, I don't care to discuss this aspect of my life with you, if that's alright."
"I know what you get up to," she giggled.
"You think so?" I retorted dryly. I spied my rescue in the form of Father approaching, so I kissed her ear and slipped away.
"I'm sorry about the memorial service, Gaston," Father apologized as soon as his study doors were shut.
I waved it off, puffed the cigar to life, and accepted a cognac. "Christ, this is good," I admired the cigar.
"How are you?" he ignored my language.
"Horrible. I want to ask you something."
"Anything I can do," he replied, settling back and brushing an invisible speck from his perfect lapel.
"In Mother's chest, there is a mask in pieces; I assume the Phantom's."
"Yes." I saw that he was working to remain expressionless.
I put it to him directly. "Why would she keep a memento of such a harrowing event? And of all things, her captor's mask? An image of the face of the man who tried to force her into marriage? It makes no sense."
The overbred Chagnys–myself excluded–are a high-colored bunch. They ooze ruddy good health: sunshine, good food, fresh country air. So it was significant that when I asked my question, the color drained from my father's face. Several times, I watched him pick up an answer, examine it, and discard it. His brow furrowed and relaxed. Eventually, he sighed.
"Gaston, I don't know what to tell you," he confessed. "It was a painful night for all of us, but it was…complicated. I never asked your mother for an explanation of her friendship with Erik."
The name hit me like a horse's hoof in the chest. "Erik?"
"Erik," my father repeated. "Erik was the Phantom."
-0-0-0-0-
I sat with the contents of Mother's trunk spread all around me. E., Erik, the Phantom; Erik was the Phantom. He loved her. He composed for her, designed for her, abducted her. He wanted to marry her at one time and felt betrayed by her at another. He called her his muse and pleaded for her forgiveness. He claimed to be willing to kill my father for her, but he let her leave with him. Was Father his rival, or was it over between Erik and Mother by then? It seemed Erik hadn't thought so–or hadn't wanted to believe it. Did my mother deceive Erik with my father?
Was he a madman? Did she ever love him? His music, his roses, his cloak, his notes, his mask: everything in the trunk led back to Erik and Mother, I was convinced of it. How could she have turned her back on such passion?
My father said he never asked Mother for an explanation; could that be true? He had said he'd help me and likely promised Mother the same. Obviously, he expected difficult questions; he's an honest man, but anyone can lie if sufficient is at stake. What did he know? What did he know?
-0-0-0-0-
"Gaston, this is a note of thanks from the management of the Opera Populaire," Father's speech was clipped in his irritation, "inviting the Chagnys to the gala opening of the
season."
I snatched the elegant card from his hand. "Why the hell did they send it to you?"
"Because I'm the head of the family. It would have been discourteous to do otherwise, just as it was for you to attempt such a stunt without informing me. What were you thinking?"
I returned to my supper. "Don't worry, Father. If I attend, I'll purchase a ticket like everyone else, and I won't tell anyone my name."
"Stop it, Gaston! You know that's not what it's about!" My father grumbled half to himself. "Sponsoring a staging in Christine's name; good God, it's scandalous!"
"She loved the Opera," I replied mildly. "Bordeaux?"
Father shook his head.
"You're sure? It's quite good. Anyway, I thought it was a nice gesture in Mother's memory."
"I am going to write them and insist that they acknowledge the gift anonymously, if at all." He turned to leave.
"Father, will you take me under the Opera House, down to--"
"No. It's been over twenty years, Gaston, and with the damage from the fire, I wouldn't remember anything of my way around. I nearly died down there, the place was full of trapdoors and dead ends."
-0-0-0-0-
I was consumed with seeing where Erik had taken my mother. Finally, after several weeks of working out a way into the theater after hours, I was wandering below the Opera House. The blackness was total; one could feel that no sun ever shone there. What sort of man lived in such a place?
I was surprised at my ability to find my way around without running in circles or getting lost forever, but the place was endless. I fell down trapdoors and slides. I followed promising corridors that landed me on the street outside. I fell into water and nearly drowned. I found a passage that led up to the stage, another that came up through the floor of an office. I didn't find anything I was looking for, though. It took me a couple of months to admit to myself that it was useless.