"Ah, Vicomte, yes, I have your table ready for you," said the gentleman in the perfectly pressed black coat, white linen cloth over his arm, as he escorted Raoul and Meg to the table by window. It was Raoul's favorite as it overlooked the gardens. "My mother used to love coming here. She'd listen for hours to the latest social travails, as the ladies sipped their tea, gossiping like old hens."
Raoul looked lost in thought, as he waved off the man, preferring to assist Meg into her chair himself. Meg thanked him smiling timidly feeling a blush on her cheeks as Raoul's hand left the small of her back.
"Christine and I dined here often when I was…" he stopped, shaking his head. He sat in his chair, lips pursed, disgusted with himself. "I'm sorry Meg. I'm not making this any easier for either of us am I?" He glanced up at her. Meg smiled, replying "no matter what happens Raoul, she will always be with us. Memories of her are everywhere here. This place, the Opera House, the nearby parks, the shops…everywhere I look I can think of something that Christine and I did there."
Raoul felt somewhat relieved by her comforting words. "Hmmm, I suppose you're right," Raoul said thoughtfully. "Still, it is in poor form that we dwell on this every time we meet, after all the purpose of my bringing you to Paris is to help distract you from your current situation, and for us to find comfort in one another's company. I'm not exactly behaving as a gracious host bringing up something that only time and mercy can resolve!" Meg was about to reply when the waiter arrived.
Raoul nodded, and the man disappeared without a word, bringing back to the table a silver pitcher filled with ice water and lemons, pouring a glass for each of them. "We'll be waiting for my father and sister to join us for lunch sir, thank you." The man nodded again, and disappeared.
Raoul and Meg were both staring out the open doors into the gardens. The day was surprisingly warm for the end of April, and everything they could see, and some things they couldn't, were blooming.
Raoul exhaled "Meg, tell me of your aunt and uncle, how are they fairing?" Meg turned her thoughts from the pleasantness of the afternoon, to the serious side of keeping her story straight, minding each detail as she'd been instructed. "My uncle's health is failing fast, I dare say he'll not make it past this Spring. My mother has been taking excellent care of him, but there is only so much one can do to forestall the inevitable affects of advancing age." Raoul nodded. "My aunt…she's in good spirits, though she's had bouts with the stomach flu recently, and seems so tired much of the time…I do worry about her." Meg was picturing Christine in her mind. She worried for her friend, that she was pushing herself to the point of exhaustion taking care of Erik. Meg snapped her eyes quickly trying to shake the image from her mind.
"My mother is looking forward to returning to the Opera House when it is finished. I understand that all of the dormitories have been re-done, and a suite has been built for her upstairs so she can keep a more watchful eye over her charges?" Raoul smiled, "yes, we thought it best that she be able to be closer to them, and to you. She certainly deserves more room than the little space she's had all these years. After all she's given up her home to be there, she should at least have a small kitchen and sitting room of her own."
Meg smiled back at Raoul. He'd thought highly of her mother, as had his father, that pleased her. "You're very kind to have been so considerate of her. She loves the Opera House, it has been her home for so many years," Meg sighed. Raoul sat back sipping his water.
"Meg what was your father like?" Meg turned to Raoul, a curious look on her face, as if to ask why. "Today seems to be about father's…we've paid our respects to Christine's father, we are even now preparing to have lunch with mine, it seems fitting that we speak of yours too!" Meg smiled. It was really the first personal question that she could recall Raoul asking of her.
"My father was wonderful…he made my mother very happy. I was quite young when he passed on, but I still remember sitting in his lap, or at his feet by the fire when he read stories to me, as my mother picked at her embroidery."
Meg's smile was so genuine how it lit up her face…it made Raoul smile too. He flinched. He'd not really looked at Meg like that, and suddenly felt ashamed. He took another drink of his water, scanning the room for his father. "I'm not sure why they are so late, it's rather unlike him to be tardy." Raoul was hoping desperately that Meg had not noticed him staring at her.
Meg looked up, snapping once again to reality. Raoul resettled himself in the chair before looking back at Meg. He smiled politely. There was an awkward moment of silence before Meg began. "What was your father like? I mean when he was younger, when you were a boy?"
Raoul laughed "truthfully, he's always been rather rigid, not much has changed in that regard." Meg smiled at his response. "Did the two of you spend much time together?" Raoul looked down at the table before responding "my father's always been rather business minded, most everything was serious business. Oh, but.." Raoul stood reaching into his pocket. "I do have a few photographs of him actually, I keep them with me, as they have my mother in them. Raoul pulled out a rather large leather pouch, sitting back down, he untied the sashes.
Pulling several pictures out, he began to scan each one before handing it to Meg with an explanation. "This is one of my father, mother, and I by the house as it was being constructed. It was rather small then, many additions have been added since that picture was taken." He went through several others, recanting the circumstances under which they were taken. Meg had an odd sensation as she looked at the pictures. Yes they contained people but they were rather eclipsed by the larger things captured by the photographs.
"Now, these are my two favorites of him," Raoul said, laying them out side-by-side on the table between them. "This was taken at the house by the sea. My father and I had gone out to the beach. I'd been whining for days for him to take a walk with me, but he'd been busy with social parties and business, but had relented and agreed that afternoon to come for a walk while he waited for the next group of visitors to arrive. That's why you see him in a black coat. Rather silly attire for a walk on the beach!"
Raoul went on "here you can see him watching me as I combed the sand looking for shells. Now this one it is when…" Raoul's voice seemed to pass into a fog as Meg gazed more closely at the pictures, lifting the first one up to get a better look. There was Raoul as a small boy on his hands and knees digging in the sand. There, over him stood a man. Long legs, fitted black jacket, jet-black hair…Meg swallowed hard, gasping ever so slightly. She felt dizzy. Raoul's voice pierced through her hazy delusion.
"This one, you can see how short my father's patience ran, he found no humor at the sand I'd piled on his shoes, see how my mother is covering her mouth in the background trying to stifle a laugh?" Raoul was smiling mischievously looking at it.
Meg thought she would be ill. She lifted the last picture up close to her face to better examine the face of the man that stood over the small boy. He had his lips pursed, an expression of disapproval on his face as he looked down at the boy. She'd seen that face, that scowl before…and it was not that of the Monsieur De Chagny that she knew…it was the face of another. Meg felt the room spinning, Raoul becoming a blur. Then everything went black.
XXXXX
Erik had finished his modest serving of eggs, and was looking longingly at the food that Christine had left on her plate. She'd barely touched any of her fruit. Christine had abandoned her breakfast as she went on to tell him of the things that were blooming in the garden, how she'd made friends with the housekeepers and the cat that had been making it's home in the potting shed. "She has three kittens tucked away in the back. Their eyes are barely open Erik, they are so adorable."
Christine sensed that Erik had stopped listening, having either drifted off to sleep or was finding her conversation entirely too dull to require acknowledgement. She turned to look at him. He'd turned away from looking at the breakfast dishes and was staring at the ceiling, his right hand running along his cheek. Christine put her cup back on the tray and went to his side.
"Does it hurt?" Christine asked as she brought a damp cloth to wash his face, but he turned away. "No, it is not painful, although it does itch irritatingly" Erik said. "I have some salve if you'd…" Erik interrupted.
"Why did he decide to do it, was it a necessity, was it.." he couldn't bring himself to ask what he really wanted to know…had she asked the surgeon to do it?
Christine sighed. She'd known these questions were coming, but the responses were difficult. She knew it troubled him. Yes, it had changed his appearance, making him look something just short of normal, but the intentions were of healing and nothing more.
"Erik, it was a difficult decision. The repercussions of taking that vessel from your cheek…it could have killed you." Erik turned away. "I suppose it was a dutiful act of mercy then," Erik muttered. Christine moved to the other side of the bed, sitting down next to the side that Erik always seemed to want to hide.
"Erik," she began slowly "once he had taken what he needed to save your life, he worried that the growths, now exposed to air, would begin moving rapidly." She paused, taking in a deep breath. "Indeed they did. Within several days, there was a large thick growth rising out of the very place where he'd taken the flesh, and it looked to be even more ruddy than what had been there before. He'd sent that very night to London for books in the medical library at the University. Within days he'd begun his treatment, trying to stave off the advancing of the condition. Once the other ointments and astringents arrived from Germany, he was able to control the advances, and soon several days had passed without any new growth reappearing. By this time, there was quite a large hole in the side of your cheek, just there," Christine said, guiding Erik's hand to the large patch of new skin that had healed and melded well with his other flesh. It felt smooth under his fingers, and save the few red dots that lined the outside, it looked like the skin on any other part of his face.
Erik had to ask, "Christine…" he paused, not wanting to hurt her, but needing to know. "Christine did my face frighten you then?" Christine turned away. She could not lie, it had terrified her. It had looked like a cake that is disturbed before it is finished cooking, all sunken and shriveled in the middle. She had to choose her words carefully. Cake was still a sweet, desirable thing, even when it is sunken.
"Yes, the thought of you having to live in yet another mask frightened me…for your sake." That was not entirely untrue, though it was not the complete truth. Erik looked away "so then it was not you who asked to have me "fixed" but rather the doctor who saw fit to change my appearance without my permission?"
Erik could feel himself growing angry. It was his face, his life, his cross to bare….how could this have happened without his knowledge, without his consent? "Leave me for now Christine, please leave me…go find Madame Giry or Nadir…I'd like to be left alone for awhile."
Christine was hurt. She didn't know if he was angry with her, or if he was simply in shock and needed time to think. "Very well" she responded. She stood, took the tray and disappeared out the door.
Erik pulled himself to a more upright position. His side ached, and his back was sore, but he needed to be upright. He reached over, holding the mirror before him, he simply stared. "Perhaps this is what my father looked like," he muttered as that was certainly not the face he remembered of his mother. Perhaps it was the face of no one at all….