The propsmaster was out of breath when finally he arrived at his home in the cellar. He closed and latched the door soundly behind him, sighing heavily. It had not been the restful night he'd intended when first he sat on his bed last evening rather satisfied with himself that he'd tidied his abode, set the table, and prepared for the woman's visit. He'd not made it to the barber, the shave that he wore now was one he'd hurriedly done himself, and was not up to standards, not hers leastwise. He was a tired he'd not felt in a good long while, not since the production of 'Don Juan' when he'd burned the midnight oil the long many nights crafting a plethora of props. He had need yet to pay a visit to the market, the kitchens, and try to arrive at the barbers before he closed his door. It wasn't as though he were a regular patron for whom the man would stay open.
He rummaged about a thick wooden box, blackened from age and residue, pulling what funds he'd require before he retired to the table to catch his breath. His head hung heavily in his hands as he rubbed the lids of his eyes. The last hours had been surreal. The evening had started with benign curiosity, and led to so much more than he'd ever have been able to imagine. How could events transpired as they had? He laughed to himself, he'd almost wished it had been an elaborate dream invented in his mind, caused by indigestion, or some other disturbance of his sleep. But it had not…it was all very dreadfully real.
The Vicomte had been strange company, and given any other circumstances, the man doubted he'd have been viewed as anything more than scourge, or dirt under the wheels of his fine carriage. But the precarious balance of social classes was muddled in their meeting. He and the Vicomte shared a secret…one they'd solemnly vowed to share with no one other than the two women in their lives, and then only as little as possible.
DeChagny had not been at all like those he himself had so oft written about. DeChagny was neither snobbish, nor boorish; rather genuine, though at times naïve in the ways of the lower tiers of society. He had little doubt that the Vicomte's perceptions had more to do with ignorance by way of lacking exposure rather than through arrogance or superciliousness. He had to admit to himself, if however hesitantly, that perhaps misconceptions regarding those of another class with whom you share no affiliation, could occur in both directions.
He considered carefully all that had been shared with him by Raoul. The Vicomte had desire to hunt down the beast, putting an end to the conflict, once and for all. The Vicomte told the man he was neither interested in the conquest itself, nor the glory. It wasn't for the pleasure he'd derive seeing the blood of his mortal enemy flowing on the ground, but rather, quite the opposite. The Vicomte longed for one thing alone now, the assurance of enduring peace. Peace provided only in the knowledge, that if the beast was dead, he could no longer threaten their happiness or welfare.
He scratched at the evening shadow a morning shave produced. He'd never had a quarrel with the Phantom. Indeed, he was certain now, more than ever, that it had been that very creature that had pulled him from death's door in the depths of the water. Why he'd been spared, he would likely never know, and especially not if the Vicomte had his way. But what if they failed? What if they did nothing more than stir the beast's anger? Then what terror would he wage on the Opera House? Had they not already paid a dear price for a hard lesson with the fire? There were no easy solutions to this quagmire. He understood the point to which the Vicomte had suggested vanquishing the beast, but he feared for the success of the method. For if they'd not succeed, they'd surely live in fear for the remainder of their days. He could say with sage certainty, that even a City the likes of Paris would not be large enough to hide in.
He shook his head. He could ill afford to spend time pondering that now. He'd a meal to prepare for, and a guest to entertain. He rose, walking over to his dry sink, pouring a bit of water in the basin, splashing it on his face. He donned his cloak, and lifted the walking stick he had leaned against the sham of the door. He doubted he'd need it, but one could never tell what you could run into, especially as the sun still set rather early these first days of spring. This would be his second trip that day to the upper level of the Opera House. Normally he'd not venture there even twice in a week's time. He chuckled to himself, though it were morbidly humorous, he'd not a body slung over his shoulder to slow him down.
The lamp turned down, he walked out closing his door. It screeched as he pulled it tightly closed. He'd have to see to that when he returned. For his own purposes, the sound was a bit comforting for it would wake him out of a dead sleep if anyone tried to enter his dwelling. He imagined however, that it would be a source of irritation or fright to his guest, and he'd already gone to so much trouble to make the visit pleasant. Yes, his first dinner guest…after this number of years spent dining alone, it was long overdue. No matter what method he'd used to coerce the company.
XXXXX
The shopkeeper, his wife and daughter had been busy since the sun rose. The thawing City was beginning to bustle again, and word had no doubt spread that two sleighs of goods had arrived, and were even now being unloaded behind the mercantile. Normally the two hours between when the mercantile closed after lunch, before high tea was served late afternoon, they'd relax a bit and have lunch themselves, but today was an exception. They'd had a few eggs and scones with clotted cream when first they'd woke, and they'd likely not be eating again until the doors closed well after the sun sank on the western horizon. Such was the life of a merchant in such a City he thought.
The shopkeeper was busily unloading the cargo from the sleighs, his wife was carrying in what she could. Their daughter dragged the boxes or crates to where the items were to be placed on shelves. They'd barely had time to get everything inside when already they could see people lining up outside on the front walk. Over the curtains could be seen top hats, and plumes from ladies headpieces. The three worked fervently, knowing that all of their toils would be made swift work of when the doors were opened. It almost seemed sheer folly to put goods on shelves, for they'd be there for but a brief moment. Had they not been such a proud family they may very well have let people dig about in bin and box to save them the trouble. But, they were a proper family, and proudly so. They'd no intentions of letting the storm have influence on the way in which they'd conduct their business.
Chauesser, as with any City so far from Paris, relied on the daily deliveries of goods from the ocean ports and large Cities such as Paris. Nearly every shelf of food stuffs had been stripped clean, and with the winter having just passed, there was precious little remaining in pantries of the summer vegetables and meats that had been canned during autumn. True, they would never starve, for there were farms all around for beef, dairy, poultry, and a flourmill just at the edge of the City. But liquors, tobaccos, coffee, spices, sugar, fresh fruits, silks, and medicines, they would have to be delivered, for there was no natural source for them there.
The shopkeeper eyed the windows at the front of the mercantile carefully. As soon as the doors were open, all those who gathered there would be inside, and the shelves would be bare yet again. One hat in particular caught his eye, it was that of Sebastian. He'd know it anywhere. The man was a full head taller than any other in the City. He shuddered, he'd rather hoped the storm would have chased he and his companion from the City for good.
As he stocked the humidor, watching the tops of hats bobbing to-and-fro, he smiled to himself. The particular preferences of Sebastian and Pyotr had somehow been missing from the shipment. He'd have to remember to thank his wife later, for surely she must have omitted it from the order. Perhaps that would cause them not to tarry at the shop, but go back to whence they'd come. He really could never put his finger on what it was that he felt about the men, but he loathed them just the same.
There was a rather large box, sitting off to the side near to the back door. It was the items that Monsieur Courtland had ordered some time before when last he was there with his wife. The storm had greatly delayed the shipments, but at last they had arrived. He'd send out a small sled and horse on the morrow to deliver the goods, as they'd already been paid for on his account.
He'd not seen one member from the Courtland household since the storm arrived, though he'd heard that two had ventured in to the undertakers to see that all the details for the woman's burial had been taken care of. He was a bit surprised they'd not stopped there, having already made the grueling trip into the City. In truth he was anxious to learn of how the Monsieur and his wife had fared. He shook his head. Finally a man of honor had come to the City, and now, if rumor could be believed, the insolence with which he'd been handled at the inn, would likely cause him to depart, leaving the house empty yet again for another season.
XXXXX
The undertaker closed and locked the door. His young apprentice had not returned. He was entirely certain he'd been angry when he left, but he'd been far more certain that the young man would have returned with apology and acquiesced to his request to deliver a note to the Monsieur Courtland's house. He'd really no choice in the matter, as far as the undertaker was concerned, at least not if he wanted to keep his employment there. What a shame it would be for an apprentice to fail when he was so close to finishing.
He smacked his lips. He'd have his afternoon tea and read a bit perhaps. All the bodies that rested there were prepared and awaiting the gravediggers and priests.
XXXX
Meg's breath had grown shallow. She blinked with great effort as she tried to keep from keeling over. Raoul had not been sleeping, or at least she could not be certain that he had slept, though he'd appeared he had done as much. Now, with the extra drug in his system, he was drooling on the pillow, a sure sign, she thought, that he was indeed at complete rest.
Rising from the chair, she began to pace the room. Her only hope was to convince Raoul that he'd imagined it all when first he brought it to discussion. Though she hated to lie, what other choice did she have now? She needed to convince him it was all part of some fantastic dream he'd fashioned in the delusions of the drugs and pain. Surely that would make sense to him. Yet another lie, in a string of lies, and now, her unburdened conscience she'd so relished just an hour before, was once again heavy laden with the knowledge of not only what she'd revealed in ignorance, but by that which she was about to do in the name of a higher good. Would there ever be an end to the lies she would have to tell him? She paced tensely all the more.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her breath caught in her chest, for a great sound grew outside. At first she'd thought it to be the weather, it sounded rather like the howling of the winds or a rushing in of a rainstorm. But then, as she went to the window to open it, her eyes grew wide with horror. There was a sea of black cloaks below the Opera House. There was screaming and cheering, all manner of things being tossed in the air. She opened the window just slightly so as to hear the chanting. "Vicomte, Vicomte, Vicomte!"
Meg turned on her heels, her eyes flashing in terror to look at Raoul. She quickly drew the window closed. How had anyone known he was there? Why were they chanting? The propsmaster had never told her of what they had done…what Raoul had done…nor explained the presence of Christine's cloak. He'd told her only that he had been the one to deposit Raoul in her mother's chambers and that he'd gone back to the Phantom's lair, and scoured the tunnels, finding that which they'd suspected, footprints in the mud.
Her heart began to race. She'd made the assumption that meant that Erik had gotten away, that he and Christine were safe….had she mistaken the man's words? She gasped…what had they done?
Meg moved back to the window, looking over her shoulder at Raoul, before she opened the window just a sliver. She could hear them chanting…could it be? She listened closely, yes it was so….
"Vicomte's a hero the beast is dead, Vicomte's a hero the beast is dead…"
She could not bear it…her eyes darting back and forth not pausing long enough to focus on anything…it all made sense to her now… Surely Erik had been drug out into the street, found somehow…killed…and Christine…Raoul after all had the very cloak she'd been wearing! What other reason would a group of citizens be clamoring at the gates of the Opera House? Meg nearly fell as she made her way back to the chair. She barely noticed when the door flew open, Nadir rushing to her side.
"Come Meg, let us go to your mother's bedchamber, we must talk." He glanced from Meg to Raoul, "do not worry, he shall be fine without you." He lifted her hand, helping her rise, and led her from the room, one arm supporting her beneath her shoulders. He'd had no doubt by the look on her face that she'd heard it too. It was their greatest fear now come to pass, but how it had happened he knew not. His only want now was to find Christine, and reunite them all until he could figure out what to do.
Madame Giry sat dutifully in the great room with DeChagny and the doctor. She sipped from a cup just poured from the fresh press of espresso and demitasse that had been delivered by the kitchen at the doctor's request. The pair of staff had come together, as they'd a fresh tray to deliver to mademoiselle Giry.
Madame Giry sighed, it was good, yes, but it paled in comparison to that which Madeline made. She smiled, hoping all was well at Raoul's house. She glanced over at the wall of windows. She'd heard a noise of some sort or another, but she'd not heard detail. Nadir had been standing next to the window when it first began, and he'd said he would go to check on the disturbance, that his legs needed a bit of stretching. She'd not given it another thought.
She glanced at the doctor, he'd drawn a book from his bag, and was now casually leaning back to read. No doubt that latest treatise on some subject or another. DeChagny sat rather peacefully in one of the overstuffed chairs, dozing, as was his usual behavior after a meal. She sighed again, they'd little left to talk about, and now they were simply passing time sitting in that most comfortable room, waiting for Raoul to wake.
Madame Giry glanced around the room. Now having spent time in it, she could see how there would be many hours of self reflection and pleasure spent there by many classes of her ballet students…Erik had been most wise in fashioning a room such as this. It was as far from the distractions of the floors below it as a room could be, and none could venture there without escort. It was perfect for the nourishing of the tender souls of impressionable young women.
She closed her eyes, just briefly, breathing in and out. She'd begun to slowly, but certainly make her decision. Meg would be staying with Raoul, she would take her place once more as the ballet mistress. Christine and Erik…they had a family to raise now. And Nadir…dear sweet Nadir, he'd a few choices of his own to make. She knew what she so wanted in her heart of hearts, but she, better than anyone, understood his loyalties to Erik. It would no doubt be as difficult for him as it was for her. For unlike the others, for now, he would have to be the bridge to two worlds…two worlds so far apart that they might as well have occupied two different places in the Copernican heavens. He would be their only link…the only link for a family who loved one another enough…to be parted.
XXXX
The two young women made their way down the hall to where the doctor had told them to deliver the tray. "She was one of us just months ago, and now we're to address her as mademoiselle rather than by her first name?" One said to the other.
"Surely the time she's spent under the roof of DeChagny has not given her right for a new title! She and her mother are going to be returning very soon. What then? Are we still to address her as mademoiselle when she rejoins us in the dormitories?" Said the other.
The two girls snickered as they came to the door, rapping on it lightly. They were looking around the halls, this was the first they'd seen of the dormitories, and though they were not yet finished, they were very excited to see them. They were far nicer than what they'd even hoped. When there was neither answer nor invitation, they knocked again.
"Perhaps the princess has fallen asleep." Said the first girl sarcastically.
The second girl snickered. "We can just go in then and put the tray on the table and be off. I'll not be responsible for disturbing her." The girl pushed passed her, opening the door cautiously, taking one step inside, the other girl close on her heels. She stopped and moved backwards quickly, nearly toppling the tray from the second girls hands.
"Whatever is the matter? I nearly spilled the tea!" The girl said disgustedly as she rearranged the cup and saucer that had all but fallen from the tray.
"Something is wrong." She looked at the other girl, her eyes now wide. "Meg is not in that room…it's the…it's the….Vicomte!" She nearly chocked on her own words.
"What? You must be mistaken." The girl was looking around the hallway. "This is the last door on this side of the hall, that is what the doctor instructed." She said, a great irritation in her voice.
"No, no, I assure you, it is the Vicomte, and he is quite asleep!" She shook her head. "I do not know what mistake has been made, there is no…"
A male voice from behind both of them startled them. "No, there's been no mistake, this is the room you were instructed to deliver the tray to. Is mademoiselle Giry not still sitting there?"
The girls looked liked they'd seen a ghost. How long had the doctor been there? The girl holding the tray, said, "no, she's not there sir, where might we…"
The doctor sighed, coming forward he took the tray from the girl's hand. "You may go. She must have grown tired from sitting watch, and gone to freshen up a bit, I'll see that she gets this."
The girls curtsied politely and descended the stairs. They'd not say a peep until they were certain they'd traveled far enough not to be over heard. Once several floors down, they huddled behind one of the doors in the many rooms that were there.
"The Vicomte! Why would she be sitting in with the Vicomte when he was sleeping? I'd not even heard word that he'd arrived! Surely if the mobs outside new him to be here, they'd clamor all the more at the gates!" The one girl nodded at the other.
"To think, our dear, handsome Victome is a hero! How wonderful to think that Paris will no longer have to fear for the likes of a Crawlings again!" She smiled. "You are most certainly correct. If they knew the hero to be here, they'd throw themselves over the fence to pay homage. Paris will be forever in his debt. It seems we've lost monster after monster these last months. Perhaps the arrival of the new Patron was a good omen for us all!"
"But what of Meg sitting with him?" The one girl looked jealously at the other.
"Perhaps they've befriended one another during her stay there, goodness knows that he does have a taste for Opera girls!" They laughed.
"Oh my, what a scandal that would be! The precious princess of the ballet mistress, a mere toy for the Vicomte to fetter away the doldrums brought about by a spring storm…oh how very charming!" They began to giggle. They'd best be off before someone came looking for them.
The two girls scampered from behind the closed door, looking this way and that lest they be caught dawdling by the kitchen mistress.
XXXX
Outside the Opera House, a swarm of humanity collected. Black cloaks abounded for as far as the eye could see. There was cheering in the streets as though a great victory in a bloody war had been won, and indeed it had. The name Vicomte DeChagny was on the tip of everyone's tongue.
"He's said to have chased Crawlings into the woods, where he made a swift end to him." One man said.
"I heard he fought him off with a sword, and then wielded a pistol with the other hand when he had him on the ground!" Said another.
"No, no, he tracked him from Paris, following him to his own house, then vanquishing him there once on safe soil, with protection of others in the event he failed." The others were shaking their heads. "No," the man was quite insistent, "it's the truth I tell you, someone saw Crawlings leaving Paris hurriedly being pursued by someone on a large horse, it had to have been the Vicomte!"
A small skirmish broke out about the events that had brought down Crawlings. But whatever version of the story they embraced, the end result was the same. Crawlings was dead, and the City of Paris had the Vicomte Raoul DeChagny to thank for it.
XXXXX
Christine knocked softly on the wall outside of the workshop. "May I join you?" She called in, seeing the woman's back turned toward her. She was obviously busy at something.
"Oh yes child, do come in." She motioned to Christine. "How is our patient feeling?" She chuckled a bit. "Did he complain about drinking the bitters? He always asked for a peppermint after he'd drunk them before, he said the taste was worse than swamp water." She laughed all the more. "We found great humor in arguing over the very fact he could not compare it to swamp water when in fact, he'd never actually drunk swamp water!" She laughed a bit more, then turned back to her work.
Christine came in, pulling up the singular stool just off to the side of where the woman was working. "He took it without complaint, though he did wince a time or two. In his defense, it smelled far worse than anything I've ever had the displeasure to inhale, even worse than the stagnant stench of the moors in the dead of summer!"
That made the woman laugh. "Yes I know, it is a terrible mix of herbs, but I assure you it is very effective! By the morrow he should be feeling considerably better!"
Christine looked down at the ground. She had to tell this dear sweet woman that they would be leaving just after night fell. She so wished they'd more time to visit…more time for her to learn about what the woman knew of her dear Erik.
"Why are you so silent child, is everything else alright…you are feeling alright?" She turned her face toward Christine, as if to gaze at her. The hollowness of her eyes sent a shiver up Christine's spine.
"Yes, quite well. I'm only in the midst of my third month now, but the nausea has eased, and most generally, save the strange cravings and often ravenous bouts of hunger, I feel oddly better than I ever have!" Christine was smiling, though she knew the only hint of happiness the woman would have sensed was the timbre of her voice.
"You are feeling quite well as you've not breathed this well in a number of years. Not being so confined to those corsets….that alone would make one feel better. I'm glad to see you've abandoned the idea of such frivolousness for the duration."
"I do believe you are quite correct dear lady. I really shan't miss those as much as I thought. Though it is dreadful the way a body looks without them!" Christine said as she looked down at her figure in the mirror. The coveted hour-glass shape was slowly disappearing, just slightly, but she knew it was only the beginning.
"Do not worry child, it will come back when you are done. In truth, I've heard it said, that some husband's find their wives even more desirable when they are with child. Not so prone to fainting spells, and a bit more color in their cheeks!" The woman smiled, she'd overheard many conversations about that very thing.
Christine was blushing. In truth she'd not thought about it, though she knew her physical attraction for Erik had not waned, nor his for her. She thought it to be the afterglow of being newly married, but perhaps, there was more. She knew it pleased Erik beyond words to know that part of him was with her always, and that one day soon, they would hold someone that was flesh of both of their flesh.
"He is a most devoted husband, I can assure you. I've no fear of being neglected." Christine said rather coyly.
"Ah yes, with anger usually comes passion." The woman said as she laid out a large bolt of fabric on the table. It was of the finest silk, a regal chiffon yellow.
Christine wanted to ask what sort of garment she was making, but her first question was more pressing. "Stephan was angry? While he was here?"
The woman shook her head. "Not angry about being here, rather he brought his anger with him. I never heard a foul word from his lips while he was awake, nor indication he'd be anything but a proper gentleman. But when he slept…there were times I was afraid we'd had an intruder he screamed so!"
"Nightmares?" Christine said looking down at the ground. She'd witnessed a few of those herself. There were times when the bed shook from his frenzied movements, but most often his words were inaudible.
"I presume they were." She said as she began to take pin after pin, placing them as precisely as a woman with her years of experience would, though Christine could not imagine how one did so without the benefit of sight. "He would never speak of them when he woke, often denying he had them. Though I knew he was not being truthful, for he'd become unusually sullen after a terrible streak of them."
Christine was so very curious. "How often did he come for a visit…were they long?"
The woman smiled at her, a sweet expression coming over her face. "My dear, dear, girl. There are many stories I could tell you! His arrivals were sporadic, erratic even. He would appear at my door in the dead of night. Then he would stay up all night that first night painting. If he stayed a second night, I could be fairly certain he'd be there for a week, nearly to the day. It was during those times we had the most fun, and accomplished the most work!"
Christine smiled, resting her elbows on the corner of the worktable, putting her head into her hands. "Was he good company?"
The woman laughed. "Good company? That is a simple question with a very complicated answer! But yes, for the most part, we enjoyed one another's company. He was a good listener! He'd loved to ask questions about the mystery of life. Why were people so cruel…why did some only love what they could see…and what was it like to love when one had no site!" She grew quiet. "There were times we wept together for the cruelty of the world. This world places far too much importance on perfection, rather than appreciating things and people for what good they can offer to those around them."
Christine sighed. Somehow she felt sorrow and pity, and yet relief. Relief that somewhere in the world someone had shown Erik compassion in a way that he could feel it. This was a woman who could only judge the man by what he said and did, not by how he looked. Perhaps he had found brief periods of solace there.
A silence fell. They'd both pondered those very questions. Why was the world so cruel?
XXXX
"Erphan, I do think we'd better hurry." JP said as he trudged through the slush of melting snow. "If we're to pull a sleigh through this, we'll need more than our pair of horses. I've no doubt that the trip will be…" His voice dropped when he caught sight of Erphan. The young man's face was twisted in pain and confusion. "What is it? Do you not think…"
Erphan was stepping gingerly, his boots pushing through the thin crusts of the undisturbed snows on their way back to the seamstresses shop. "I must speak with Monsieur Courtland. I'll not be making any decisions on my own in regards to our travel arrangements."
He shook his head disgustedly. His boots were sodden through and through, he was chilled to the bone not from the temperatures, for it was indeed very mild. It was the wetness of his boots, and the fear that gripped at his heart. How were they to travel through this mess….but surely staying in Paris would require a bit of hiding. His mind not yet made up about the truth of it all. Was Elizabeth not Elizabeth? And Monsieur Courtland….but why would a wealthy man such as he have need to hide beneath an Opera House? He shook his head. It mattered little. He would be dutiful no matter the truth. But whatever it would be, he knew the couple had need to be safeguarded lest anyone else be more presumptuous and ambitious. For certainly a great reward had been offered on the parchment that rested in his pocket. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. If blood was thicker than water….was not honor worth far more than money and glory?
The pair walked in silence all the way back to the shop, venturing in through the service entrance so they could rid themselves of their wet clothing. For once Erphan was thankful that he'd thought to deposit a change of clothing just inside, lest he have to travel the corridor in his bloomers alone.