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Chapter 2
"It is a harpsichord."
"Harpischord," he echoes in awe, running his fingers deftly over the black painted keys.
"No Erik, harpsichord," Raoul laughs at his blunder though his eyes remain ever patient and proud. "Do you like it? Father had it imported all the way from Leipzig. I am told they're quite popular now."
"I've never seen one up close before."
"You mean you've seen them before?" Raoul's eyes widen in surprise. There is curiosity there too he notes, an ever growing need to know more about his mysterious little friend.
"Only ever from a distance and nothing quite this nice. They did not call it a harpischord back then." He whispers solemnly, thin fingers tracing over the soft edges of the carved wood.
"Harpsichord," Raoul chides, but he pays him no mind, his attention already captured by something new.
He observes the instrument thoughtfully and with an air of honest appreciation. It is a fine contraption, decorated so tastefully and in full baroque style. He especially adores the painted woman resting upon the golden frame dressed in splendorous white. Her eyes are downcast, her soft hands joint together in a sign of prayer. The golden crown atop her head catches in the light, and in his mind's eye, there has never been anything quite so dazzling as this mysterious, white madam with russet hair as lovely as the queen's own feathered wigs.
Raoul must have noticed his awe, for once again, he is smiling that kind, infuriatingly patient smile of his; one which Erik has come to know well these past few days.
"That is the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus. Father had one of our own painters paint her."
"She's lovely." And it is a truth he cannot deny. He imagines that she is his own mother, soft and kind hearted, gentle and wise.
"You should see the one we have at the manor then. Would you like to play?" Raoul gestures to the seat covered in plush velvet and matching wooden carvings. The legs of the flat chair are curved and golden, shining with all the lustre of freshly cut wood, no doubt all hand-carved by the most skilled carpenters that money can buy. It is almost as pretty as the harpsichord itself, he notes dryly and the thought of sitting on such a pretty thing brings a sharp pang of unexplainable distress to his heart.
"I couldn't possibly-"
"Nonsense," Raoul gives him a good natured pat, pushing him gently onto the stool. "Father bought this specifically for the opera house. You shall have learn to sing to it's tune soon enough, might as well make acquaintances."
He scowls, but obliges, placing hesitant fingers over black painted keys and giving an experimental tap. He starts at the sound of a string being plucked.
Most unusual, but is it not from the unusual, if not the gruesome, that come the beloved? And he is already in love, tapping his fingers upon another note and another and soon he is off. Pounding random keys to the tune of a song he cannot name, but distantly remembers in the grimy recesses of his mind. Up and down he goes, lost in a whirlwind of notes, loud and lacking, but pleasant all the same. They weave together, not seamlessly, but with endearing faults that give away his inexperience as easily as they do his skill.
Raoul gives a mighty hoot when he finishes, eyes delighted as he claps. "You've a natural talent for the keyboard as father expected."
"Monsieur de Chagny?" He raises an eyebrow in disbelief. He has never met Raoul's elusive father before, though he knows that the man comes to every performance at the express insistence of his wife and young son. Even then it is hard to believe that a man of such high standing would even spare a passing thought for one as fleeting as himself. The shadow masquerading as a boy, hidden amongst the backgrounds with a mask strapped securely over his face.
"Father enjoys listening to you sing," Raoul explains, "He says you've a fine voice, as fine as one of the castrati from Italy, although I assured him that you still have all your cock and balls in place."
He raises his eyebrows in shock and cannot decide whether to be flattered or disgusted. He is already ten, almost eleven if what Gaston, his old master, had once told him was true. Almost a man now, but compared to Raoul who is two years his senior, he feels but a child still. Such talk from his friend surprises him, for it is common speak amongst the peasant men, but never has he heard anything quiet so fowl slip from an aristocrat's mouth.
Raoul laughs good naturedly at his bewildered expression, "Come now little Erik, it was merely a joke. I mean not what I said, though it is true that my father thinks you sing quiet well. He believes that perhaps you would have a penchant for the more technical parts of music as well and it seems that he was not wrong in his assumptions."
"Where did you learn to joke like that?" He shakes his head in disbelief.
"Why from the lords and ladies of Paris. You would be astounded by just how fowl some of them can get with but a few glasses of wine." Raoul gives him a small mischievous smirk. "Someday, I shall bring you to Versailles with my family, and we shall go eavesdropping on them while they play their little card games. They are not half so poised as you would believe them to be."
"I am not unused to lewd jokes." He frowns, pushing away Raoul's face. "I'm also not as foolish as you are to do such things to royalty either. They would have my head mind you."
"Not if I were around." Raoul gives him a reassuring smile. "The king and my father are close friends, he would never think to cut off your head if I told him not to."
"Such is the arrogance of spoilt children."
"Hey now!" Raoul raises his eyebrow in mock anger. "I thought you too foolish to insult royalty. I shall have your head for such treason!"
They descend into a fit of giggles that soon escalates into a game of chase. As he runs from his belligerent friend, thoughts and concerns of age dissipate as quickly as they had come. Erik decides that Raoul de Chagny is still a child through and through.
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"Come now, try harder. You must project your voice."
He tries to sing louder, but Madame Giry merely shakes her head. "Perhaps you need some rest. A bit of food will do you some good I daresay by the looks of you. To the kitchen now. Have Marianne ladle you a bowl of warm beef stew. You shall come back for evening practice and I shall be expecting an improvement by then."
He nods quietly before slipping off the stage. The other boys and maids watch him leave. He ignores their stares. He knows that they cannot help themselves and most of the older eyes merely hold curiosity now rather than fear and disgust.
"Come ter visit me, child?" The plump cook doesn't bother turning around; for this was not the first time that he had been sent to her kitchen with the express insistence of being fattened up.
He sits himself upon the long table as a bowl of warm stew is placed in front of him. Beef stew has always been a favorite of his, but today he merely picks at his food. Luncheon had only been but two hours ago and he does not feel particularly hungry at the moment.
"Yer best finish that, I've ter start preparin' fer dinner soon. Ain't got no time ter watch over hungry children like yerself."
"I shall help you then." He says as if this were not a routine occurrence.
"The dishes could use some washin'. Yer can start there."
He slides off the bench and moves to the bucket of ice cold water, dipping stained dishes into the basin with ease. He's used to doing such tedious tasks and they help to sooth the feelings of discomfort that have been festering in his gut ever since he played the harpsichord for Raoul.
"Yer best not break mea dishes now." Marianne eyes him before returning to her work, calloused hands working expertly to knead dough into bread.
"I never do."
"Doesn't hurt ter remind yer. Yer'll be without supper if yer do. A soft leader never wins, that's what mea father used ter say."
"A leader ought to have faith in his soldiers."
"Yer mea soldier now, are yer then? I have mea a little wretch fer a soldier, arguin' with his elders. Shouldn't do such things now child. I may be just'er a cook, but a cook hears things, things that could be of some use fer little folk like you."
This catches his attention.
"What things? What've you heard?"
"Lots of things," the cook gives him a smug smile, "A man is comin' to our hall, a populer one. King Henry's own. Wants ter write us an opera, he does."
His eyes widen, not in awe as the cook must have wanted, but disbelief.
"A joke."
"Heard Madame say it herself and I believe she wer' mighty serious."
"But why?"
"Constance. He's heard about her." The cook sneers, "Don't know why anyone would want ter hear that voice. I tell yer, the woman eats more than a full grown pig. She sounds like one too."
He pays her no mind, for Marianne has a gripe over every singer in the house, himself included.
"I fear I cannot be of much help at the moment." He interrupts her. "I'm sorry, but I must take my leave."
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"Is it true?"
"What is?" Madame Giry inquires with the patience of a woman who has come to understand the uniform queerness of children and animals alike.
"I spoke to the cook. Is it true that King Henry's own conductor wishes to write us an opera?"
She raises a thin eyebrow at this. Truth be told, she has heard nothing of the sort; it baffles her still how Marianne can fill his head with such frivolous thoughts.
"I genuinely doubt that an Englishman would wish to write us an opera, my little child." She sighs, looking down at his small, mangled face. A sight that had once filled her heart with such abject horror now only leaves a dull thrumming pity in her chest. Her poor sickly boy whom she had saved not but ten months ago, had grown so very little under their care. Madame Giry had often thought herself a rather kind soul and had believed firmly thus when she had found the boy singing quietly to himself in a cage reeking of death and sickness. An animal for the slaughter. It had made her eyes tear to see such cruelty. She had bought him off his owner with her own coin, enraptured by the sudden euphoria of her own kindness and generosity.
It was not until Madame Giry had taken off his mask that she realized how truly selfish she really was.
She remembers the shock, the fear, the hideousness of first impressions and the regret. Oh how she had regretted; what had she done? she remembers thinking to herself. She had thought her little child a monster then, a creature from the very depths of hell and her kindness, oh her horrid kindness, had brought him to their beloved opera. A shining beacon of which such a demon would surely taint.
But that had been then, and now things are different; she has changed.
Her poor boy.
"Child-"
"Erik."
She frowns, raising her other eyebrow in a silent question.
"It is my name, Erik." He says, his voice as solemn and as quiet as winter's evening wind.
"Alright then, Erik," she smiles, testing the word on her tongue. It is a lovely name and somehow fitting of this precious child of hers'.
So Marianne was lying?" Her chil - Erik asks and Madame Giry can see the disappointment etched so deeply in his small grave little face. It's an expression that is altogether too serious for a ten-year old who has yet to reach the cusp of manhood to wear.
"No doubt Marianne believes herself the beacon of all truth," she reassures him, smoothing the small lines marring his queer visage "The cook thinks any secret can be bought with a hardy meal. I daresay she is more gullible than even you." She smiles brushing aside a wispy strand of dark hair from his face.
Her little boy whose hair is so dark, it is as if a mighty shadow dwells upon his head. She worries for her dark child who stands out just as much as he fades among the crowds. A minority amongst the bright haired, pink-cheeked children who accompany their fathers and mothers to the opera house.
Madame Giry herself has not always had a privileged life. She had been the youngest of a poor farming family with little to their name. It had seemed only logical that she be sent off to the opera house. She remembers the excruciating loneliness of those first few days, wandering about the halls, lost and without her mother. She cannot fathom how Erik must have felt, must feel even now. She knows so very little about her charge's past though she has several ideas of what his life prior to their meeting might have been akin to. It is a sad thought and one that coats her chest with the blackest of tar and ash. Such questions of his life, she would never dare ask Erik.
Madame Giry knows when to be patient and when to pry. She will wait until her boy is ready before receiving her much longed-for answers.
However for now, she shall have to content herself with giving her poor, motherless child a mother.
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Thanks for reading :)