Hi there, I fixed the problem in Ch. 4. Go back and re-read it if you like. Otherwise, Erik and Gabrielle are slowly getting to know one another. They are both dreadfully curious and private people (a bad combination indeed!). Thanks to you readers and reviewers, especially Annabanana, Pertie, gigi, and Kay.
Ch. 5 - Unanswered questions
The days at M. DuPuis' manor blended one into the other. I endured by pretending to be a character in a Victorian drama. I was the tragic heroine in my own story, patiently waiting to be rescued from my plight by what, I wasn't certain; that part I often did not dwell on. Being an outcast from this past civilization, and living in the French countryside, there was little that I could entertain myself with. Most of my spare time was spent walking in the woods behind the manor, hanging around the barn pestering Henri, feeding the barn cats, and tending to an herb garden that I had planted. Indoors I had Erik's music to sooth my soul. I would sit in the window seat of the small sunroom next to his music room and listen to him play intricate scores or soft lilting lullabies. Sometimes he would sing. One time I think I heard him working on La Femme Norvège. When his voice and his playing fused, it was as sweet as the finest kiss. I was a living witness to the genius of Mousier Erik DuPuis, the 19th century French composer, architect and artist; truly a mind-boggling realization.
Erik had taken me horseback ridding on occasion. The thrill of ridding such fine mounts in the unaltered French countryside was a sublime experience, one of the few that I would not be able to experience in 2005. There were no airplanes, power lines or nearby expressways to pierce the serenity of the lush natural environment. Always a curiosity to Erik, he was amused at my habit of insisting on ridding in my jeans. I refused to ride sidesaddle, finding the practice not only degrading, but also an impossible way to enjoy an equestrian experience.
"Well my dear, I must agree it is a much more practical way to ride a mount than the absurd convention that our society thrusts upon females. Perhaps you will start a new trend Gabriel."
"I doubt it, I think this society likes their women chained, bound and gagged."
Erik threw back his head and laughter richly at my sardonic observation.
I learned that ridiculing proper Parisian culture was one of the few things Erik found amusing.
- o -
The morning I saw the missing persons reward in The Figaro, Erik had been in his music room running some intricate scales; the usual preparation when he added a score and wished to listen to the music for fluidity.
My heart was beating wildly as I sprinted down the polished hallway, skidding to a stop at the music room door, nearly crashing into the heavy wooden doorframe.
"Erik, you've got to see this!" I must have looked like an untamed madwoman, wearing only my gown and robe, my hair falling in my face, shaking the newspaper at him frantically. Erik stopped playing and jerked his head toward me abruptly. He appeared thoroughly irritated. I crossed the threshold without waiting for an invitation.
"Gabriel, what in the hell are you doing woman? You know I loathe being interrupted when I am working."
"I know, Erik, I apologize, but you must read this—it's about a missing Parisian, M. Fentz. I saw him the night I disappeared from New York. I swear it Erik; it's him, I just know it is!"
Fearlessly I advanced toward the annoyed man at the piano, thrusting the newspaper into his hands I commanded him. "Look, read."
What else could he do? Erik grabbed the paper and began to read.
"…According to his wife Madame Louise Fentz, Monsieur Fentz left their home to take a smoke on the porch. When he did not return within a reasonable amount of time, Madame Fentz went for him, but he was no longer there. A neighbor, Monsieur Lamont and his wife who were taking a walk, said they had seen Fentz standing on his porch, attempting to light his pipe. M. Lamont had turned to speak to his wife, when he turned back to face the Fentz house again, M. Fentz had simply vanished into, as they say, thin air."
A grainy picture of M. Fentz was included with a plea for any information whatsoever for information on his whereabouts Erik continued to study the article with concentrated interest. I knelt down next to the piano bench and peered up at him.
"What do you think? Should I contact his man's wife? I know he's the man I saw when I walked out of the Hirschfeld Theatre in Times Square June 7th, the same date I arrived in your cave him," I pointed at the picture.
Erik scowled, "It's not a cave, and anyway what can you do with this knowledge Gabrielle? You realize the futility of barging into Madam. Fentz's life with such unsettling news don't you dear? The woman may well not believe and think that you wish to extort money from her. She could and call the gendarmes to arrest you for harassing her."
"My aim is not to upset her to make gains from her plight. I simply think she should know what happened to her husband. From what I've read here, she and her family are sick with worry for Monsieur Fentz. I would want to know if I were in her stockings."
"Although your compassion is admirable, it is also foolish. I will not permit you to bother Mdm. Fentz. That is the end of our conversation on this matter Gabriel."
"W-What? You can't stop me from doing what I want to do in this matter Erik; you're not my keeper. Mdm. Fentz should know that I was the last one to see her husband. The poor woman probably thinks he left her for another woman. She should be allowed to grieve for him!"
He stood and glared at me. "You go to that woman and you will open up a Pandora's Box of questions and acquisitions. Yes, Gabrielle, you may do as you please, I will not argue that, but if you are bent on making your way to the Fentz's doorstep with your revelation, you will no longer take refuge in my home. I cannot afford the scrutiny. Are you clear on this my dear?"
What was Erik afraid of? The worst that could happen was the woman would dismiss me as being daft. Erik was making me angry, but I could not afford to alienate myself from his protection, not just yet anyway. "Alright Monsieur, I'll acquiesce to your wishes, but I do think t here would be no harm in sending an anonymous letter to Mdm. Franz detailing what I know. No return address, no names, just information. From there she can make her own assumption."
Erik begun to protest irritably, "Gabriel I…"
"Erik, please," I whined like a child, it's important to me. I need desperately to make some sort of connection to my former life. Being able to at least write a letter, even an anonymous one would import meaning to this odd occurrence even. My eyes begged loudly. I was desperate for Erik to approve my request.
He said nothing. A burning lump formed in my throat and tears wet the corners of my eyes. I stood and turned to walk away when he called to me softly.
"Gabrielle," he sighed, look here, I suppose you may send a letter to Madam. Fentz, but you will make no mention as to your location, no names, nothing that would reveal who you are or where you are living. I will also scan the correspondence before it goes to post. Those are my conditions. Do you understand dear?" His resolve was unwavering.
"Yes, of course Erik, I am grateful," I sniffled quietly, ashamed to show weakness, but childishly pleased that I'd won my way. "I have to go; I've quite a bit of preparation to do for our supper." I turned and swept out of the room. I had a letter to write before my workday began.
In my letter to Madam. Franz I explained briefly how I had seen her husband in New York City on June 7th. I described his clothes, the man's brown mutton chop sideburns and the pipe that he was holding. I also did my best to make the story of switching time periods with her husband seem plausible. Explaining minor aspects of the science of time travel in layman's terms, I hoped that she might comprehend the plausibility of my father's theories, and my story. I explained that, for my protection, I could not reveal myself, but sincerely hoped that in sharing this knowledge, she might achieve some sense of closure. A letter like this should have said a great deal more, but then would adding words have made more sense? Would words make up for a lost husband and father making righrt what had gone terribly wrong in the fabric of the universe?
I slipped the paper into an envelope, writing upon it the address provided in the newspaper account. Erik approved my prose quickly and promised to have Monsieur Roux drop it at the post office tomorrow when he and Marie went to Paris for supplies.
Even though I knew that sending a letter was realistically all I could do for the mourning woman, it felt like an impotent gesture.
The Figaro ran no more articles on the disappearance of M. Fentz. Erik's supposition was that the newspaper refused to sacrifice any more precious ink for the story unless there was something salacious to report. I was disheartened by both the Fentz's unrequited chronicle and the public's insatiable hunger for gossip. I imagined the later was an exclusive product of modern journalism's over-eager quest for a scope.
Life at Monsieur DuPuis' Manor house progressed slowly through the lazy French summer and on into fall. Marie still treated me like an alien from another planet, (if she only knew how close she was!) although there were occasional glimpses of civility. Once she praised my cooking and would sporadically give a dry little smile if our paths crossed during the workday.
M. Roux was a horse of a different color. He was warm and friendly and enjoyed regaling me with stories from his youth when he was courting Marie. He talked of all the places he would take her and of her family's concern about such as imprudent and gregarious young man wooing their shy Marie. I gathered from our conversations that M. Roux was somewhat of a rogue when he was younger.
Monday was the day the Roux's went to market for provisions. This time I tagged along to shop for a few personal items and whatever produce might be available this late in the season. Even though some fresh produce was shipped by rail from Spain during the winter months, Marie had informed me that there would not be much available other than late tomatoes, potatoes and squash. I had a desire to get out of the house. One could go stir crazy existing within the same four walls for as long as I had. Nearly four months had passed since Father Time unceremoniously plopped my breathing carcass down on the cold stone floor of Erik' underground vacation home. I needed to see people, to hear people, to be near people other than my three manor-mates; two of which were often quite dour.
I love Paris. In the 21st century, it is a modern cosmopolitan city with quaint old world flavour. Here in the 19th century it is the old world, decidedly grimier, but no less charming. Forty years prior, Monsieur Georges Haussmann's project had widened the boulevards and modernized the putrid sewer system. Paris was now much easier to deal with.
Ridding in the Brougham down the picturesque boulevards of France felt like being in a movie. After Monsieur Roux had stationed the rig, our little party of three made an agreement to meet back at the livery at 2:00 pm, four hours from now. I was greatly relieved for this arrangement since Marie would no doubt have nit-picked my green grocer choices until I said something unkind to the rigid woman and found myself in trouble once more with the Lord of the manor.
Venturing down the Rue Mouffetard, I returned shy smiles with passersby, happy to find that I was still visible to the general population even though none of them would have known me. I followed Marie's directions to the market and the bakery and picked up my foodstuffs. The market was overflowing with delicious gourmet food. I purchased the staples of the French diet: cheese, bread and wine, plus butter and a few herbs. On my return to the livery, I spied a confectionary. French chocolatiers are famous for creating rich treats to die for. There were few things I could treat myself to in this god-forsaken century, and good French chocolate was one of them. I might even treat Erik to a few of them if he behaved himself.
The man had been in a good humor of late. I could hear him in his music room composing. The music softer and sweeter than the usual dark melodies I heard wafting from his sacred room. Henri had even commented that the tense lines on his employer's face had softened considerably and that sometimes he even hummed when he visited the stable or was found chopping firewood. "A rare, yet pleasant sound coming from the usually cheerless man; I wonder what could have altered his temperament," Henri Roux would say winking impishly in my direction.
These curious people had a knack for making me nervous.
The shopping expedition left me exhausted. Searching through the crowed streets of Paris for unknown destinations and struggling to communicate with shopkeepers who didn't always pick up on my contemporary French was tiring. What I wouldn't give for one of those big corporate superstores now!
Mid November brought a frosty chill to the country air. I was never so glad to walk into the large house and feel the warmth and fragrance of a great wood fire in the main fireplace. Before we left that morning, I'd noticed Erik through the kitchen window, vigorously chopping firewood. Back home we called this chili weather. I decided earlier that morning it was time to whip up a good hearty pot of soup. The beans were soaking and I had cut up the chicken before the trip into Paris. It was time for these Parisians to experience an American culinary delight—Gabrielle's white chili. I diced chilies from my late summer garden, onions, cilantro and other spices, sautéing them with butter, and then added the chicken and broth, turning the fire low for three hours until suppertime. The fragrance drifted throughout the old house making it smell like a home. When it was time to be served, there would be cheese and real sour cream to top the chili with and cornbread with fresh butter for accompaniment. The later a tip of the hat to my time spent as young TV news reporter in the south. I went off to freshen up, giving the chili ample time for simmering to perfection.
While bathing, my mind drifted to Erik (as it had been more often lately). I wondered how the man had hurt his face. Henri had warned me when I first came to live at the manor never to mention the mask. He told me that Erik had a horrific deformity hiding beneath it and he never took it off in the company of others. Henri also hinted of the inner sadness and rage living life with the malformation had caused Erik at the hands of others since the first day of his birth. What would cause humanity to cruelly shun a person, especially a child because of a handicap?
I recalled reading books telling tales of broken souls who were tortured by otherwise civilized townspeople. The tragic Joseph Merrick, otherwise known as the Elephant Man, or Mary Shelly's fictional Frankenstein both suffered viciously for their involuntarily ugly exteriors. Some people believed deformities were the product of inherent evil. It seemed as if only recent civilization had come to see deformed and handicapped people as the human beings they truly are, not tainted mistakes as was once thought by an ignorant culture. No longer is it acceptable to jeer and taunt someone with a handicap, doing so in the new century would be considered beyond politically incorrect, appalling or even unlawful.
Poor Erik was an intelligent and gifted man. His form was most impressive as well. Tall, fit and darkly beautiful, Erik possessed a brooding sensuality that was impossible for me to ignore. His visible features were striking; his eyes a smoky and haunting shade of jade. If it were 2005, I probably would have wanted to date him. I'm like that, a woman drawn to charismatically dark and anguished genius. My life would have been simpler if I'd just date accountants or engineers.
I wondered if Erik had ever loved a woman. I was sure he must have, and I was sure he had been destroyed because of the way he carried himself. Erik demonstrated the steely demeanor of a man who refused to be affected by worthless emotions. It was a classic symptom of sorrow.
I sure hope you like the story, either way; your reading and reviewing are encouraged!
Leesainthesky