IV
Erik stepped out into the sullen grey of an August morning feeling very pleased with himself. After a superb thespian performance on his part, Madame d'Avrigny agreed to allow him exclusive claim to Christine—for a fee. This coup satisfied not only Erik's newly wakened protective instincts, but also rescued Christine from her . . . occupation.
As Erik danced around dirty puddles in the still-silent alley, his thoughts wandered to what waited for him at the de Chagny townhouse. Father was no doubt still smarting over their argument and Claire . . . She would be dutifully scandalized by his presence here and seethe silent resentment over dinner. It wasn't Claire's style to throw tantrums. Her perfected formula was silence whetted to a keen edge. The two of them had this routine down to an art form after twenty years. Had he been inclined to be affectionate, his attempts would be met with a coldly turned shoulder and stiff resistance in his embrace.
The livery stable next door to the brothel was owned by a Monsieur Germaine Méchant. He was a particular friend of Madame Sophia, and often found work for the male bastards her whores delivered. The interior of the stable was dim and ripe with the scent of warm horseflesh, crisp hay and manure. Erik paused in the doorway, allowing his eyes time to adjust. Among the quiet snorting and shuffling of the stables' occupants, a low, masculine voice at the end of the aisle caught his attention.
". . . and then this bit here: 'All sciences and arts have principles and rules, by means of which one makes discoveries leading to their perfection. Horsemanship is the one art for which it seems one needs only practice."
Here the reader snorted, and muttered, "Practice and a mount keen enough to tell the difference between the dressage and a bloody breastcollar. Not likely to see that around here." At the listener's offended snort, the voice amended, "Except for you, of course."
Erik rounded the corner and found a gangly young man draped across the back of his Persian stallion César.
"L'École de Cavalerie? Don't we have lofty aspirations," Erik drawled.
The young man swung upright long enough for Erik to register a narrow face and widely set eyes before sliding off César's back into a heap on the straw. César whisked his tail in annoyance, turning from his hay at the sound of his master's voice. Erik offered a flat palm to César who sniffed it politely in greeting and accepted Erik's knowing scratch behind the ears. The groom staggered to his feet, gathering the book and trying, in vain, to dust the straw from his hair and grubby shirt. With the grace of long practice, the groom leapt up into the loft and swung down to the aisle beside Erik.
"My apologies, sir. I . . . I didn't mean to . . . to take liberties. I mean, I read that they like a calm voice and-"
"Don't fret, boy. César has not taken any harm," Erik said, raising a hand to stem any more of the boy's stuttering confession.
The flat, grey light trickling in from the open door granted Erik a better look at this educated groom. A handsome young man of about seventeen years, if Erik was to hazard a guess, with a long nose and a wide, thin mouth. His golden hair was bound in a queue that reached the middle of his back and blue eyes skittered nervously over Erik's form. Erik, used to far worse than the boy's frank staring, simply waited for the boy to collect himself.
"He's a fine animal, sir," the boy said, with an admiring glance at César's glossy black coat, the breadth of muscle on haunch and chest, the hard clean lines of his legs.
"Indeed he is. I have a Persian acquaintance by the name of Nadir Kahn who is a purveyor of fine horseflesh. It is his dream to create his own line of Thoroughbreds from his Persian stock here as they have in England." Blue eyes alight with interest as well a certain shy hope that bewildered Erik, the groom nodded eagerly.
"I have heard of the Thoroughbred races they have in England. It's a pity there isn't more interest in such fine sport."
They spoke easily of horses and Guérinière's work. As they spoke the groom's hands moved over the worn cover and broken spine of his book. The book was a ragged, dog-eared, obviously cherished object. Something about this tableau tickled his brain. Why was this familiar?
"What is your name?" Erik asked, irritated by the faint nagging sense of déjà vu. The joy dimmed in the boy's eyes, his entire attitude slumping.
"Raoul, sir," he mumbled, eyes downcast.
The pieces fell into place in his mind. Raoul. His bastard brother. Upon closer inspection, Erik marveled that he had not noticed it sooner. The long nose was a mirror to his own, the strong jaw, even the particular nervous gesture of biting his thumbnail was a vestige of Erik's childhood, before his father's tutors had broken him of it. The book . . . Erik himself had given him the book a couple years before. A trifling kindness, a remnant of a simpler time when he hoped for some manner of relationship with his brother.
"Ah. Raoul. You've grown since I saw you last. How old are you now?" His brother's thin chest puffed.
"Twenty." Born the same year Erik had wed Claire. Born the same year Erik's mother had died.
"A bit scrawny, aren't you? Does Monsieur Méchant feed his employees?" Erik couldn't contain his years-old bitterness. God, the welter of emotion the boy's very existence raised in him twisted and snarled in his gut. Raoul offered a scoff of his own, resentment twisting his mouth.
"Employee? A neat term for slave."
"Poor, unlucky Raoul," Erik sneered.
A quiet voice in his head pointed out his hypocrisy. He held no ill will against Elise or Jacqueline, the products of his father's other marriages; in fact he was quite fond of the brats. Was it implied betrayal that the Comte de Chagny had been fucking whores while Erik's mother lay dying, or that Raoul himself was a threat to him simply by being born male? Raoul's blue eyes were wide and hurt. God, did the boy idolize him? Erik had a talent for disappointing the people who depended on him.
"Tack up my horse, boy, and be quick about it," he said, dismissing him with a brusque jerk of his chin. Raoul's shoulders sagged forward, hunched as if to avoid a blow.
"Yes, sir." The boy's hands were quick and efficient, Erik tried not to notice that his saddle and bridle shone with fresh oiling, or graceful, tangle-less drape of César's mane and tail. In the square's cold light, Raoul dutifully held the rein as Erik mounted. God, he looked like a dirty scarecrow in mismatched clothes, his cheeks gaunt and his hair dense with oil. Now Erik felt petty and miserable and guilty for crushing the boy's fragile hope. César pranced beneath him, eager to be away.
"Raoul, I . . ." he began, "I . . ." he broke off, pierced by the boy's expectant look.
"I am glad you enjoyed the book."
XXX
Madame Sophia sipped her tea, laced generously with brandy. A small token celebration at this morning's acquisition. Perhaps she had underestimated the appeal of fresh, unspoiled beauty. One night and the man was besotted. True, she had seen men come and generally make fools of themselves over one whore or another, the stupidest of which actually believed it was love they felt. Men were fools when it came to sex, a fact the Madame had learned to exploit a long, long time ago.
She had thought Monsieur Erik above such nonsense, being such a cerebral creature. With his wide-ranging conversation and preference for chess, Madame often had doubts of his attraction to women. Louisa and Nicole both assured her that his performance eschewed any such suspicions. Beneath his intelligence, his money and his mask, Erik de Chagny was a man like any other, and as such, malleable in Madame's skilled hands. For in all their protestations, the infatuation that coursed through their bodies could not survive the demands of time and distance, and soon they shifted their affections on another. Monsieur Erik would learn too. In the meantime she would take his francs, and use Christine's talents as she saw fit. Possessiveness was bad for business.
And Madame was a businesswoman.
XXX
Erik pulled César up at the gate, dismounting in one smooth leap and handing the stallion off to one of the de Chagny grooms. The long ride had helped immensely to restore his mood. Now he returned filthy, famished and hoping for solitude. Music had always been his solace, especially since little Marguerite's death last spring, and now fresh inspiration coalesced within him. Inspiration with a face and name . . .
The door exploded open to a gale of giggles and shouting. A small, dark-haired whirlwind struck him hard in the middle.
So much for solitude.
"Erik! Erik! I'm so glad you're home!" Elise squealed, her plump face alight. Erik smirked, pressing his fedora down on her head.
"Indeed, little ankle biter. I am home. And aren't you supposed to be with Monsieur Forel?" he teased.
The daughter of his father's third wife and the youngest de Chagny child, Elise was a slice of sunlight darting through these drab halls. Exuberant and intelligent with a fairness of heart that reminded Erik wrenchingly of an innocent, unbroken Claire, Elise and Erik shared a strange esteem, unheard of for an almost thirty year difference in age. Elise giggled, an impish light in her blue eyes.
"Jacqueline heard César and we decided to come and greet you," Elise explained.
Erik looked up at the taller, chestnut-haired whirlwind and smiled. He greeted Jacqueline with a courteous nod. At twelve, the middle de Chagny daughter was growing conscious of her duty as a lady and would not appreciate Erik's teasing and pet names as Elise would at eight.
To that effect, Erik said with all seriousness: "Such a gracious hostess to leave such stimulating employment to attend the needs of her errant brother." He honored her with a bow, a gesture ripened with gravitas with the aid of his mud-splattered cape. Jacqueline swelled happily under his serious regard and curtseyed on the steps.
"Where were you, Erik? You've been gone forever!" Still child enough to speak frank, Erik thought dryly.
"I went to visit a friend," he said truthfully.
"Papa was mad at supper," Elise observed. The solemn impact of the words were somewhat muted with her peering up at him from beneath his fedora. He swept Elise in his arms, and together the three of them entered the townhouse.
"I imagine he was. We have a . . . divergence of opinion," Erik said dryly, setting the little girl down.
He sat on the bench just inside the doorway and began removing his muddy garments. Madame Villon, the housekeeper, accepted Erik's dirty clothes with a wry wink. Erik began climbing the stairs, buffeted by both girls' chatter on how boring their lessons were and how atrocious the weather has been and did he know that Claire taught them a new needlepoint pattern? Jacqueline preened under Claire's remembered praise and Elise despaired at her uneven stitches. Erik hummed attentively and interjected at accepted intervals, but the girls' excited talk largely did not require his participation.
Once they reached Erik's suite of rooms on the second floor, Elise and Jacqueline perched themselves like two colorful magpies on the trunk at the foot of his bed, chatting away. Elise offered his fedora which Erik set in its proper place. Erik hid a grin as he removed his muddy shoes and socks, trading them for a freshly shined pair waiting for him. Two pairs of blue eyes watched him solemnly as he removed his pistol and knife from his vest and set them on his bureau. Both were beautiful objects in their own right: the pistol was a gift from the Comte with a mother-of-pearl grip, and the knife was a gift from Erik's friend Nadir, eight inches of dark steel with a curved hilt groaning with embellishment.
"You and Papa argue all the time, Erik. How come?" Elise asked. Affection for this little swot choked him. She couldn't understand why their father hated Erik for his face. Both his half-sisters accepted the mask as easily as they accepted the fact that he had black hair. They had never seen him without some variant of it. Erik heaved a sigh.
"It's complicated, mon petit cheri. There is a certain way Father expects me to look and think and behave, and I don't agree with him. There are . . . other impediments, as well," he explained, thinking of Claire, Raoul and his mother to name a few.
"That's silly! You're a wonderful brother!" Elise insisted, indignant on his behalf. Jacqueline's nose wrinkled.
"That's not all he is, stupid. He's a Vicomte. Things are expected of him."
"Jacqueline," Erik said, frowning at the slender, willowy wisp of a girl, "apologize to your sister. There is no need for name-calling." Jacqueline hung her head, the graceful swoop of her parted chestnut-brown hair like the wings of a sparrow.
"Sorry," she mumbled. Elise smugly accepted her apology.
"But she is right, Elise. Being the Vicomte de Chagny has expectations attached to it. Whether I agree with them or not."
"Jacqueline? Elise? Are you up here?" Claire's soft voice floated up the stair and with the faint rustle of skirts, she appeared in the doorway.
"There you are!" The mock-stern expression she wore smoothed into one of blank surprise seeing Erik.
"Oh."
Oh. How was it possible for one syllable to hold a wealth of disappointment and consternation?
"Good morning, Claire," he bade with a stiff bow.
"Erik," she murmured, before turning her attention on the girls de Chagny.
"You two must return to your lessons at once. Imagine poor Monsieur Forel's surprise to wake from his nap and find his charges missing!" the guilty parties giggled and hopped down from the trunk. Elise paused at the door to run back and hug Erik's middle. Erik combed her bushy black hair falling loose from its pins.
"See you at dinner, Erik!" she whispered into his shirt.
"Hurry along, little one. I don't want you to mire yourself in anymore hours of Greek translation than strictly necessary," he crooned, dismissing her with a gentle pat.
The air in the room seemed to dim and chill as the girls' chatter and laughter grew fainter and fainter.
"You would have made a wonderful mother," he murmured wistfully, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.
He meant it as a compliment; she had such a way with his mischievous younger sisters. They adored her. She was still a striking woman, Erik thought, studying her. Her fine pale blond hair was parted and gathered into a tidy bun at the base of her skull, softened into grey in some places. Multiple pregnancies had thickened her thin figure; she was no longer the willowy teenager that had taken his hand as his wife at seventeen. But there was still a quiet purpose to her movements, not strictly grace, but careful deliberation. Claire flinched as if he had struck her. She shut the door with a smart snap.
"I was a mother. Or do you not remember Thomas?" her thin voice was like the snap of an icicle. It was a dirty, underhanded blow that struck Erik hard and square. His words whipped out with the bitter tang of poison: "How could I forget him? I see how much you blame me for his death every time you look at me." Her bony face twisted and Erik saw something crumple inward.
"So now you spend your nights at a brothel to get away from your harridan wife!"
A great weariness rose up and overwhelmed Erik. He was so tired of the blame, the resentment, the constant bickering. A dark, vicious spiral that they couldn't stop. He slumped, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding his head in his hands.
"Yes. I was at a brothel last night. What of it? It's not as if you would welcome me into your bed. You haven't even let me kiss you in three years." The long ride had made him sweat and that in combination with dirt and long wear made the mask itch abominably. He pried it off and wiped the damaged half of his face with a handkerchief.
"How could I bear to have you touch me with that staring back at me?"
He had heard this tune before, in every key, from a dozen voices for his whole life. Thick scar tissue protected his fragile heart from those needling barbs. Erik carefully, methodically wiped the mask clean. He rose and approached her. She paled, shrinking back against the closed door. He could count on one hand how many times he had exposed his face to his wife in the twenty years of their marriage.
"You protested against your father marrying you to such a monster, didn't you Claire? You always knew what I was."
"Y—Yes," she whispered, blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. Their marriage had become a battlefield and weakness could not be tolerated.
"A demon with an angel's voice."
He heard something shatter inside himself at the torment in her voice. He reached out, as if to comfort her and saw her flinch away, uttering a little whimper. The pain brought him to his knees.
"What should I do, Claire? What should I do if you won't let me even touch you?" his voice was small and quiet like a child, ragged with agony.
"Leave me alone. Please," she begged, twisting the knob and slipping away, leaving Erik on his knees, alone with the ruins of a marriage.
A/N: A la Wikipedia: François Robichon de La Guérinière. His famous book L'École de Cavalerie, "The School of Horsemanship" was published in parts between 1729 and 1731, and as a complete work in 1733, is one of the most important books on the training of the horse ever written, detailing equitation, veterinary treatment, and general horsemanship. This book has become the most important text of the famed Spanish Riding School, and much of their everyday training is based upon it. Thus it stands to reason that it would be widely distributed and read by men of nobility in 19th century France.
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