VIII
Elise and Jacqueline were not there to greet him as he returned. Instead, it was the Comte de Chagny leaning on his cane, looking as stern and saturnine as ever. One of the ever-present grooms appeared and Erik very nearly insisted on caring for César himself, if only to make the old man wait. Mere minutes and Erik stood alone on the stoop, feeling unaccountably vulnerable under his father's unblinking eye. The old man could pinpoint his weakness like a wolf marking a limping doe. Christine had wormed her way beneath his skin, shattering the icy armor around his heart. Her image floated in his mind's eye like a religious icon.
"The unfaithful husband returns," the Comte remarked, a smug smirk tilting the full mouth women went mad over. Even at the age of sixty-two, the Comte Michel de Chagny exuded virility, the force of his charisma projected through every glance and gesture.
The hard, marble-like sheen to the older man's wintry blue eyes invited Erik's scorn. God, did the man actually enjoy their vitriolic arguments? A host of glib and cutting responses leapt to Erik's lips, a choice morsel tasting of malice rolling around on his tongue, but he stifled them. As with Claire, his pervading emotion was one of weariness, futility. There was no way he could please his father even if he wished to—which, in his heart of hearts, was exactly what he had always wanted as far back as he could remember.
"Not that it is any of your concern, but my wife does not welcome me into her bed. Nor has she in quite some time. So I hardly think fidelity would be an issue if the woman in question neither seeks nor desires my affections, hmm?" His father opened his mouth to answer Erik's rhetorical question, but Erik interrupted.
"May we dispense with the lecture? Per your request, there are matters at the Château that require my attention and I must away if I have any hope of returning before the Chambourg's salon." The old man seemed mollified by Erik's resigned obedience.
A fit of coughing wracked the Comte's thin frame, doubling him almost in half. Erik made no move to assist him. His touch was unwelcome. Michel de Chagny pressed a handkerchief embroidered with his initials to his lips, but Erik still heard the harsh gasp of his inhalation, each exhaled breath an ugly wheeze.
Upon closer inspection, Erik noted the old man's pallor, the barrel-like dimensions of his once-lean chest, the spongy, blue-tinged fingertips. Hallmarks of serious emphysematous lung disease. That idiot physician said it was simply an excess of phlegmatic humors and suggested potions and bleeding. Erik considered it more a result of decades of cigar smoke and the eventual defeat of his body's natural defenses. Erik noted all this with clinical detachment, as if his body were a cadaver available for dissection.
When he had amply recovered, the Comte replied, "If you must." The strength of his voice was diminished as he leaned heavily on his cane. Erik bowed stiffly, then moved toward the stair. A cool, talon-like hand latched onto his forearm. Erik glanced sharply at his father.
"Erik . . ." he paused, struggling to catch his breath. Erik contemplated shaking off his grip, but something in the tone and manner stayed him. The Comte had aged in the past three weeks; time pressing and crumbling him into himself.
"Sometimes, a man says words in the heat of anger without truly meaning them." The jaded man whispered that the Comte must be feeling his mortality to attempt even this backhanded apology after months—years!—of unalloyed verbal assault.
"That's true, Father," Erik said gently, squeezing the gnarled talon on his arm, "but a man never forgets those heated words either."
Lunch was a subdued affair with Erik at his father's right hand. Claire, true to form, took one glance at him in yesterday's clothes slightly worse for wear and seethed silently over leek soup across the expanse of oak polished to a mirror shine. Almost unnoticed at the foot of the table sat the Comte's newest wife, Adele. She was a spinster of twenty-seven years, of decent fortune and breeding. Her spinsterhood was explained by her lack of personality or presence. Her mother's legacy of six sons had encouraged the match with the aging Comte, and as of yet, Adele had failed to deliver. This, Erik suspected, was more due to the Comte's . . . inability than Adele's fertility.
Elise and Jacqueline filled the silence with their bright chatter, eager to share with Erik the progress of their lessons which now included dancing and riding. The Comte de Chagny went to considerable lengths to ensure that each of his children received the finest education. Elise boasted that she was the more proficient rider, but Jacqueline was quick to point out how often she stumbled during the simplest waltz. Their good-natured competition lifted his restive spirit.
His two half-sisters coaxed Erik into conversation on literature and the sciences. Erik's thoughts returned to Christine. Last night's talk had unearthed a shared love of Shakespeare and his sonnets. The girls' bemoaning Greek translation inspired Erik. Trite trinkets and flowers were a poor wooer's gift; Christine deserved something as unique and lovely as she was.
As Madame Villon and John cleared away the dishes, Erik dabbed his mouth with his napkin and rose.
"Ladies, I fear I must take my leave."
"But you just got home!" Elise interjected.
"Where are you going, Erik?" Jacqueline's more reasonable voice asked.
"Off to visit your friend?" Claire spoke with an impressive mixture of boredom and loathing. The temperature in the room plummeted. He saw Elise's blue eyes dart to her beloved aunt in askance, and Jacqueline made a study of the patterns painted on the china.
"No Claire," he said coolly, "Father asked me to see to the Château. You needn't worry. I'll return in time for the salon." Everyone at the table knew that Claire had not been concerned about Erik's safety. He glanced at his father and saw something akin to sympathy in his eyes.
Erik circled the table and kissed Elise's unruly black hair, making an elaborate bow toward her elder sister. Solemn and wide-eyed, the girls bade him goodbye. He captured Claire's limp, cool hand and kissed it formally. He turned on his heel toward his father's chair at the head of the table.
"Goodbye, Father," Erik murmured.
"Goodbye, Son," he replied, with an ease unheard of between them. His hungry heart gobbled up those cool, civil words like a delectable treat. Erik tried to catch Claire's eye once more, but she was staring determinedly ahead, her dignity unmarred by her quivering chin or white knuckled fists. No love to be found there.
"Goodbye," he said, donning cape and fedora.
Erik had lied. No, perhaps it was more a fib. While he would depart for the Château, his path took him first to a modest flat in a residential district. He was admitted by the housekeeper and was soon ensconced in the study sipping cheap brandy.
When Nadir Kahn entered, his respectable black attire punctuated by the flair of his Eastern culture in the crimson sash and fez, Erik rose and greeted him in his own language. Black eyes warmed with pleasure and they shook hands. Erik was a man with few friends, but he considered Nadir Kahn to be one of them. Shared riding expeditions and fencing matches had segued into long conversations ranging on every subject under the sun and the gruff confidences men gave grudgingly. Erik had found a kindred spirit in Nadir.
"What brings you to my humble home, my friend?" Nadir asked, waiting until Erik returned to his chair before seating himself. Erik grimaced.
"I have a rather embarrassing confession, Nadir." The Persian's mustache twitched as he steepled his fingers under his chin.
"Oh? I fear you are mistaking my garb for that of a priest. Muslims do not countenance confession to a mortal being."
"A priest would be far less accommodating, believe me," Erik said dryly. The faint smile fell from Nadir's mouth and he leaned forward.
"Forgive my jesting. It is a rare occasion that you admit to weakness; I was simply enjoying the novelty." Erik dismissed the banter with a terse gesture. Assembling and discarding varying means of explanation, Erik simply stated the harsh, bold truth.
"I am in love."
The admission startled even him. He had meant to say: 'I am in trouble.' Love? He loved Christine. The ache under his left ribs, now acknowledged, spread in riotous delight to every dark corner of his soul. He was in love for the first time in his miserable life! Nadir's dark face grew solemn.
"I take it the lady is an unsuitable match? Or one who objects to the affections of a married man?" The dig was subtle. A widower of decades, the Persian's views on fidelity and marriage were immutable.
"She is a prostitute." He hated phrasing Christine as such. Her circumstance was neither sought nor tolerated. She was simply a pawn of Fate, as he was. The expression of shock on Nadir's generous features was almost comical.
"Go on," he said and Erik heard none of the friend in his tone, only the former chief of police of the shah of Persia, before disease and scandal rotted his country from the inside out. Though his horses were his salvation, Nadir had become very well connected with both sides of the law in his adopted country. The change absurdly comforted Erik. From there, Erik roughly sketched out Christine's plight and Erik's promise to free her.
"I fear money will not be enough to have the Madame relinquish her, even as my private mistress." The knowledge made him feel frighteningly powerless.
"Yes, my connections have warned me about her. Whatever the nature of her alliance with Méchant, it has left her with a veritable army of pickpockets, spies and thugs." Hmm, that might be an explanation for Raoul's frequent disappearances, he thought.
"You must tread carefully. That brute of hers-"
"Bruno," Erik interjected, dread coalescing in his gut like a heart of ice.
"Yes. Bruno. He is the worst sort of sadist. My contact with the gendarmes said he is suspected of killing a man in Spain. Flayed him to pieces."
The words were a sharp blow to his gut, winding him. He sucked in a breath, his fingernails scoring his palms. Wild, screeching fear burned through his nerves. Christine!
Nadir must have seen the effect of his words on Erik, for he grasped Erik's knee with a square, callus-roughened hand. The consoling touch was unbearable. Erik leapt to his feet and paced the room in quick, restless turns, the fabric of his cape lashing and whirling around his churning limbs.
"I have to get her out! Perhaps I can go the gendarmes and-"
"No, Erik. There is nothing you can do. Legally, anyway. No one cares if a prostitute gets roughed up by their madam."
This was so patently true that Erik could muster no reply. He sank back into the chair, every ounce of his formidable genius focused on finding a solution to the problem. Locked doors, barred windows and madmen were trifles. He would find a way around this. He had acquaintances from the intemperate years of his youth that would prove invaluable.
"My advice would be to wait. Test the weak points. Have you even thought past when you win her freedom? Where she will go? What you will do? What Claire will do?" Erik rose and stared out the window into the dismal grey maze of cobbled streets and milling humanity.
"My mother's property fell to me when she died. It is secluded, but well-kept. Christine will be comfortable there. She may stay there while I find a way to abandon this sham of a marriage." Hope conjured a beautiful image of that cottage nestled in the heart of the forest where he had played as a boy, a hearth where he and Christine would sit and talk as the wind sighed through the trees. Then he could believe they were the only two people in the whole world.
"Claire will not give up being Comtesse so easily. And your father?" Reality bled all the colors from the fantasy, leaving truth as hard and bitterly cold as stone.
"None of that matters," Erik said quietly.
Why was he to cling to the vestige of a promise that had been rendered meaningless when Marguerite had breathed her last? Didn't Christine deserve to be free; didn't he deserve to be happy? In his mind he saw himself breeching the brothel's defenses only to find Bruno with his knife to Christine's throat. Fear choked his own throat at the thought.
"I will not risk Christine. I will, as you say, test the weak points."
XXX
It was slow in the brothel this evening. The dinner hour had come and gone, and the only customer to arrive was up with Charlotte in the Lavender Room. While Christine was glad to find a reprieve from the ignobility of her work, however brief, it was also cause for trepidation. Slow business put the Madame in a foul mood, and Christine eyed her warily from her place on the parlor rug. The Madame sat sloppily drinking brandy, her severe coiffure wilting and her pudgy fingers plucking lint from her wrapper.
The murmur and titter of conversation of the other whores fluttered around Christine like an ever-moving flock of birds and just as incomprehensible. Christine stifled a yawn, finding herself longing for the quiet privacy of her cell. There she was free to dream, to remember the kiss and the steady heartbeat under her ear. Green eyes and warmth and a voice that made her soul begin to soar . . .
The back door creaked as it opened and all fifteen of the Madame's girls watched Raoul enter, arms laden with a load of firewood. Christine watched him with more than the standard catty amusement. From her gleanings of the other ladies' gossip, Raoul was Erik's bastard brother. If she squinted at him, she could see similarity in the nose, the jaw, their slender musculature. The swelling bruised black around his left eye made it hard for her to discern their color. A thrill rushed through her. Her life here would be more bearable if she could look into Raoul's eyes and see Erik's piercing green. Curiosity piqued her interest. What was Raoul like? What history did he share with Erik?
Raoul entered the parlor with shoulders pushed forward and eyes downcast. His gaze skittered over the ladies draped in various evocative positions of repose before settling on Christine. She offered a smile, hiding her disappointment when she saw his eyes were blue. The corner of his mouth twitched in reply. He reeked of neglect; his once-white shirt was nearly brown with accrued dirt and stains, torn at the cuffs and elbows. His breeches and boots were in similar disrepair.
"He smells like the shite he shovels," Louisa remarked sotto voce, her sharply upturned nose twitching in distaste. He was very pungent, but not of manure. Rather horses, leather and honest sweat. He smelled like freedom to her. Christine shrugged in disagreement. With a faint nod, Raoul skirted the fine rug and laid the logs in the wood box one at a time. Dusting the bits of bark from his hands and shirt into the box, Raoul rose, accidentally knocking the lid shut. The screech of ill-oiled hinges shred the ears.
"Clumsy sod! Get out before I lose my temper!" Madame shouted. Raoul marched across the parlor and shouldered his way through the kitchen door with a trifle more force than necessary. The sound of the door slamming shut made the Madame hiss and clutch her head. She uttered a string of curses under her breath before turning her baleful eye on them. A pudgy finger thrust out.
"Louisa, Juliet, Cassandra, go see if you can drum up some customers." The three in question were the most beautiful and most experienced and if anyone could angle for men with a need and a fat purse, it would be them. The many-ringed hand swiveled to Christine and her gut clenched.
"Christine, go to the kitchens and make yourself useful. The rest of you, find something to do, or Bruno will do it for you!"
Ten minutes later found Christine comfortably immured in the kitchens, shelling peas for Cook, a rail thin, middle-aged man who was the soul of jolly good nature. She neither knew nor cared why the Madame had singled her out; she would rather work her fingers to the bone for Cook than work. Raoul sat on a stool beside her, shoveling scraps into his mouth with a voraciousness that was almost obscene. Leaving her to her task, Cook resumed his seat on his stool by the stove, sipping from the flask he carried in his pocket. Soon, his thick snores filled the warm quiet.
"My name is Christine," she murmured. Raoul, his cheeks bulging with the weight of food they held, swallowed several times before replying, "Raoul."
Conversation began in halting spurts. Her question about his bruised eye was met with stony silence, in turn; his snide question about who she did or did not sleep with was rebuffed. An air of cool dislike flared between them. Finally, her inquiry about the horses he cared for struck a spark of mutual accord and the air softened.
"The Vicomte de Chagny's black is one of the finest beauties I've ever seen. Andalusian, he is, you can tell with that thick, wide chest, the short back and, of course, that mane of his. Like a woman's hair, almost." Christine saw the stallion clearly in her mind's eye, and Erik's powerful form astride it.
"He sounds like a beautiful animal. I would like to meet him one day. The Vicomte . . . what manner of association do you have with him?"
"Huh? Speak plain!" Raoul snapped. Christine rephrased: "How well do you know him?"
Raoul's open face dimmed somewhat, and he dropped his gaze to the mound of peas Christine had shelled, scooting a wayward pea away from the edge of the table with a fingernail rimmed black with dirt. Silence stretched on for so long, Christine feared she had offended him.
"Not too good," he muttered, "we have the same father. My maman, she was like you, a whore in this brothel—this was before Madame d'Avrigny was madam. There was some scandal when I was born. Maman swore she had no other man but the Comte, and I looked enough like him to be considered his bastard. The Comte wanted to make me heir because he don't like the Vicomte's face—he's misshapen under the mask."
An unbearable expression of sadness graced his features and Christine felt a jolt. She had seen such an expression on Erik's face on more than one occasion. Was he mourning the loss of the life and position that could have been his, or the circumstance that pitted brother against brother?
"But it was not to be. Comtes don't marry whores, nor keep their bastards, you see?" Raoul said reasonably. And she did. Blindingly, crushingly, she saw it. Even if she and Erik were miraculously free, there was no hope for them. Comtes did not marry whores. It took a moment for her to muster control of her voice.
"I'm sorry," she offered and Raoul smiled. It looked more like a grimace.
"He—the Vicomte, I mean—he gave me a book when I was a boy. He came here every so often. We were aware of each other in a distant sense, but we rarely spoke. Then, he gave me the book. I was ten or so. I couldn't read, but I wrangled one of the lads to teach me my letters." A faint smile touched his lips, treasuring the moment of crystallized kindness. Erik held some exalted status in Raoul's mind. Christine smiled. He had a talent for inspiring that in people.
"That was kind of him," Christine said. Raoul's blue eyes narrowed to flashing slits of jewel-like suspicion.
"It was. And I don't much like the idea of someone taking advantage of his nature." The pieces fell into place in her head. His mother had used Raoul as way to bargain with his rich father. Did he fear that Christine would do the same with Erik? A strange tenderness stirred in her chest. Raoul's standoffishness was borne of his protectiveness of his brother. Christine reached out and laid her hand over Raoul's.
"I don't either. Let's make a pact to make sure that doesn't happen, hmm?" She offered her hand. Raoul considered her outstretched hand and Christine wondered how harshly he had been used in life to make him so guarded. His square, hard hand gripped hers.
"Deal."
A/N: It got a little quiet . . . do you no likey? What do you think? Like it? Hate it? In this world, sweet, sensitive Raoul didn't make nearly as much sense as a gruff, uneducated Raoul. I hope it wasn't too jarring.