IX
Erik sat at François de Chambourg's out of tune pianoforte, playing the insipid melodies lauded as contemporary fare. Aristocrats gathered in clusters here or near the life-size twin portraits of François and his wife Blanche, all sipping champagne and largely ignoring him. The portraits were rather flattering depictions, in Erik's opinion, omitting François' double chin and Blanche's large mole on her upper lip. Not that Erik had room to quibble about personal appearances, he thought dryly, ending the song with a flourish.
A smattering of applause muffled from gloved hands caught his attention. Erik swiveled on his stool and found Mademoiselle Obert and her cousin, Mademoiselle Godard watching him. Both were scarcely a year older than Jacqueline and brimming with excitement at being at their first salon. He bowed—a difficult task when seated—sending the two girls, flushed with their first taste of champagne into a blushing, tittering fit. In their adolescent appraisal, Erik supposed he cut a dashing figure, the mask a tantalizing hint of mystery. He was not unaware of the certain appeal he had to some, and had whiled away many a tedious soiree flirting with this baron's daughter or that comte's sister. Like a cat playfully batting about a kitten with velveteen paws, he did no harm, was unfailingly polite, and gave them a night being entertained in their rightful place at the center of a man's attention.
He was in no mood to do so tonight, not with Christine dancing in his thoughts and his wife chatting animatedly with Blanche de Chambourg. A melody rose up within his soul and his fingers crawled over the keys, coaxing a song of regret and tears into bloom. The first playing had been crude, a product of boredom and pique. Now he embellished, adding complex layers of sound that rippled and folded back on itself. It was a song for Christine . . . and for Claire too.
Claire looked very lovely tonight in a modest gown of de Chagny emerald, her blond hair gathered into an intricate braided bun with a comb thrust through crafted to mimic a fan of black lace. His gaze lacked lust's devouring urgency or love's treasuring caress. It was the remote appreciation of a work of art. His wife looked beautiful tonight.
Like a doe testing the wind, Claire sensed his gaze and turned. Erik offered a very small smile. The narrow face he knew so well softened slightly, and her lips curved. Erik finished the song with a tinkle of high notes, to the two demoiselles' evident delight. He rose, and with a negligent wave of his hand, produced two perfect red rosebuds seemingly from thin air. Both girls visibly swooned as this display. Sleight of hand had been a small passion of his as a child and he had never lost the knack.
Erik made his way toward his wife, snagging two flutes from a passing tray as he did so.
"A drink for you, my dear," he said smoothly, sliding the chilled glass into her hand. Claire's blue eyes flickered over him, saying something akin to: 'What are you playing at?'
"Thank you," she murmured. After the transcendent purity of tone in Christine's voice, every voice sounded harsher and duller, like the rasp of sand in his ears. Claire's was thrown in even starker contrast with that frigid politeness. Blanche de Chambourg broke in, laying a white gloved hand on his arm saying, "I declare, Erik! Your skill with the pianoforte is legend! Madame Obert's girls are positively atwitter! And Claire never told me of your skills as a magician!"
Erik looked down at the dumpy Comtesse dressed in the finest silks, a jaunty peacock feather stuck in her bun, small blue eyes sincere behind the thick spectacles and felt a surge of affection.
"I thank you for your delight in my music, Madame, but you over-exaggerate. It was a simple parlor trick."
"Pish posh! You must show us more—François, darling! Gather the guests! Dear Erik has volunteered to entertain us!" With that Blanche bustled off, flapping her thick arms like a fat goose ushering her goslings to water.
Claire's blue eyes danced with amusement. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered: "Don't look now, but I think you've earned another admirer." A faint flick of her closed fan gestured toward Blanche's retreating form. A faint thrill raced through him. This was wholly uncharted territory, sharing a joke with Claire. He cradled it in his hands like a baby bird. How was it possible that he knew Christine better than he knew his wife of twenty years?
"What do you suggest?" he drawled, matching her tone, "Shall I discourage this opinion, milady? I could, quite easily. I'm told I have rather boorish tendencies." He hoped she heard the veiled apology. Claire blinked solemnly, the thick layer of kohl on her eyelashes making her small eyes look larger and bluer.
"I think—for tonight—you should maintain the illusion, Master Magician." Erik studied her, his quick mind dismantling what she said, and what she didn't. An armistice, then? He considered her through narrowed eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. He offered her his open palm, where a yellow rosebud unfurled into full bloom under her eyes.
"As you wish, milady."
Soon, Erik found himself before an array of gathered chairs, the aristocracy whispering and giggling. The air of festive good-humor well hid the turbulence rippling through the city. The emperor had not hosted a party in weeks and the colorful, almost desperate gaiety of the evening was beginning to show.
"Mesdames and Messieurs, I bid you good evening. What shall you like to see first?" he said, negligently rolling a ring between his fingers. He looped it onto his little finger, pretending to admire the gaudy array of diamonds. Madame Beauchamp sucked in a gasp of horror.
"My ring! How—how did you get my ring?" she squawked. Erik arched a brow.
"What ring?" an artistic roll of his wrist and unfurling of his fingers showed his empty palm. A ripple of delighted 'ooh's permeated his audience. Erik returned the good madam's ring and likewise pilfered watches, handkerchiefs and even money purses to the crowd's evident delight. He had just produced Mademoiselle Godard's modest ring from behind Blanche's peacock feather when a truculent voice broke the spell.
"You're cheating! You've just slipped it up your sleeve!" said Mademoiselle Obert's unfortunate relation, her older brother Jacques, an obnoxious and determinedly dull sort even at his venerable bachelor's age of twenty-six. Erik knew him to be a swindler and a conniving little shit. As such, he despised the younger man.
An eager, mischievous demon of an impulse settled on Erik's left shoulder, after binding and gagging the angel that normally resided on his right. And if it accomplished his purpose, then all the better. Erik clapped his hands sharply twice.
"You may check my sleeves and my pockets if you like," he said coolly, "But first check your own." Jacques crossed his arms sulkily, muttering a rude word under his breath.
"Come now, lad! Be a good sport!" François de Chambourg bellowed, draping an indulgent arm around his wife.
"Oh yes, do be a sweeting, Jacques!" Blanche chimed in.
With a sullen glare at his host and hostess, Jacques shoved his hands into his waistcoat pockets and found not only the wayward ring, but the saintly Madame Dupont's embroidered handkerchief. Jacques' sudden bloodless pallor confirmed Erik's suspicion about the nature of their affair. He had thought they had been discreet in the cloakroom earlier. Erik's private revenge might have gone unnoticed but for the parties involved, save for when Jacques swiveled to return the ring, Blanche caught sight of the token in Jacques' trembling fingers.
"Oh! Ma chére Dupont! Jacques found your handkerchief!" she said, guilelessly plucking the square of damp, crumpled muslin from Jacques' hand to return to its owner.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group, one Erik quickly diverted with pulling coins from behind the younger ones' ears, and other silly, frivolous tricks that drew chuckles and indulgent smiles. The laughter had a false edge afterwards, save for Blanche and François, who presided over the gathering with preening joy.
Blanche effusively thanked Erik for his performance and the salon ended soon after. Claire's leaden silence as they entered the de Chagny carriage made Erik wish for the freedom of bracing cold air in his lungs and César's powerful form beneath him. Her eyes were as hard as discs of sapphire and Erik stifled the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. It had been unnecessary to humiliate Jacques Obert as he had. It was a foolish impulse. A litany of his faults was soon to follow: recklessness, pride, hot-headedness, impulsivity . . . Claire's nostrils flared.
"You couldn't resist, could you? What perverse whim urged you to insult Monsieur Obert in such a manner? Now everyone will think-"
"I don't give a damn about what those insipid fools think and neither should you!" Claire continued her diatribe as if he hadn't spoken.
"—that you were somehow making fools of the two of them! Madame Dupont was going to help Etienne in his venture. You've ruined it! For once could you put our reputation before your thrice-damned pride?" Heaven forbid I get in the way of your brother's rise in society! He thought sourly.
"It wasn't pride, Claire! The man was manipulating her into sleeping with him! It was meant to be a warning to Obert." Claire snorted, a familiar sneer settling over her features.
"Noble indignation? That's rich coming from a man that frequents brothels at every opportunity!" Erik strove to control his temper.
"I was under the impression that any overtures toward you, my lawfully wedded wife, were unwelcome. What was your phrase? Ah yes: 'I would rather die.' Since I prefer to fuck a living, willing woman, I turned my attentions elsewhere." Erik could see his crudity shocked and repulsed her, or perhaps that was her reaction to his person in general. He could no longer tell. He ached. He ached right down to his bones. Erik sank back against the carriage's cushions, jostled by potholes, and heaved a sigh.
"I'll apologize to Madame Dupont in the morning. I am sure she will see the fault is mine and honor her promise to invest." His wife turned her face away, but not before Erik saw the silver tracks of tears on her cheeks as moonlight filled the cabin like spilled milk through the windows. The yellow rose he had given her fell onto the floorboard, wilted and forgotten.
"It's too late," Claire whispered.
"I know."
The next evening, Erik was summoned to his father's study under the pretense of reviewing the status of the Château. He rubbed his pounding forehead. Erik had thrown himself into the crafting of Christine's gift after the salon, working through the wee hours of the morning. It was blatant escapism from the hell of his present situation and his own foolish mistakes, but it comforted him.
Luc, the footman opened the door for him with a bow and a murmured, "Sir." The Comte de Chagny was seated in his high-backed chair, hunched over his knees with a blood-spotted handkerchief in one gnarled fist.
"Erik, come!" he barked, waving him in. The study was ablaze with light and warmth. Sweet beeswax candles emitted soft bubbles of golden light, a fire roared in the grate. Cloying tendrils of incense rose from its burner, covering up the sickly fetor of sickness. Beads of sweat gathered on Erik's skin and he chose a chair as close to the cold of the window as he could.
"Wine?" Michel asked. Erik arched his brow, but made no comment on his father's newfound congeniality.
"Yes, please," Erik replied, nonplussed.
His father's hand, its steady motion marred by a fine tremor, poured one generous glass and then another. Rather than expose his father to the laborious embarrassment rising and walking had become, Erik leapt up and snagged his glass under the pretense of perusing his mother's miniature portrait on the mantelpiece. Heat throbbed against his legs and the beads became rivulets. The rich red sang on his tongue, a vivid counterpoint to the portrait, shabby and yellowed with age. His throat felt tight looking at the green eyes set on a slight slant, a mirror to his own, the pointed nose, the expressive brows and crown of black hair framing her thin, pale face. Twenty years and still the hole loss had carved in him was so deep, sometimes he could feel the wind whistle as it surged through.
"I loved her, you know." His father's quiet voice broke into Erik's reverie. Erik's jaw clenched. His guard rose, like a fencer's initial position.
"You have an odd way of showing it. If you curse and revile those you love, I must consider myself most beloved."
"Watch your tongue, boy. Hélène was my wife, and I adored her." The anger he held in check, the howling misery that filled every grey day in this house surged around him.
"Liar. If you loved her, you wouldn't have sent her away, ill and broken to die while you were busy fucking some golden-haired whore. You wouldn't have punished her for the unpardonable sin of loving me! You used her and threw her away. Just as you did with Raoul when you realized your great dream would not come true. The boy should count himself lucky to have never known such a father."
"Don't tell me you've started to care for the boy," his father said.
"More than you ever have," Erik countered.
"Shut up!" The Comte roared, his voice a pathetic wheeze. Erik sneered.
"And look at you: too old and broken to put your misshapen stripling in his place." The Comte's blue eyes flashed.
"This old man is still strong enough to put the fear of God in you if you disrespect me again. Love kills and wounds and dies. You know that as well as I." No, Erik wanted to say. Loving Christine was a fresh breath of air after years of drowning. Dying started to feel normal after a while.
"Sit down, boy. Now." The edge of command earned in his distinguished military days still held sway and Erik dropped into his chair, glaring at his father with undisguised loathing.
The Comte opened a thin black leather binder and pulled out a sheaf of paper. Erik snatched the papers from his too-slow hands. He read 'The Last Will and Testament' in bold, calligraphic letters at the top of the page and laughed.
"Is that why you wanted me to see to the Château? For your fucking will?" The Comte forged on grimly, ignoring Erik's outburst.
"The will outlines my wishes explicitly. My lawyer went over it again last week. It states that in the event of my death, the entirety of my wealth and property will fall to you. The title of Vicomte, however, will go to my youngest son. Your brother, Raoul. In the event that you die without an heir, the de Chagny name lives on through him." Erik heard the years-old censure against his childless existence and it fucking stung. He considered his father's crack-brained scheme for a handful of seconds.
"Impossible," Erik concluded without heat. The idea of raising Raoul to his equal no longer terrified him. In fact, he would happily give him the title of Comte if it meant he could marry Christine. But that was just as impossible as his father's idle dream.
"Turn the page." Urged by piqued curiosity, Erik flipped the page. His eyes scanned the formal lawyer's speech. Cold shock settled in his stomach, as well as a diseased flower of perverse admiration. He let the paper sag and peered at his father, reassessing the level of his desperation and mettle.
"A marriage certificate. To Raoul's mother. My, my, aren't we desperate? The idiot clerks of the emperor's might be fooled, but I can tell the ink is barely dry on this page. Would you really forge legal documents and risk the destruction of both your heirs' lives and fortunes?" The Comte wagged his silver head.
"No one's fortunes will be destroyed. Especially not my sons'." Erik mirrored his sire in the slow shake of his head.
"You cannot will this into being, Father. What of Jacqueline? Would you make her bastard instead? Surely bigamy is still illegal."
"Raoul's mother died when Raoul was five. A full year before I married Jacqueline's mother." Erik raked a hand through his hair, the pounding headache worsening with each passing moment. He was tempted to toss the thing into the fire, this wretched brainchild of his father's spidery machinations.
"You put a great deal of thought into this, didn't you?" Again, that perverse admiration and grudging respect. His father heard it and raised his wine in salute, a wry smile playing on his lips.
"Legacy, Son. It's all that matters."
Erik contemplated the papers and then the man that had by turns been god, tormentor, gaoler and hero throughout his life. Together they forged chains stronger than any of iron. Chains that bound him to a lavish life of loveless misery.
A/N: A very dense chappie, I know. It couldn't be helped. Michel could give Machiavelli lessons, huh? Tell me what you think!
Also: Yellow roses stand for new beginnings, friendship, and farewells. "The yellow rose sometimes symbolizes infidelity in love. A waning of passion, a "bloodless" or dying love that no longer throbs with pleasure." Read into it what you may. ;)