XVII
More than two hours had passed before Erik finally returned to the de Chagny townhouse at half past ten o' clock. He had no more than crossed the threshold when a sobbing Claire flew at him, slapping him hard across the face.
"You bastard! You pathetic wretch of a man!" she snarled through her sobs. Greying blond hair limp and wispy around her red, tearstained face, his normally composed wife was in quite the state which sent waves of cold and hot washing over him. What had happened? Erik caught the second blow before it landed. His mind rapidly decided it was angry.
"What in the name of God has gotten into you?" he demanded. Claire struggled against his implacable grip and with a deft twist Erik maneuvered her into the small parlor adjoining the foyer. Gas lamps lit the room in an incongruous merry brightness.
"Me? You're the lech who needs to visit a brothel twice in one day! When your father lays dying. When your sisters need you. When your wife-" Erik release Claire with a trifle more force than strictly necessary, his anger only matched by his guilt. When he and Christine were together, it was . . . perfection. He felt like a different man, kinder, less jaded, whole. It was only as the world intruded that it looked so sordid and pathetic. He and Claire took strategically neutral positions, like opponents in a boxing match, her on the settee and he leaning his hip against the piano.
"Spare me the dramatics, Claire. We both know you and my father neither require nor seek my company. And the girls had you," he replied, moving to the sideboard and pouring a sloppy finger's breadth of cognac. Erik paused to throw it back, its heat and taste searing his mouth.
"How is he?" he asked quietly, pouring another tot and handing it to his wife. Glaring murder at him from beneath a blond fringe, Claire plucked the cut crystal glass delicately but did not drink.
"Much the same." Erik exhaled heavily, marshaling his rapidly fraying patience.
"Then why the histrionics? I am surprised you didn't wake the girls with such a spectacular temper tantrum." The words dripped with scorn. Claire's blue eyes skittered away from his.
"Are your needs really so pressing that you must assuage them twice in one day?" Erik snorted, absurdly amused by her petty malice.
"That's rich. Claire de Chagny nee Chevalier, jealous?" It was Claire's turn to snort. A very unladylike thing, snorting.
"Hardly. We have been over this, Erik. It's humiliating."
"Try again, Claire. It doesn't ring true. Let's have truth between each other, just this once." It was the cognac, it was this horrendously long day that brought the words to his lips. He waited, tense, for her to answer. He no longer loved his wife, he was absolutely sure of that, which was ineffably sad to him. A man should love his wife. Christine had taken his battered, withered heart into her possession and named it precious.
There was an instant of an unguarded look when Claire's bloodshot blue eyes met his. Something like fear darted across her narrow features.
"I -" The door opened to reveal Madame Villon portly frame.
"Forgive me for interrupting, Madame, but-" she saw Erik's tall form swathed in black and her wrinkled hand fluttered to her throat before recognition permeated, "oh Sir, I'm so glad you're home. Your father's taken a turn for the worse. The physician said he might not waken this side of St. Peter's." Claire was already leaving, her cognac untouched on the end table. Erik rose to follow.
x
The wasted body in the bed, wheezing with each breath was not his father. Erik watched the labored rise and fall of the wasted chest under his emerald silk nightshirt and the heap of quilts. It was after midnight, and Erik sat vigil over his father, all the others had long since sought their beds.
"The physician said not to disturb your rest by talking, but he's a bloody idiot, so I'll speak my peace while you still have ears to hear, hmm?" Erik said, supporting his chin on his folded fists braced on his knees.
There was no response from the prone figure and Erik hadn't expected one. Words flew through his mind at bewildering speed, all the stifled words that he'd bitten back. Words to hurt, words to heal. He chose the words sure to engender a reaction from the gasping fish in emerald silk.
"I am in love. Her name is Christine. She's . . . she works as a—a prostitute at Madame d'Avrigny's brothel." Sure enough, the next breath emerged in a weak cough that could have once been construed as a laugh. Erik snorted.
"I supposed you would laugh at that, you bloody hypocrite. I can just hear you calling me a blind fool and a lovesick boy. I love her and by some miracle, she loves me. I . . ." Erik faltered, speaking his deepest fear in a hushed whisper.
"I try not to examine it too closely, for fear I will see that her love for me is borne out of some twisted form of gratitude. Gratitude for the primitive gift of human kindness. I took my pleasure from her like all the others. The only difference between me and they is that I made sure she enjoyed it. But I love her. God help me, I love her too much to let her go now. A better man would. But I learned my lessons well, Father. I am not a better man." Sighing harshly, Erik raked a hand through his hair. His tone strove for lightness.
"I intend on marrying her. Legacy and all that. Claire and I haven't shared a bed in over a year. As I'm sure you're aware, judging from your accursed will. Machiavelli would be proud of his pupil." In his head, he heard the caustic rumble of his father's voice, unmarred by sickness: 'Claire will never divorce your sorry carcass.'
"True, Claire will never divorce me. Why it that? She has never given me a convincing answer."
'Why else, Son? Money.'
"Money is not a temptation for Claire. She dresses befitting her station, but has never spent indulgently. There is more to it than that, and you have an inkling of it."
Erik eased back in his chair. It occurred to him that all of the little unanswered questions he had of his father would remain so, forever. Grief welled up in a sudden, uncontrollable rush. Despite their troubled relationship, deep in his heart, he still loved his father and yearned for reconciliation. Erik understood with an utter, profound clarity the allure of Heaven. Just one more chance to talk to loved ones long gone held a powerful allure. Erik reached for the limp hand folded over the wasted chest, the skin cool and dry.
"I'm here, Father," he whispered gently into his father's ear. A soft breath escaped like a sigh, the cold fingers exerted the weakest pressure around Erik's and he knew he had been heard.
x
Erik's eyes felt hot and gritty, muscles complaining with the deep, abiding ache of a grieving heart. He had felt so for years after Thomas' death, it almost became comfortable. It was only the joy of Christine's love that had dispelled the slow entropy of his soul. Dawn had not yet kissed the horizon, and Erik was now Comte de Chagny. He had stayed until the hideous rattle of Michel de Chagny's lungs mercifully ceased, and tended the cold body himself. His father was dead and lay in cold repose until morning came with the undertaker to see him to his tomb. Jacqueline and Elise needed to see him too, and mourn. Adele, his father's young widow, would depart for her father's house after the funeral, happier and richer without her dour husband.
Erik sat in his usual chair to the right of the ornate chair at the head of the table. The room was dark and quiet, and he stared sightlessly into the gloom as solid black shapes of furniture asserted themselves from the amorphous darkness. The dark curled around him, embracing him like an old friend. His thoughts wore a groove into his mind. Father is dead. I must free Christine. Father is dead. I must free—
"Husband?"
"Comtesse," he murmured, wishing for cognac, a cigar, something to occupy his hands and . . . and protect him from her approach. Claire with her blue eyes that saw too much and judged him so harshly. Despite her protestations to the contrary, he was simply a man, after all. Men had needs. Madame d'Avrigny's existence was proof enough on that score.
Damn it, why did she call him 'husband?' She didn't want him, she certainly didn't love him. Why chain him with that small, profound word? It was a barren comfort from the howling wind, hunched as he was in the ruins of grief and a broken marriage. At least the dark breathed and sighed around him, cool and concealing like silk.
Thick rugs softened the tread of her step as she approached and slipped into her chair across from him with a soft creak and sigh of wood and cloth. A wave of her dense freesia perfume wafted over him.
"Your father has passed, then?"
"Astute observation, my dear." Leaden silence followed, and even the soft groan and settle of the townhouse reproached him. Erik heaved a sigh.
"I apologize. That was unnecessary." Silent reproach stretched between them like thread on a spindle.
"Have you considered your father's will?" Erik attempted to forestall her question with a terse wave of his hand, only belatedly realizing she couldn't see him.
The cruel crumbling of his father's final hours, coupled with the nerve-shredding fear of what may await Christine tonight filled Erik with a tense, gnawing ache in his belly. Part terror, part despair. And Claire—his wife!—wanted to talk about the bloody will, Michel de Chagny's last feeble attempt to exert control on the world? What was to stop him from tearing the bloody paper into confetti and doing as he damn well pleased? The answer was nothing and no one. Emperor Napoleon was a type and shadow of the class's former glory, if he hadn't fled the country already. Even now, the poorer masses scrabbled for power.
"Yes, I've considered it," Erik replied in cool tones. They could be conversing over the weather or the state of the roads. The contrary side of him left it at that for a handful of seconds. Claire's voice was surprisingly gentle.
"What is your decision?"
"I would see my half-brother Raoul raised to his rightful rank with all the monies and titles belonging to the Vicomte de Chagny and my heir." That was absolute truth. Baseborn or no, Raoul deserved an education and a life beyond that of a simple groom. He waited, expecting an outburst of vitriol. After all, with Raoul's rise, that left fewer francs for her beloved brother Etienne to squander.
"That is honorable," she said quietly. Erik scowled in her direction, wary of the bald-faced compliment.
"But?" he prompted.
"But nothing. It is a horrible injustice that he was not cared for earlier, if he was truly the Com—your father's son."
"That is very fair of you, Claire." He could not temper the shock in his voice. Had there been even a hint that Erik had fathered a bastard, she would not be half so forgiving.
"Have you given any thought to my terms? Surely hundreds of thousands of francs are balm enough against the sting of public censure. Francs enough to see to your mother and brother and thus fulfill your filial duty," he said, offhand and flippant. This silence fell heavy between them, tasting of familiar bitterness.
"No," she said at last.
"No?" Erik repeated, incredulous, "But why?"
"I . . . I can't forget." Erik dissected her cryptic statement and forcefully uncurled his clenched fists.
"Precisely. You cannot forget, or forgive. This is torturous for both of us, Claire. I will not allow you to use our marriage as the proverbial hair shirt."
"Why the sudden push to be rid of me? Have you fallen for one of your sluts?" she drawled, venom dripping from the words. The darkness was as concealing as the confessional, and it emboldened him.
"She is not a slut, but yes. I am in love."
"What?" It was Claire's turn to sound incredulous.
"Her name is Christine."
"You pathetic fool. She wants your francs, not you."
"By that light, she does not much differ from my wife, does she?" he snarled. His anger mounted and the next words emerged in a harsh rasp: "Is it so unbelievable to you that someone would love me? God knows I tried to make you love me and failed. What love I had for you, I locked away until it died. I would have contented myself with a smile, a warm look . . . but you were determined to punish me. For years I thought I deserved it, but no longer. Christine told me the truth I needed to hear: it was not my fault." He enunciated the words carefully. A screech of chair legs on the floor announced her abrupt rise.
"You told your whore about Thomas?"
Oh Claire, always missing the point, he thought.
Striving for a civil tone, Erik said: "It is not my wish for us to lose the dregs of civility between us, but if you refuse my terms, I will initiate the legal proceedings. I would see you well cared for, Claire, and free to do as you wish." Erik rose and stared out the window. A sliver of pink-tinged pearl rimmed the horizon presaging the dawn.
"Husband," she whispered and Erik turned to look at her with dispassionate eyes. No tears gleamed in the faint light, nor was her face ravaged by despair, or malice. Instead, her familiar features were blank, cold.
"Yes?" Erik asked gently.
"I can't forget," she repeated, this time the words tinged with sadness. Erik nodded, regret a painful cramp in his chest. Maybe, there had been a chance for them before Thomas died. Maybe once.
"I know," he replied with the sad knowledge that some wounds would never fully heal.
The day passed in a grey blur. Breakfast was bleak affair when his sisters descended the stairs to find Erik in their father's chair. Jacqueline grasped the meaning immediately and broke down in sobs. Elise stared wide-eyed, tugging at her governess's skirts and asking why. Erik went to her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
"Papa is gone, little one," he said solemnly. Horrid understanding lit in those sweet blue eyes and she hurled herself into his embrace, clinging like a limpet. His own tears were lodged in a hot knot in his throat and Erik buried his face in Elise's wild mane of black hair, breathing deep of lavender soap, the faint tang of dream-sweat and innocence.
Grief was a lead curtain over the townhouse until luncheon whereupon Claire lured the girls into the parlor with the promise of cakes and their favorite stories. Erik followed his father's lawyer to the study and spent the afternoon mired in musty paper and legal jargon. His mind was across the city, circling restlessly around the precious, precious keeper of his heart. Preparing for his father's burial, Erik surreptitiously set his own affairs in order. The household staff was discreetly instructed to prepare Claire and the girls' things for the Château tomorrow. Paris was no longer safe, but Erik saw no merit in alarming them unnecessarily, or interrupting their grief to add another burden to their slender shoulders. Erik rubbed his chest, trying to ease the taut knot as he thought of Christine and Raoul. It was no longer safe for any of them. The footman Luc rapped on the doorframe as the solicitor took his leave.
"Yes? Was there any word?"
"No, Monsieur le Vic—I mean, Comte, er Sir. Monsieur Kahn's home was empty. It looked as if he had not resided there in some time." Erik leaned back in his father's chair, steepling his fingers. Perhaps it had been a foolish hope to think Nadir had only left the city for a short venture, but it still merited investigation.
"Thank you, Luc. You may go," he murmured.
Gone? That is unlike Nadir to go without so much as a word. Just as well, his home will do for a rendezvous point, should any of the three of us get separated. In the scant minutes he had with Raoul before departing, Erik sketched out a ragged plan and even practiced a few of the holds and locks he had begun to teach the younger de Chagny. The district where Nadir lived was close to both the river and the Madame's brothel—easy to find even in the wee hours of the morning with only the moon to guide them. One only needed to follow their nose to the stench of the river.
The hours of the evening dragged on, with Erik's nerves frayed ragged with tension. Judging from their subtle efforts to set him at ease, his household mistook his disquiet for grief or apprehension at the distant sounds of violence. Luc, the second footman Franco, the butler, and a handful of grooms were stationed discreetly around the house, all armed and reasonably well trained. They could protect the house while Erik was away tonight.
Elise crawled into his lap and rested her head under his chin with a harsh sigh. His arms gathered her to his heart. Elise toyed with the fine chain of his locket and Erik petted her wild hair.
"Will you tuck me in, Erik? And tell me a story?" her soft, childish treble broke his heart.
"Of course, little one." Erik scooped her up and carried her toward the stairs. As he passed, he kissed Jacqueline on the head and left her in Claire's able care with a terse nod.
Elise's governess had already changed her into her nightgown and braided her hair. Erik deposited Elise onto her soft feather bed and gathered the plush coverlet over her. Warmed bricks wrapped in flannel were tucked at the foot of her bed to ward away the creeping chill as autumn crumbled into winter. Erik bent and kissed her forehead, delighting in her soft giggle at the rasp of his beard stubble. He struck a thick taper alight and seated himself in the plush chair near the head of her bed.
"What story would you like to hear, Elise?" the candle flame shone in tear-wet eyes.
"Something happy," she whispered and Erik hissed in a breath, pierced by how small and sad she looked curled in a ball. A smile touched his lips as inspiration struck.
"I will tell you a story Christine told me. Once, when she was very young, her and her father came upon the house of a count . . ."
Hours later, when the house was still and quiet, Erik melted into the darkness on foot, headed for the Madame's brothel.
A/N: A note: I have used my somewhat sketchy knowledge of the Paris Commune for this story, cobbled together with themes of class tensions and anarchist sympathies for good measure. I'm usually a stickler for historical accuracy, but since the great ALW decided to hell with it, why shouldn't I?
R&R