Chapter Twenty-Nine

Erik

I watched the final performance of September from the wings. I do not know what compelled me to do so, given that Helen Roylott had been performing in the leading lady role for five months now, but nevertheless I indulged myself.

The curtain had just risen on the second act when I felt someone seize me by the arm, and turned to see Mrs Johnson, behind me, the backwash of the stage lights making her look almost ghoulish. She hustled me from the wings and into the backstage corridor.

"Mrs Johnson, what's wrong?" I was alarmed by her expression.

"I've just had a telephone call from Kirkbride, Mr Danton," she told me. "Miss Giry has gone into labour."

"She can't have," I protested. "It's too soon, the baby isn't due for another three weeks at least."

"Apparently it all started late this morning—"

"Late this morning, but it is gone nine o'clock at night! Why did they wait so long to contact me?"

"The midwives have been with her for hours, and it seems that it is nearly time for the baby to be delivered."

"I have to go," I blurted, and without waiting for a reply, ran for the stage door without so much as pausing for my hat and coat. It was a decision I regretted as the cool September wind caught at my jacket, but I was not going to turn back for such frivolities, and whistled as loudly as I could to get the attention of a taxi driver. The journey to Kirkbride was nothing but an anxious blur.

"Where is Miss Giry?" I demanded of the nurse on the reception desk, and when she mentioned the infirmary, headed in that direction at once.

The infirmary doors were closed, and I was surprised to the see the orderly, Rowley, sitting in one of two comfortable-looking chairs, a small table between them as if it were placed in a quaint Parisian café instead of an institutional corridor. He stood up as I approached, placing a cup of coffee down on the table.

"Good evening, Mr Danton, I thought you must be on your way."

"Apparently Meg went into labour this morning, why have I only jut been notified?"

"Because it is a slow process that you cannot help with, so there was no point in disturbing you."

"I need to see her," I began, but he put a large hand against my chest to prevent me from turning towards the infirmary doors.

"You can't go in there, Mr Danton. Strictly no men allowed, that's what the nuns said. Your ward is in good hands."

Just as he said so, I heard the unmistakable cry of a labouring woman.

"She's in pain!"

"She is having a baby," Rowley returned patiently. "It is never a pain-free process. But a delivery room is not the place for a man, so you and I are going to sit out here and wait. Please have a seat, Mr Danton. There's hot coffee and someone will be bringing refreshments shortly."

I sank down into the chair that had been left for me, grinding my teeth. The orderly sat with his legs apart, his elbows on his knees and his hands linked. I closed my eyes as another cry echoed from the infirmary and when I opened them again, I found that I was looking directly at Rowley's wedding ring.

"Are you a parent, Rowley?"

"Five times over," he replied. "Three girls, and twin boys. And all of them were delivered by the nuns of Saint Gerard Majella, or whatever they were called before he was a saint, so I know what I'm taking about when I say that they are excellent midwives."

Rowley must live locally, I thought vaguely.

"And how do you cope with—with this?" I gestured to the closed infirmary doors.

Rowley picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup for me.

"There's no alternative, Mr Danton." He shrugged. "This is your first, isn't it?"

I nodded and wondered whether he thought me too old to be a first-time parent; he was a good eight years my junior with five children to his name.

"I remember when my first was born. Gertrude, her name is, after my mother. It was just after New Year, and it had been snowing for days, so we could barely leave the house. I was so scared when Mary's waters broke and I had to run to fetch the midwives—they didn't have a telephone service back then. I brought Sister Barbara back with me and the blizzard was so bad we could hardly see two feet in front of us. I remember thinking that the storm lantern I was carrying felt like the heaviest thing I had ever held. When we got home, Sister Barbara made me boil endless pots of water over the fire. She was in the bedroom with Mary, and I was in the drawing room by myself. I just had to sit and listen to it all happen. Fathers, we'd just be a hindrance in a delivery room. Birthing a child is truly the most feminine thing that can be done. But believe me, sir, when you hear your baby cry, it will all have been worth it."

"I have delivered a baby before," I told him, and he raised his eyebrows at me. "I delivered Marguerite Giry herself."

And I told him about the circumstances of Meg's birth. It was midway through a production of Faust, with Claude Giry playing the piano in the orchestra pit, and the auditorium half empty. Madame Giry and I were seated in the dark upper circle, which had not even been opened to the public, given the poor ticket sales. She was wearing a deep purple dress that seemed to highlight her baby bump in a flattering way, as far as my non-experience eye could tell, and when we reached the circle, I realised that she was rather breathless.

"Are you alright, Madame?" I whispered. She climbed those stairs, and those like them, several times a day and I had never known her to be so affected.

"Perfectly," she whispered back, and we assumed our seats.

"You shouldn't be going up and down all these stairs every day, not in your condition, I've told you that before."

She smiled at me. "Thank you for your medical opinion, Erik, but you are not a doctor and I am perfectly capable of carrying out my day-to-day duties and activities.

I do not remember the name of the actress who played Marguerite, the female lead of Faust. What I do remember was that a woman in her mid-forties had been cast to play a woman half her age, she struggled with the range required for her, and her vocal performance made me wince. I looked away from the stage to see that beside me, Antoinette was clutching at her abdomen and that her face was contorted with pain, her lips pressed together hard. It was only then that I realised I had heard her whimpering and moaning quietly under the music.

"What is it?" I asked her. "What's wrong?"

"It's—it's the baby," she admitted.

"Something is wrong with the baby?"

"No, not wrong, it's just—I think I'm in labour. It's been going on for quite some time now."

"You foolish woman!" I hissed. "Why, in the name of the devil, didn't you say anything?"

"Please, Erik, spare me the lecture and help me to my apartments."

I took her by the arm and we stood and shuffled out of the circle.

I had been living in the Paris Opera House for a number of years, and had long ago discovered the lake beneath it, the house that the architect Charles Garnier had built on it, and the myriad of hidden passageways that meant that I could slide like a shadow between the walls of the building like a mouse, as quick as a cat and quite unseen.

One of these passageways led directly into the wardrobe in the Giry's bedroom, and I hustled Antoinette through it, hastening to turn on the gas lamps. As I did so, she gave a startled cry, and I saw that there was liquid pooling on the rug at her feet.

"Oh," I began. "Don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing to be embarrassed about—"

"No, you don't understand! That was my waters breaking! I think the baby is coming now!"

I stared at her in impotent shock.

"I'll fetch someone," I said, "a woman. You'll need a woman here. And hot water, and towels."

"No-one knows about you," she reminded me. "You can't go and fetch someone! God, I can't believe this! I thought that I could just hold out until the end of the opera, and then Claude would be here with me!"

"Yes, your husband, let me at least fetch him!"

"You can't!" It was almost a snarl as she bent forward in pain again. "He's playing in the orchestra, you know that! There isn't another pianist to take his place and we can't stop the opera!"

That was true enough, I reasoned. However much I wanted to fetch Claude Giry, however much Antoinette wanted him by her side, the opera had to go on. The public would not take kindly to it being cancelled halfway through because of one labouring woman, and the Opera House did not have the funds available to refund unhappy customers.

I took a deep breath.

"Get into your night things and onto the bed," I ordered. "If there is no-one else to do this, then I must do it for you."

"Erik, you can't mean that you intend to deliver this baby yourself? What can you possibly know about it?"

"I've seen babies be delivered before, when I was with the gypsies. Animals and humans. I have even assisted, and I have read plenty of books in which the birth of a child is described." I reached to take her free hand. "Annie, I know that you're scared, but what other choice do we have? I must ask that you trust me."

"I trust you," she squeezed my hand, gently at first, and then gripped it tightly as pain overwhelmed her.

Privately, I hoped that she had more trust in me than I did in myself. The one occasion that I had assisted in the delivery of a human child had ended in tragedy; the umbilical cord had been wrapped around the baby's neck and he had died before he had even entered the world. I was not a midwife or a doctor, and did not truly know what to do.

It lasted for what felt like hours, Madame Giry crying out with the pain, and myself struggling to remain calm and keep her as comfortable as possible. Where was her husband? Was it truly possible that the two of us had only been in this room for less than an hour, and that Faust was still underway? Things were moving incredibly fast, but when I checked, I was horrified to see that the baby was not crowning as I had seen before. It was the wrong way around, and I went cold at the realisation. To my knowledge, such births were incredibly dangerous, usually leading to the death of both mother and child.

I could not allow that to happen; if Claude Giry lost his wife then I was certain that my presence within the Opera House would not remain a secret for many days longer. Offering up a silent prayer, I coached Antoinette as she began to push, encouraging her to keep the pushes small for fear that the baby might get stuck.

"Don't forget to breathe," I reminded her. "Pant—that's it, pant!"

I could not believe that no one had arrived to investigate the agonised wails emanating from the Giry's apartments. Antoinette was in so much pain that I feared that she could truly die from that alone. One leg emerged, and then the other. Oh, this would have been so much easier if Antoinette was at the edge of the bed and gravity to assist, but it was too late to change her position now. My hands were shaking as I gently tugged the baby from her body, trying to harden my heart and block my ears to a scream louder and more terrible than any I had heard thus far.

"Well done, Annie!" I cried. "It's out, your baby is born!"

The child was tiny, easily fitting into my cupped hands. Antoinette Giry fell back against her pillows, exhausted and sobbing as I reached for a clean towel.

"You have a daughter. Antoinette, do you hear me? You have a little girl."

She kept weeping as I wrapped the new-born in the towel.

"Is she alright? Is she alive?"

I hesitated. The baby had not made a sound and was lying still.

"Erik!" Antoinette's voice was rising with hysteria. "What's wrong, why isn't she crying?"

"She—she just needs a little help," I told her, flicking the baby's tiny feet and then smacking her on the buttocks, the way I had seen once with a new-born goat to make it gasp and then breathe. "Come on, little girl."

"My God! Erik, please, I can't lose my baby!"

I feared that she already; the infant's skin was turning blue. Terror raced through me, and with no idea what else to do, I repositioned her in one hand, and with the other, pulled the mask from my deformed face. I leant over the baby, opened her jaw with a finger, and then lowered my mouth to hers and breathed into her lungs. Nothing happened, and I tried a second time, then a third, inwardly begging her to breathe.

A tiny cough emerged from beneath my lips and I felt the child wriggle in my hand. I lifted my head as she started to wail, healthily, heartily, her tiny face screwing up. The sound made my spirits soar, and I realised that my own pulse was racing.

"Your daughter, Antoinette," I gently laid the child into her mother's arms. "Congratulations."

"Oh, I can hardly believe it," Antoinette breathed. "She's really here, after all this time." Her eyes met mine. "Thank you, Erik."

I shrank from her grateful gaze as I realised that my deformity was still exposed. I snatched up my mask and put it back in place.

"Ever at your service, Madame." I smiled weakly, and watched as Antoinette rocked the crying infant in her arms. "She is beautiful."

I could not stay for much longer; the opera had finally reached its close, and I could hear voices in the corridor outside. I had to leave Madame Giry's side or risk discovery. It was the following day when I was able to visit the whole Giry family, and learn that the baby had been named Marguerite Evangeline, sharing her name with the lead character in Faust.

When mother and baby were discovered, only Claude Giry knew the true circumstances of the birth. As far as the rest of the Opera House's occupants were concerned, Antoinette had delivered the baby herself, and there had been no complications. Nevertheless I urged Claude to fetch a doctor for her, or at least a midwife, to treat any damage that had been done.

I could hardly believe in the months afterwards, that all was indeed well.

I had to edit my retelling a little; there was no need for Rowley to know that I had once been the mysterious Phantom that haunted the Paris Opera House. The orderly gave a low whistle.

"To deliver a baby successfully like that—a breech birth, it's called—without losing the mother or child is quite a feat."

"One that I am glad I have never had to repeat." I closed my eyes as another cry of pain echoed into the corridor. "What if Marguerite's baby is the same?"

"The nuns will do everything they can for her," Rowley assured me again. "And for the child."

We waited, and I alternated between sipping coffee in my chair, and pacing back and forth along the corridor, trying to relieve my feverish worry and impatience. I was working myself into such a state that I could not even hear the music that usually ran through my head, and Meg's soprano shrieks seemed to grow louder.

I was sitting, my heels tapping against the floor, when I heard the sound that I had been longing for; the wail of a new-born child. Rowley grinned, and reached over to slap me on the back.

"Congratulations, Mr Danton." He glanced at the watch pinned to his uniform. "At ten forty-two in the evening of September thirtieth 1901, you became a father."

I could feel the beam spreading across my face, too strong to be hidden behind my mask.

"Can I see them?" I began to stand.

"Not just yet," Rowley pressed a hand on my shoulder to make me sit down again. "The nuns will let you know when you can join Miss Giry and meet your child. There will still be a couple of other things they will want to attend to first."

After a few minutes that seemed to last for hours, a young nun exited the infirmary, carrying a bowl covered with a towel. She smiled at me.

"Congratulations, Mr Danton, mother and baby are doing well. Do you garden at all?"

"Garden?" I was utterly bewildered by the question, that seemed to have been plucked from the air.

"Yes." She nodded at the covered bowl in her hands. "The placenta is very good for the soil, apparently it's excellent for allotments."

I was inwardly appalled by the notion. "No, Sister, I am not a gardener and do not have access to an allotment. Please dispose of that however is appropriate."

"Certainly. You can go in now."

I entered the infirmary, my eyes immediately fixing on the only occupied bed. Meg was sitting up against the pillows, looking sweaty and dishevelled and radiant. And in her arms…

A tiny figure wrapped in a little bloodied blanket. Meg looked from the baby up to me.

"A son."

My heart lurched. A son! The baby's face was turned towards his mother's breast, feeding for the first time, one small hand peeking out from the blanket and clenched into a fist. His head was covered by thin, dark hair that looked as soft and tufty as a duckling's feathers.

"Is—is he healthy?" I asked, and was surprised at the tone of my own voice, how unsteady I sounded, how near to tears.

"Yes."

"And his… His face?"

"He's perfect," she whispered. My legs felt wobbly and I sank down into the chair beside the bed, gazing at the child. Could he truly be mine? My fingers twitched in agitation and I clenched them together in my lap so that Meg would not see. Not that her attention was focused anywhere but the baby she had delivered.

My son.

I waited until he had finished feeding and took the cloth the older nun passed me when he spit up over Meg's nightgown. She cooed down at him like a pigeon.

"May… may I hold him?"

"Yes, of course."

Very carefully, she transferred the child into my arms. "Make sure to support his head."

"I know, Meg," I said gently, smiling at her. "I have done this before."

The feeling that raced through me as I cradled him was unlike anything I had experienced before; joy and fear and terrible, terrible love. I knew that I would do anything to protect this small being that shared my blood. At the same time, I was petrified that I might somehow harm him. He looked so fragile, as if he were made of glass and hope.

"Oh, Meg," I whispered. "He's wonderful. I am so, so proud of you."

"It's difficult to believe, isn't it, that he's really ours?"

"It is," I ran my fingers lightly over his dark hair and he turned his head. There was red mark on his skin, a blotchy patch as though someone had spilled a glass of merlot over his tiny skull.

"What is this?" I could not conceal my alarm and looked to the nun. "Sister? What's wrong with his head?"

"Wrong?" Meg murmured. "Sister Rosemary, you didn't say anything was wrong with him."

Sister Rosemary stood at my side and smiled down at my son.

"There's nothing wrong with him, Mr Danton. That's just a birthmark; we call it a port wine stain. It can't do him any harm."

This did nothing to settle my nerves. "Will it grow? Could it spread onto his face?"

At once the memories flooded through me, the beatings, the humiliation, the rage that had made my insides as twisted as my outsides, and turned me into a monster. Could such things still happen to my beautiful son?

"Birthmarks can change over time, but they usually fade as the child gets older. In this case, given where the birthmark is on the baby's head, it looks like it will be completely covered by his hair as it fills in."

I let out a breath of relief. "Thank you, Sister."

She nodded and moved away. Meg was gazing at me.

"Take off your mask."

"What?" I looked up at her sharply. "No—why?"

"I want my son to know his father's face. You cannot be ashamed to show it to him."

My body had tensed with my discomfort and the baby wriggled in my arms. Sister Rosemary made herself scarce on the other side of the Infirmary, occupied with busywork. With a sigh, I reached up and took the mask from my face, placing it carefully on the bed before me.

My son gazed up at me with bright blue eyes, his expression almost thoughtful, but he did not gasp or cry. Meg reached out, and gently caressed my deformed side, then lowered her hand and ran her fingers over the same side of our child's face.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For giving me the most precious thing in the world."

"And to you," I answered, and leaned forward to gently press my lips against hers. "We're parents. A new life has begun.

In my arms, the baby gave a little sigh and closed those extraordinary eyes, and even when he fell asleep, I could not bear to let him go.

When I returned to my apartment in The Grand Circle in the early hours of the morning, I was astonished to find that Mrs Johnson was waiting for me outside the door.

"I couldn't sleep," she told me. "I need to know. How are Meg and the baby?"

"Mother and baby are doing well," I told her, and felt the lump rising in my throat. "I have a son."

"Oh, how wonderful, congratulations! Mr—Mr Danton?"

I could not say anything more, for I had burst into tears, like a small child frightened by fireworks, and for all my adult self-control, I could not stop them.

"I have a son," I repeated, laughing and crying at the same time. Mrs Johnson helped me into my apartment, made me a cup of sweet tea, and stayed with me until I had calmed down. Even by the time I dragged my weary self to bed, I was still a jumble of emotions, and overwhelmed with wonder.

XXXXX

I was more reluctant than ever to do what I knew needed to be done. Sébastien Victor Danton, born on the thirtieth of September and weighing exactly five pounds, could not remain in the asylum with his mother. Between the doctors, the nuns, Clara Hoffman and myself, it was decided that Sébastien should remain with Meg for a week, and would then come to The Grand Circle with me.

The name had come to us by chance when I was visiting, and Meg had told me about the damage that had been done to the piano at Kirkbride, which although unfortunate and resulting in the loss of the highest key, did not otherwise impact upon its function. I, in turn, told her about the new piano that had arrived at the Imaginarium the day before, an Érard instrument.

"It's named after the man who pioneered the modern piano, Sébastien Érard," I told her.

"Sébastien," Meg gazed at the sleeping baby in my arms. "That's a nice name. It almost sounds musical in itself, doesn't it?"

And the name had settled around the infant boy like a perfectly-fitting glove.

"And Victor," she added. "Because he has already succeeded in life. Born too early, from the most unlikely parentage, and he is already thriving."

I have seen Meg grieve before, having lost her father, her fiancé and her mother, but the day Clara Hoffman and I arrived to bring Sébastien home, I saw an entirely different type of grief. The boy had not died, and she knew that he would be loved and well cared for, but she was shaking as she sat in Lockwood's office holding our son, and I could see that by taking him from her arms I might just as well be taking the heart from her chest.

"You'll make sure he gets everything he needs?" Meg's voice was trembling only slightly as she tried not to cry. "You'll keep him nice and warm?" She plucked at the multicoloured blanket Sébastien was cradled in, which appeared wide enough to envelope even me.

"I promise you, Meg, he be well cared for."

"He needs to be fed every three or four hours, he's a hungry little thing. He will grow up to be tall and strong like this father."

"You have my promise also, Miss Giry," Mrs Hoffman assured her. "I will take great care of your boy. I know how precious he is."

"And you will bring him to visit me?"

"Every week, little dancer."

Meg blinked hard, and reluctantly put the baby into my arms.

"Goodbye for now, Sébastien," she murmured, planting a kiss on his tiny forehead. "I'll see you very soon. I love you so much. Be good for Papa and Mrs Hoffman, won't you?" She looked up at me, her eyes brimming. "Please take him out of this place before I fall apart entirely."

"We'll be back in a week, Meg," I promised her. "Look after yourself. You've been doing so well, and I know that you will be back at The Grand Circle with Sébastien and I soon."

I saw Lockwood shoot me a quick frown and I knew that he thought I was making promises that could not necessarily be kept, but taking Sébastien from Meg felt like the cruellest thing I had ever done. I could not stand the thought of bringing her more despair. I kissed Meg and on the forehead and Mrs Hoffman and I left the asylum, with the sleeping baby in my arms bundled up against the October chill. I did not look back.

I do not know what I had expected when it came to being a new parent, but I had not expected just how difficult it could be to look after someone so small. It wasn't Sébastien himself, but all the things he needed that seemed to take up so much space, and he required constant attention. Mrs Hoffman was his primary caregiver of course, but when I came home from the Imaginarium, I would find the boy either sleeping—the preferred state of affairs—or wailing as though he were being roasted over a slow fire. It seemed almost impossible for me to quieten him, although I tried as best as I could.

"It's not that he's unhappy," Mrs Hoffman assured me when I bemoaned my failure as a father. "It's the only way he has to communicate. He can't speak yet, he has no language, so his cries mean everything from 'I'm hungry' to 'I need to be changed' to 'I want a cuddle'. And sometimes babies will just cry because they are tired, and sometimes they will cry for no discernible reason at all. You will be able to tell the difference between his cries soon, and that will make things a little easier."

I had never lived a life devoid of children; from the Gypsy fair I had been a prisoner of, to the home in Rome, to the Paris Opera House and even the Imaginarium itself, there had been infants and children present. But they had always been at the corners of my vision, out of my way, and rather than being 'seen but not heard', I usually heard them without being able to put a face to the source of the noise. Having one of my own was so different. I found that I spent the nights, alternately awake and listening to Sébastien cry and Mrs Hoffman console, or pacing the floors of my apartment myself, the boy in my arms, jiggling and murmuring to him until at last he stopped crying and went to sleep.

Given my nature, I was surprised how long it took me to find that one solution to Sébastien's restlessness was music. It was no magic charm, but I did find that when I sang to him he calmed quicker, and that he enjoyed listening to the piano. I laid him in the crib next to the instrument I played, rocking it with one foot as my fingers danced over the black and white keys. I remembered Meg telling me how often she played the piano at Kirkbride, that it was said that the baby could hear the outside world even from within the womb, and wondered if Sébastien recognised some of the tunes I played for him.

I should not have been surprised; he was, after all, my son.