In Blood by LovetheScottishAngel
Author's Note: Thanks to liebedero and The Duelist's Heiress for their reviews! I really appreciate it, my dears.
And now, without any further ado…
~ o ~
Erik sat before the fireplace in his suite at Claridge's, reading the note Louisa had sent him the night previously for what was likely the fifth time, his manner one which was both perturbed and curious.
Two days had passed since Cameron had threatened the young Frenchwoman searching for him, the one who Erik believed to be part of La Sûreté. According to Cameron, he had informed the woman that Erik wasn't a man who wanted to be found and that she would do well to merely return to Paris and forget about pursuing the masked man. In the two days since that event had occurred, however, the notes had still been pouring in—although to Erik's relief, the girl had yet to discover any more of his buildings.
In the face of this woman's indifference to the threats which had been made against her well-being, Erik found himself feeling conflicted. On one hand, of course he was annoyed that the supposed policewoman was evidently so stupid that she ignored death threats and continued to pursue him when he didn't want to be found by anyone, especially not anyone in law enforcement. It was almost as if she was willing to die if it meant getting anywhere close to catching the infamous Opera Ghost!
But then again, the girl's persistent manner reminded him of himself—or, at least, the way he'd been in days past; it somewhat shamed him to admit it, but years of living in nearly-absolute solitude had made him lose most of that stubborn streak which had been so prominent in him when he'd been younger. And because he saw a bit of himself in the way the young woman was behaving now, he actually felt a small sense of—dare he say it?—admiration.
Yes, he admired the girl. She was the first person to defy his threats in years, which he felt to be proof of her determination and, by all appearances, bravery.
He let out a light sigh, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. Damn him for getting so old and soft! Instead of bringing legitimate harm to the young woman if she continued to ignore his threats, he was actually halfway considering merely bribing her to make herself scarce. And that was something he never would have contemplated under any circumstances when he'd been younger…
Why should he accommodate her, though? If she wanted to risk life and limb by pursuing him, she ought to get exactly what she wanted, shouldn't she? Why should he bribe someone who was stupid enough to get tangled up in Erik Tourneau's affairs?
No, he then thought to himself with sudden fierce determination, rising to his feet in a rather abrupt manner. No, I won't bribe her. Like hell I'll bribe her! Why should I be willing to pay off some girl who's too stupid to obey a death threat when it's given to her? Anyone with even a hint of a logical brain ought to fear death at the Opera Ghost's hands. The girl is obviously a fool.
There was a knock at the door.
"What?" Erik snapped as he turned his attention to entryway of the suite, his sudden irritation evident in his tone and the note he'd been poring over getting crinkled as he clenched both his hands into fists.
Cameron then entered, stepping inside the suite and closing and locking the door behind him. He looked anxious. Erik noted, with further frustration, that he had an envelope in one hand.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Monsieur Tourneau," Cameron said somewhat uneasily, clearing his throat and stepping closer to his employer. He tentatively extended the envelope to Erik. "This—this came for you—"
Before the younger man had the opportunity to finish his sentence, Erik had snatched the envelope out of his hands, ripping it and the note he'd been holding to shreds without even thinking about opening the envelope.
"This girl should be gone!" he shouted at Cameron, causing the blond to jump in surprise. "Do you hear me? Gone!"
The Englishman swallowed hard in a way which was both audible and visible. "Yes, sir. I understand. I—I don't know why she hasn't left yet—"
"Where is she now?" the masked man demanded harshly, interrupting Cameron. "At the tavern again?"
"Yes, sir."
"She's going to have her foolish persistence rewarded tonight," Erik then informed his employee. "I want you to go to the tavern. Take the security men with you. Once she's left the tavern, corner her and then bring her to me."
Erik's voice was suddenly incredibly icy, and Cameron began to feel a terrible fear as to what his employer might do to the young woman. He didn't ask any questions or make any statements, however—if the Frenchman was going to harm the girl, he didn't want to know about it. Thus he merely nodded in silence.
"Make sure you put something over her head so she can't see where you're taking her," Erik continued after a few moments. "After all, if I decide to let her go, I don't want her to be able to find me again."
Cameron nodded once more, a slight relief going through him upon hearing that the older man was at least considering not bringing too much harm to the young woman.
"Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, boy?" Erik then demanded, interrupting Cameron's thoughts. He pointed at the door. "Go!"
With a light jolt, Cameron immediately turned and put on his trenchcoat, then exited the suite quickly, heading to the ground floor and to the bar where he knew he would find the three men Erik had called "the security men." In Cameron's opinion, "brute squad" would be a more appropriate term; the men where the roughest people the young man had ever known and, truthfully, he didn't like dealing with them. But he supposed that Erik knew how he didn't like to be forceful with others and therefore, the three men would have to get the job done—they would be the ones physically responsible for bringing Monsieur Tourneau's young pursuer to him.
After a few minutes, Cameron arrived at the bar, where he rather quickly found the three men—Humphrey, Mason, and Kenny.
"Wha' d'ya want, runt?" Mason, who seemed to be the head of the trio, sneered upon seeing Cameron approach the table at which the three men were sitting. It was no secret to Cameron that the security men disliked him just as much as he disliked them—and perhaps even moreso; they didn't like that Cameron was Erik's right-hand man, for they were of the opinion that any one of them was more capable of running things than Cameron. Because Cameron was smaller in stature than all three men, they often called him "runt."
Cameron ignored the intended insult and straightened himself. "Monsieur Tourneau has a job for you three. We need to get someone and bring her to him—now."
"A woman, eh?" Humphrey inquired, inhaling his cigar deeply, apparently not moved by the urgency which Cameron was trying to get across. Then he took it out of his mouth, blowing a cloud of smoke right into Cameron's face. "He wants a whore? We know some good ones."
To his slight dismay, Cameron coughed a little upon having the smoke blown into his face. "No, that's not what he wants. There's a particular person who's wanted to find him… and tonight, you three gentlemen are going to grant her wish. And I would appreciate it if you didn't blow any more of that in my face."
Humphrey didn't say anything which indicated that he would obey the younger man's request, instead letting out a grunt as he held his cigar in one hand and picked up his glass of whiskey with the other.
Letting out a somewhat impatient sigh upon seeing that none of the three men were making to rise from their table, Cameron took hold of Humphrey's cigar and glass, setting the glass atop the table and then sticking the cigar in the glass, extinguishing the tiny flame within it by placing the burning end of the cigar in the whiskey.
"Hey!" Humphrey protested with booming indignation, suddenly rising to his feet. His two comrades stood up as well, looking equally frustrated with the young man before them. "I wasn't done with those!"
"Well, you are now," Cameron replied, perfectly calm and detached. "You can have another drink and cigar when you're done with this job."
"I'm tired of working for that French bastard," Kenny said suddenly, his voice so loud that it almost made Cameron's ears ring. "Why can't he just leave us be?"
"You're rather good at what you do, as it happens," Cameron snapped, angered by the insult toward his employer. "And you know, that French bastard has been buying your whiskey, cigars, whores, and whatever other things you buy ever since he hired you. So unless you want to find another way to pay for those things, I suggest you follow me now. Time is of the essence with this job."
And then, without waiting for any of the men to argue with him, he turned on his heel and began to exit the hotel. The three men exchanged glances for several moments, then followed the young man grudgingly.
For a short while, all four men walked in silence as they headed toward the tavern. Once this short while had passed, however, Mason made an inquiry of Cameron.
"So who's this girl 'e wants us t' get, runt?"
"A woman who's been looking for him for the past week," Cameron replied without a single backward glance toward Mason and his comrades. "He doesn't like how much she's been sniffing around, so he's decided that he's going to confront her personally."
"Mmm. An' is this girl, ah, attractive?"
Cameron certainly didn't appreciate the way the older man emphasized the word attractive and the way Humphrey and Kenny chuckled upon his saying it, for it meant that they only had one thing on their minds, which caused him to let out a sigh. Yet another reason he didn't like working with these men—he found them perverse.
"I wouldn't know," he replied after a few moments in spite of the fact that he really hadn't wanted to dignify that query with a response. "She wears a hood over her head all the time."
Upon hearing this answer, Mason shrugged a little bit, something Cameron didn't see. Then the rest of the journey to the tavern continued on in silence.
When the four men had arrived at the tavern, Cameron motioned for the "security men" to remain outside, then stepped into the establishment himself.
"Where is she?" he demanded of Louisa as he stepped up to the bar, too distracted by the urgency of his new task to give her a proper greeting.
"Just sittin'," she answered, motioning behind him.
He turned around to where she'd pointed rather quickly, at which point his eyes immediately fell upon the hooded huntress. And upon seeing her, a sudden sense of hostility rose within him. It was true that he didn't want any kind of harm to befall anyone because of his employer, but he didn't like the fact that this woman had ignored the threats which had been given to her and continued sticking her nose in places where it didn't belong. And if this woman was in French law enforcement as Monsieur Tourneau believed, she could present a very strong danger to Erik.
"'E's told you to do somethin'," Louisa said after a few moments. "Hasn' 'e?"
Not even bothering to look back at her, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the girl, he nodded. "He wants us to bring her to him."
"Us?" she echoed, her tone suddenly sounding rather grim.
He nodded once more. "The security men are outside."
She let out a long breath. "God 'elp her. They're plain awful."
"Don't I know it." He paused, looking at the young woman for several more moments, before turning back to Louisa. "Do you happen to have some kind of sack that I could put over her head? He doesn't want her to see where we're taking her."
"Oh, sure," she replied, reaching underneath the counter and producing a medium-sized burlap sack after several moments. She held it out to him.
"Thank you," he said, taking it from her. "Well, I've got to go back outside now. I don't want her to see me."
At this, she nodded, and then she ventured in a rather hesitant tone, "Tell… tell 'im to go easy on 'er. I don't know 'er that well, o' course, but she seems like a nice girl, a good girl."
"I can't make any promises," he replied with a slight frown, something which came from the fact that he felt bad that he couldn't make promises as to the young woman's future well-being. "He's a single-minded man. If he's already made up his mind that he's going to do her some kind of harm, I seriously doubt there'll be any convincing him to do otherwise. But… if he lets me speak any, I'll try."
This response seemed to satisfy her at least a little bit, for she nodded once more. And then, without another word being exchanged between them, he turned and exited the tavern.
"Did we miss 'er already?" Mason demanded upon seeing that Cameron was by himself.
"No," Cameron replied, clearing his throat and putting a hand in his pocket as he stepped closer to the security men. "She's in there, but we're obviously not going to just pick her up and carry her out of the tavern. We'll wait until she comes out, get her alone, and then grab her—and it'll be when I say to do it and not a moment before."
Mason didn't give any response, instead nodding silently. Humphrey and Kenny did the same.
"Put this over her head right before you get her," Cameron continued after several moments, handing the sack to Mason. "He doesn't want her seeing where we're taking her."
Humphrey let out a rather impatient sigh. "Anything else?"
"Move back into that alley," Cameron then instructed, motioning to the alley which was behind the three men. "If she comes out and starts walking in our direction, I don't want her to see all four of us just lingering about. She might get worried… and we don't want any alarms going off in her head. We want her to be taken completely by surprise."
Upon receiving this order, the three men complied, disappearing into the dark alley almost entirely. Cameron stayed on the sidewalk, leaning against the building and then merely waiting for Monsieur Tourneau's hooded pursuer to exit the tavern.
Fortunately, he didn't have to wait very long—after ten minutes' time, the young woman stepped out of the tavern. She didn't even glance in the direction of Cameron and the other three men, instead turning the other way and beginning to walk.
Cameron looked back at the security men, motioning them forward and then turning his attention back to the girl. Then he began walking after her, the three other men following him.
Once some indefinite period of time had passed, the sidewalk was finally empty enough that the four men and their quarry were really the only ones walking around anywhere nearby. It would now be easy to grab the girl and go back to Claridge's without having anyone really take notice.
Upon realizing that the opportunity had come, he motioned the men forward, then stopped and watched them as they increased their speed, walking past him and closing in on the young woman from behind.
All of a sudden, something was placed over Marielle's head, shrouding her in darkness, and she let out a gasp of terror as she was then grabbed from behind.
She was obviously in some kind of danger, and she therefore struggled vigorously in order to break away from her unknown assailant, crying out in terrible fear when two other sets of hands took hold of her. And as it had been the last time someone had attempted putting her in some kind of danger, she silently hoped that her attackers weren't about to rob her, otherwise she would be absolutely stuck in London with no means of paying for food.
"She's a hellcat, this one!" a man's gravelly voice suddenly laughed behind her, thus allowing her to hear what one of the men holding onto her sounded like. He tightened his grip on her. "Maybe we ought to get her to relax a little bit…"
"No!" a voice commanded rather harshly, and Marielle recognized the voice as belonging to the man who had threatened her two days previously. Judging by how far away his voice was, he wasn't one of people holding onto her. "You're only to take her where you've been told to take her and nothing more. Now let's go!"
Marielle didn't know where she was being taken, nor was she entirely sure why she was being roughly handled in this manner, but she felt reasonably certain that she was about to be killed before she ever found her father. The prospect both upset and terrified her, and she began to fight back even more vigorously than before, starting to cry.
"Let me go!" she cried out, sobbing. "Please, let me go!"
No one gave her any response, save for the fact that the people holding onto her began to drag her in the direction opposite the one in which she'd previously been traveling. She continued to struggle as best as she could, but it was in vain. She also kept begging to be released, eventually slipping entirely into French because she was so mindless with fear.
Several minutes later, Erik was pacing before the fireplace in his suite, pondering upon what was soon to come.
A very short time from that point, that policewoman would be in his grasp—and, in all likelihood, he would show very little mercy. He wouldn't kill her… at least, he wouldn't if she was smart enough to agree to leave London with all haste. He felt reasonably certain that in order for her to agree to such a thing, he would have to be a little rough with her, but he wouldn't do anything that would have long-term effects. In fact, he probably wouldn't even bring any kind of physical harm to the girl… he would just shout at her and that would probably be enough. More often than not, his shouting was particularly effective in frightening women.
His thoughts were interrupted when his door, which he'd kept unlocked ever since Cameron's departure, was opened. He stopped his pacing and turned toward the door to see Cameron and the three security men walking in. All three of the security men had hold of the girl who had been pursuing him for the past week, and she had a burlap sack over her head per his instructions. She was obviously terrified, for she was crying and pleading in French.
"Lâchez-moi! S'il vous plait, je vais faire plus rien! Je ne veux pas mourir…"
Upon hearing this last statement from the young woman, a lump inexplicably rose in Erik's throat. Good God, his pursuer really was in the prime of her youth, judging by her voice! Why had she been so stupid to keep looking for him after being threatened not to… why hadn't she left? If she'd just listened, she wouldn't have to be afraid that she was about to die!
"Put her here," he instructed the security men after a few moments, motioning to the chair before the fireplace and then taking several steps backward so that he was standing in front of the chair.
The men did as they'd been told, bringing the girl over to the chair and sitting her in it with a roughness that Erik rather deemed unnecessary. He said nothing about it, however, and instead observed the girl in silence for a few moments as she continued crying and whimpering. She was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the firelight allowed him to see that her knuckles were white.
After he'd looked at the young woman for this brief time, he strode over to her as Cameron and the three security men stood nearby, watching the scene before them. Then he grabbed the top of the sack which covered her head, and as he pulled it off, the hood which had been on her head when Cameron and security men had taken her slid off as well, revealing the girl's tear-streaked face—a face whose right side was covered by a white mask like his!
Cameron and the three security men let out little gasps of astonishment, Erik stiffened just the slightest bit, and the young woman abruptly stopped crying and gasped herself as her eyes fell upon the masked man.
For several moments following, there was an awesome silence in the parlor, save for the sounds of the girl's panting breath and the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Erik and the young woman stared at each other, he appearing to be rather calm in spite of his bewilderment while she made no effort to conceal her amazement, for her grey-green eyes were wide.
"Everyone out," Erik finally spoke, directing this order to Cameron and the three security men. He didn't bother looking at them, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the girl sitting before him. "Now."
The four men didn't hesitate to follow this command, immediately exiting the parlor, and then the suite, in complete silence. All the while Erik and the young woman continued looking at each other, remaining in their respective positions even as the sound of the door's closing reached their ears.
Once the two had been alone for several moments, Marielle opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. After all, what could she say to a man who had obviously had no idea that he was her father, judging by the way he kept just looking at her? No appropriate words came to mind.
Meanwhile, Erik's blood was beginning to run hotly through his veins. It seemed more than obvious to him that the girl sitting before him, the girl who had been searching for him this whole past week, was his daughter—for what other young woman in the entire world would have black hair, grey-green eyes, and a mask on the right side on her face?
At the same time, however, he was so strongly filled with disbelief that he felt he could easily deny that the girl belonged to him. In all his life, he had never really expected to be a father, even in those blissful twenty-four hours when he'd thought he would finally be with Christine for the rest of their lives. And it had been just over twenty-one years since that time had passed… so if this young woman was his daughter, why was he just learning of her existence now?
He finally spoke to her for the first time—"What is your name, mademoiselle?"
She blinked a little, apparently coming out of her awed stupor that had come from merely looking at him, then cleared her throat and straightened herself. Then she answered him, speaking softly, "Marielle, Monsieur Tourneau."
"Marielle," he murmured, keeping his eyes on her. "That's a lovely name."
"Thank you," she replied, her voice almost a whisper as she clasped her hands in front of her, resting them on her lap.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty. I'll be twenty-one in October."
"Where are you from?" He suddenly felt as if he was interrogating her, but he couldn't particularly help it. He had to be certain that this girl belonged to him.
"Paris."
Trying to brace himself to receive a life-changing answer to his next question, he straightened himself and then placed his hands behind his back, taking on a somewhat formal stance. "Who is your mother?"
For a very brief moment, she was silent as she looked at him with an intensity that somewhat surprised him. Then she responded, "The Comtesse deChagny."
Upon hearing Christine's aristocratic title, he let out a long breath, nodded, and then looked down at the floor. He was suddenly overwhelmed; he could hardly believe all that he was hearing… that blissful evening that had occurred just over twenty-one years ago had created the young woman sitting before him… his daughter… his daughter with Christine!
He felt certain that she already knew of her parentage—after all, why else would she have come searching for him? Surely not because she was part of La Sûreté and was trying to take him back to France to be tried and imprisoned for all the crimes he'd committed during his term as the Opera Ghost. Even though he was sure she knew, however, he felt it important that she hear him confirm her belief, hear him accept the fact that he was a parent.
"Well," he finally said after a few moments, lifting his eyes back up to her. "It's evident that you're my daughter… as if your physical attributes weren't enough of a hint, really."
Marielle wasn't sure as to whether or not his statement about her "physical attributes" had been intended to be some kind of insult about her face, but she somewhat doubted it, seeing as he had the same face. Not that it really mattered, anyway—he had said "you're my daughter," and those were arguably the most important words she'd ever heard.
She suddenly felt inclined to leap from her seat, throw her arms around him, cry, and say "Father, Father" over and over… but judging by the general aura which she sensed was surrounding him, she felt rather certain that he wouldn't appreciate such an emotional display. Thus she didn't say anything at all; she merely nodded and kept her eyes on him.
Once they'd looked at each other in silence for a minute or two, he finally turned away from her, walking over to the table where he kept all his beverages. He opened a half-full decanter of brandy, then began to pour some into a small glass for himself.
After filling up the glass, he turned his attention to her and saw that she was looking at him as well, her eyes fixed on his face. "Would you like something to drink?"
Her eyes fell upon the glass he'd just filled, and then she shuddered so violently that he very nearly thought she was having an epileptic seizure.
"No, thank you," she replied after a few moments, tightly gripping the arms of her chair. "I don't… like alcohol."
"Oh." He felt mildly surprised that she'd given such a strong reaction, but said nothing about it and glanced back at the table and its contents. "Well, would you like a glass of water?"
"That sounds good, thank you."
Nodding, he picked up the glass pitcher of water on the table, then got a glass and filled it up with the water. Then he placed the pitcher back down, picking up his brandy and her water and then walking back over to her.
"Merci," she said softly, taking the water glass from him when he offered it to her. Then she took several small sips of the water before allowing the glass to rest in her hand while she rested both her arms on the chair's arms.
He took a sip of his brandy as he seated himself on the nearby sofa, then studied her for several moments before deciding that he would try finding out more about his newly-discovered daughter.
"Have you been living with the deChagny family all this time?"
"Yes," she replied, nodding. "I haven't been a member of the family, though… I've been a maid."
Erik couldn't say that he was surprised—because truthfully, he was surprised that Raoul deChagny had permitted his child with Christine to live in the Château deChagny at all. If the Comte had accepted her as his own, it certainly would have been nothing less than a modern miracle.
"Have they treated you well?"
Something about this question seemed to bother her, for she hesitated—and though he didn't know it, it was because she was thinking about how the Comte had never really been nice to her, how he'd frequently reminded her that she was a rapechild, and how he'd abused her in the worst fashion.
"As well as a maid can expect to be treated, I suppose," she finally said with a light shrug. She lowered her eyes to her glass, running the tip of her pointer finger along the rim of the glass. "I was always given first pick of the food once the deChagnys had been served… I was the first of the servants who was allowed to eat, and I was allowed to eat as much as I wanted. I never went hungry."
"Did you receive an education?"
"The Comtesse taught me as much as the Comte permitted her to, yes."
Her tone of voice was rather absent as she pondered upon the time she'd overheard her mother and stepfather arguing about giving her an education—something which, unsurprisingly, the then-Vicomtesse had wanted and the then-Vicomte had opposed.
"What on earth does she need an education for?" the Vicomte demanded. "It's not as if she's likely to ever leave here. All she really needs to know is how to cook and clean, and she clearly knows those skills already."
"It would do her some good," his wife responded, using as persuasive a tone as she possessed. "She ought to have something else to take up time in her day besides working and just sitting about, waiting to be given more work."
"And what, exactly, would you teach her?"
"The basic things," Christine said with a shrug. "Mathematics, reading, penmanship. I was thinking on teaching her English as well; it would probably do her some good to know a foreign language. But at the very least, she ought to know how to do simple equations and be able to read and write."
"Hmph," the nobleman grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "But I don't understand why you want to teach her anything. She doesn't need it, honestly!"
The Vicomtesse sighed. "Raoul, if I don't teach her, she's going to take the initiative and teach herself. And if she teaches herself, she's not going to limit what she learns… she'll learn more than what I intend to teach her and I think you'd like that even less than my teaching her as much—or as little, I suppose—as I intend to."
A silence passed between the married couple for several moments, and then Raoul finally let out a heavy sigh.
"Fine," he grumbled. "Teach her, then. But if I hear her showing up either of the boys and demonstrating that she knows any more than what they've learned at school, you and I are going to have a very serious conversation—and you'll not be allowed to teach her anything more after that! So make sure she only learns the little bit you'll teach her."
"I see," Erik said to Marielle, suddenly breaking into her train of thought. "And just how much was she permitted to teach you?"
"Arithmetic," she said, shrugging. "She also taught me to read and write up to the level of the cours élémentaire première année, as well as English."
"How old were you when she started teaching you?"
"Five."
"Mmm. And how long did it take you to reach the limit of what she taught you?"
"Six months."
He frowned a bit. "Well, I'm certainly going to have to teach you more than that. With the level of intellect you obviously have, I'm sure you've been thirsting for more knowledge."
Upon hearing this, her eyes widened and she clasped her hands together in an enthusiastic manner. "Oh, sir… you'll teach me?"
Erik fought back the urge to frown once again—and also the urge to show the disappointment that suddenly began to rise within him. He didn't like the fact that she'd called him sir… in spite of the fact that they hadn't known each other very long, he already wanted her to call him Father. The fact amazed him more than it would amaze her, if he would only dare to share it—but God help him, he couldn't fight against the paternal tenderness which was swiftly coming over him, even if he wanted to!
"Well, of course I will," he replied after a few moments. "But only if you want me to… and I'll only teach you as much as you want to learn."
"I want to learn everything," she breathed, clasping her hands together so tightly that her knuckles started to turn white. "Everything you can teach me!"
"That's quite a lot," he said, unable to stop himself from smiling at her contagious excitement and also silently hoping that she didn't find that statement to be arrogant. "But I'll do my best. I'm sure you'll absorb it all in no time."
A wide smile came to her face, and upon seeing her look so happy, he felt his own happiness beginning to grow. The fact that she was so jubilant within only fifteen minutes of being in his presence made him unable to help but wonder—even though she'd been a maid at the Château deChagny, had she been as happy there as she was then? Surely not, otherwise she wouldn't have come looking for him… unless she'd just decided that she was at a point in her life where she wanted to know her father.
"Why did you leave the deChagnys?" he therefore asked suddenly.
Her smile faded, and she lowered her eyes to the floor. Though he didn't know it, embarrassment and disappointment began to well within her, for she'd been hoping that some time would pass before she had to tell him of the crimes Raoul deChagny had committed against her—if ever. It seemed, however, that such a hope had been for naught.
She decided that she would at least attempt to give a cursory answer, and so she shrugged in a noncommittal fashion and said simply, "I wanted to find you."
"But why?" he persisted.
For several moments, she remained silent, rubbing her thumbs against the glass of water which was still in her hands. She felt her face grow warm as she felt even more upset at the prospect that she was, in fact, going to have to tell him right then, for she didn't want to risk having him send her away if she didn't let him know the truth.
"The Comte abused me," she finally said after a few moments, sounding rather tentative.
"Abused you?" he echoed, and when she lifted her eyes to him, she saw that the smile which had been on his face had rather quickly been replaced with a grave expression. "You mean that he hit you?"
"Well… yes," she replied, letting out a little sigh and wishing that hitting had been the extent of the Comte's abuse. "But that wasn't the worst thing he did. He forced himself on me, too."
His face hardened. "Once?"
"No. It was most every night from the time I was fifteen." She paused, a lump rising in her throat as she thought about the terrible event which had convinced her to leave the Château deChagny. "Shortly before I left, I found out that I was pregnant. I didn't tell anyone that it belonged to the Comte, though, because he'd told me that if I let anyone know what he did, he'd throw me out—so I told the Comtesse and the doctor that I'd snuck out of the Château one evening and… done that… with some stranger. But the Comte wanted to ensure he didn't get found out by having the baby look like him, and so a week afterwards, he forced a bottle of alcohol down my throat so the baby would die. When I regained consciousness after that, I knew I couldn't stay any longer—my life would just get worse if I did. So I decided I'd try finding you, and I went to your old home under the Opera and then decided to come here to London and see if you were here."
As this explanation had gone on, she had sounded more and more upset, and by the time she was through telling her story, tears were rolling down her face, the ones rolling down her right cheek getting trapped underneath her mask.
For several moments following, he merely stared at her in astonishment, then abruptly rose to his feet and turned toward the fireplace, an incredible outrage flooding his veins. Though Erik hadn't really liked Raoul for having ultimately won Christine's affections, he'd always thought the younger man was rather noble. That belief had just been proven wrong, however, due to the fact that the bastard Comte had been taking advantage of his child—his child!—for years.
"I have done a great many terrible things over the years," he then said, his tone fierce, "but I have never forced myself on a woman."
In the midst of wiping away the tears on her face, she glanced up at him with surprise. "Yes, you have."
Upon hearing this, he turned around and faced her with a speed that caused her to jolt in her seat a bit.
"Excuse me?" he demanded. "What did you say?"
She arched her visible eyebrow, not understanding why he was taken aback by this statement. Maybe he had forgotten the way in which he'd gotten the Comtesse pregnant with her?
"You—you raped Madame la Comtesse," she replied, using a tone of voice which indicated that she was trying to broach this subject as delicately as possible, lest he actually had forgotten that he'd taken advantage of her mother. "That's how she had me."
"What?" he shouted almost immediately after she'd finished her statement, and his sudden increase in volume made her jolt a little more than she had previously. Anger was clearly burning in his eyes. "Where the hell did you hear a thing like that?"
Her eyes widened and her heart began to pound, and she started to become afraid of just how angry he might get. "It's what I've heard all my life. The Comte told me that's what the Comtesse told him when she found out she was pregnant… and she's never said anything to deny it. And that… that was his justification for taking advantage of me; he said he was getting revenge on you for raping Madame la Comtesse. I—I remember what he said the first time he did it—as he raped my wife… so I will rape his daughter."
Once she'd made this confession, Erik was very nearly blinded by rage. Instead of owning up to the fact that she'd been unfaithful to her husband, Christine had merely said that he'd forced himself on her! She'd portrayed him as the monster she'd apparently always thought him to be… it was no wonder that no one had attempted to contact him and tell him about Marielle, for apparently, it was widely believed that she was a rapechild!
As quick as lightning, he practically flew over to his daughter, roughly grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into a standing position, and she cried out in surprise and fear upon being handled so forcefully.
"That's a lie!" he shouted directly in her face, and she cringed and her face reddened in a way that indicated she was getting upset. "I never, ever did anything of that sort to your mother! She came to me, and I'll have you know that she was more than willing to give herself to me!"
She opened her mouth to say something as tears began to fill her eyes, but she never got to say whatever had been in her head, for he continued on.
"Why?" he snarled viciously, shaking her roughly. "Why did she tell him that?"
"I don't know!" she cried out, letting out a sob of great fear. "I don't know; I've never heard anything different from what the Comte's told me all this time… I didn't know it wasn't true!"
"Do you believe me?" he demanded angrily, tightening his grip on her shoulders in such a way that she was certain there would be bruises there in the morning. "Do you believe that what you've heard isn't true, or do you still think I'm the villain you've always known me to be?"
"Yes, yes, I believe you!" she replied, tears rolling down her face once again as she started to cry as she had earlier. "I'm sorry; I didn't know! Please, let go of me… you're hurting me!"
And then she didn't say anything else, instead letting out great and awful sobs that wracked her entire body. Upon seeing her so upset, he suddenly understood that he really was frightening her, if the way her face was turned away from him was any indication, and that his iron grip on her shoulders certainly had to be painful to her.
Without any warning, he released his hold on her, and she dropped to the floor like a ragdoll, sitting on her knees and pressing her forehead against the floor, looking like someone who was praying fervently. Her shoulders shook from the intensity of her sobs as she covered her face with her hands.
For several moments, he watched her in silence—and as he did, he felt terrible. He'd discovered only half an hour ago that he was a father, and he'd already succeeded in scaring his newly-found child with his foul temper. And in fact, he didn't even know if she actually believed that he hadn't forced himself on Christine; for all he knew, she'd merely said that he was right in order to prevent him for getting angrier. For all he knew, she would agree with him that the world was flat if he said so—anything to ensure that he wouldn't direct any more of his fury toward her.
"I'm sorry," he then said with a rather long sigh, taking a few steps forward until he was standing right in front of her. "I didn't mean to shout at you like that—not really. I'm the most hot-tempered person I know, and when my anger gets to a certain point, I can't really control it any longer. I just can't believe that your mother would say something like that…"
His voice trailed off, at which point she removed her hands from her face and looked up at him, still letting out little sniffles. He could see that her face was a rather deep shade of red and the tracks of the tears she'd shed were clearly visible on her unmasked, undeformed cheek.
"But that's no excuse for getting angry with you," he continued. "It's not your fault that she lied… you didn't even know she was lying. And how could you know?"
She didn't give him a response, instead looking at him silently as she finally stopped her crying. To his relief, she didn't look as upset as she had a moment previously—in fact, she didn't look upset at all. Instead, she looked rather calm.
"I don't know everything you've been told about me, but I'm sure none of it's been complimentary. And it's obvious that you haven't always been told the truth where I'm concerned," he told her then, his voice suddenly rather soft. He extended a hand down to her. "But if you'll let me, I'll show you that I'm not quite as terrible as the deChagnys have portrayed me to be."
For several moments following, she remained still and quiet while her gaze shifted from his hand to his face several times. Then, letting out a soft sigh, she reached out and grasped her hand in his, and with his help, she stood up straight.
Once she'd risen, they looked at each other in silence, still holding hands as he gently ran his thumb across her knuckles. And in that moment, she suddenly felt as if every bit of pain she'd experienced thanks to the Comte—every slap she'd ever received, every time he'd forced himself upon her, every instance in which she'd cried—had been completely and utterly worth it. How could her suffering not be worthwhile when it had eventually led her to her father?
"Where have you been staying?" he asked her, interrupting her moment of sudden contentment. He made no effort to release her hand, but she didn't mind.
"Nowhere, really—not for the past couple of days, anyway," she replied with a shrug. "I was at Ashley's Hotel for the first five days that I was here, but then I checked out and started just staying in an alley."
"An alley!" he echoed, his astonishment apparently so strong that he let go of her hand. "Why on Earth have you been staying in an alley?"
"I was about to run out of money," she explained. "In fact, once I'd been here for five days, I was about to leave and return to Paris so I could get more money… but then one of the men who brought me here tonight confronted me, telling me I should stop looking for you and just leave. That made it obvious to me that you were actually here, and I didn't want to risk missing you in case you left between the time I left for Paris and the time I came back here. So in order to preserve my money so I would be able to buy food for a few days more, I checked out of the hotel."
For a moment, he stared at her in surprise, and then he let out a sigh and reached out toward her face. The sight of his hand coming to her face made her think about how the Comte had hit her, however, and so she flinched. Seeing her do so made him stop midway.
"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't even think about how you wouldn't like a man putting his hand near your face." He bit in his lip in the exact same way that she did. "It'll sound strange, but I was just going to… touch your hair."
This did indeed sound strange to her, something which she indicated by the slight frown she gave. Then, however, she shrugged and leaned her head forward slightly, silently encouraging him to continue with what he'd been doing.
He reached out the rest of the way and then began slowly running his fingers through her hair, relishing in how silky and smooth the midnight-black waves were. She equated his fingers' going through her hair to having her hair brushed, and thus it was something she enjoyed, which she indicated by letting out a little sigh of ecstasy.
"You're very brave," he said softly to her after several moments. "So very, very brave."
She arched her visible eyebrow at him as what was visible of her face turned slightly pink out of embarrassment from being complimented. "Why would you think that?"
"Because it's true, of course," he replied, raising his eyebrow at her in turn. "You endured five years of abuse under deChagny—and that's just the physical aspect; I'm sure I'd be correct in assuming that he verbally and emotionally abused you long before he ever thought about laying a hand on you."
Instead of giving him verbal confirmation that his suspicion was correct, she shrugged, but that was enough for him.
"Would I also be right in thinking that you were rarely allowed out of the Château—if ever?"
"I was never allowed to leave, no. The Comte didn't want anyone in the outside world knowing that I existed."
"Hmm," he murmured with a nod. "Well, then you're also brave because you left Paris entirely on your own, with no real knowledge of the outside world, and made your way here. Then you were absolutely persistent in looking for me—you even ignored the threat of death in order to stay here and keep searching. And by checking yourself out of Ashley's and staying in an alleyway in order to stay here for a longer time without running out of funds, you risked your life once again. Truth be told, I find it to be a miracle that you haven't been mugged or otherwise harmed in the two days since you began doing that."
A small smile came to her features, and then she gave a rather nonchalant shrug. "I'm just lucky, I suppose."
He returned her smile and shrug, then removed his hand from her hair. "Well, I'm certainly not going to allow you to continue living in an alleyway. You'll stay here at Claridge's with me."
"Claridge's?" she breathed with astonishment, looking around the suite with sudden awe. "I've passed by here several times… I can't stay here! It's so expensive."
"Expensive or not, you're my daughter and you're going to stay with me for as long as you want to," he informed her with a rather firm tone. "And if ever you feel like leaving, I'll give you as much money as you need so you can travel without worrying about the cost—as long as you don't return to Paris and to the deChagnys."
"I have no intention of doing that."
"Good," he said, nodding. Then he briefly glanced toward the door before turning his attention back to her. "And now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to call in my assistant so he can go to the front desk and get your room all set up for you."
She nodded, and then he turned and exited the parlor before opening the door and departing from the suite, leaving her alone.
As it happened, however, Marielle didn't remain by herself for very long. Within two minutes, Erik had returned, a man who appeared to be somewhere around Marielle's age following behind him. He was a rather handsome man, in her opinion, and he had blond hair and clear blue eyes.
"Marielle, this is my assistant, Cameron MacAlister," Erik said to the masked young woman, motioning to the man who was with him. Then he turned his attention to the man, motioning to Marielle. "Cameron, this is my daughter, Marielle."
Cameron's face immediately broke into a charming smile that made Marielle's knees get weaker. Her heart began pounding wildly as he then took her hand in his and placed a very soft kiss to it.
"Enchanté, Mademoiselle Tourneau," he said politely, his voice soft.
"Bonjour, Monsieur MacAlister," she responded, feeling her face start to flush. Good God, he was so handsome, so charismatic! She very nearly found his mere presence to be overwhelming.
"You may know this already, but I'm the one who threatened you the other night," he said to her suddenly, looking rather embarrassed as he clasped his hands behind his back and took a rather formal stance. "I'm sorry I did, but… well, I didn't know who you were and I was only doing my job. That's not a very good excuse, but it's the only excuse I've got."
"Oh… that's all right," she replied, feeling rather surprised—she hadn't even thought about the fact that she recognized his voice from when she'd been taken and when she'd been threatened two days previously. "There was no harm done."
He let out a little sigh, his shoulders relaxing as that marvelous smile returned to his face. "Well, I'm glad to hear that."
"Marielle will be staying with us from this point forward—until she decides to leave, that is," Erik then informed Cameron, drawing the young man's attention away from Marielle. He then walked over to a nearby safe, unlocking and opening it to reveal the money that he currently had with him. He picked up a banded-together wad of pound notes, then closed the safe back up before returning to his daughter and employee.
"So I need you to go to the front desk and get a room for her to stay in for an indefinite period—and tell whoever's working there at the moment that all expenses for her room will go onto my bill," he continued, handing the money to Cameron. "Of course, it's preferable that her room be on this floor… as close to my room as you can get."
"Of course, sir," Cameron replied with a nod. "I'll get that done right away."
"Good. In the meantime, Marielle and I are going to go where she's been staying the past few nights and collect her things. We'll be back in a short while, and you can tell us then where she'll be staying."
Marielle was rather surprised to be hearing that she and her father were going somewhere, as he hadn't said anything about it until that point, but she didn't have any objection to it.
"All right, sir," Cameron agreed, nodding once more. Then he turned his attention back to Marielle, inclining his head toward her slightly with a smile on his face. "I'll see you again in a while, then, Mademoiselle Tourneau."
All of a sudden, the masked young woman was dumbfounded that he was still speaking to her—but then she realized that he was probably only doing so because he worked for her father and thus had to be respectful and attentive toward her, lest behaving in any other way make him lose his job. In spite of this understanding, however, she merely smiled back at him and gave him a slight curtsy.
When she'd curtsied to him, he then gave a brief nod to Erik, then turned and exited the suite, the door making a somewhat loud click as it closed behind him in the midst of his departure.
"Now," Erik then prompted, turning toward his daughter. "Let's off to that alley so we can get all your things, shall we?"
She silently nodded her consent, pulling her hood back over her head as he began moving about the room, collecting a long black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat and putting them on. To her surprise, she found that the brim of his hat was wide enough that it very nearly covered the entirety of his mask—anyone who was merely passing by him on the street wouldn't notice that he looked any different from other people. And the hat wasn't a blatantly obvious cover; she was certain that most people would think that he was wearing the hat just for fashion's sake, for it wasn't so large that it couldn't have any other purpose except to cover something up.
He briefly glanced at her, saw that she was ready to depart, and then headed toward the door. She followed him, giving him a short nod of thanks as he opened the door and motioned for her to exit the suite. He stepped out after her, closing and locking the door before turning toward her and motioning her forward, signifying that she ought to lead the way to the alley where she'd spent the past two nights.
For the next five minutes or so, they walked side-by-side out of the hotel and toward the alley where she'd been sleeping, neither one of them speaking. Once those five minutes had passed, however, he made an inquiry of her.
"I don't suppose you received any kind of salary while you lived with the deChagnys, so how did you find the means to get here?"
Her face grew hot as she glanced at him. "I found the key to that chest which had all your money in your home underneath the Opera. I took some of it. I—I wasn't trying to steal; I just needed some way to get here. But I'll pay you back once I've gained some useful employment and have earned all the money that I took from you."
"How much did you take?" he asked, cocking his visible eyebrow at her.
Upon hearing this question, she felt even more embarrassed at the fact that she'd taken money from him, and she turned her face away from him and confessed, "Three thousand francs."
If not for the fact that she appeared to be so unhappy with herself for having taken the amount that she had, he would have laughed, for three thousand francs was inconsequential to him. Of course, he was glad that she'd admitted to taking it, for if he'd returned to his underground home in Paris and found that amount missing, he would have thought he'd been robbed. But since it was she who had taken the money, it didn't bother him that he was three thousand francs poorer—after all, he was a rather wealthy man, and she was his daughter and therefore had as much right to his money as he did.
"Well, that's all right," he assured her after a few moments. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry about paying me back; I'll just take it out of your inheritance."
She snapped her head up, turning to him and looking at him with astonishment. "Inheritance?"
"Of course," he replied in an it's-so-obvious tone, giving a light shrug. "Since you're my daughter, you'll get whatever amount of my money that I choose to give you when I die. It's just that now that amount will be three thousand francs less than what I'll initially consider giving you, seeing as how you already took that amount for yourself."
"I see," she murmured, still looking completely taken aback. Then she shrugged in turn. "Well, since I never expected to receive an inheritance, anyway, it won't make any difference to me if it's three thousand francs less than what you'd originally intend to give me. Whatever amount you give me will be much more than I'll have ever thought I would have. And you know, once I've started working, you won't have to pay for any more of my expenses—and whatever amount you spend on me before I get a job will be paid back to you."
He arched his visible eyebrow at her. "Marielle… that was a joke. That is, as far as taking money from you is concerned. You will receive an inheritance when I die, but it won't be anything less than what I fully intend to give you just because you already took some money from me. You probably realize this from how much I had in that chest at my home underneath the Opera and from the fact that I own several buildings in this city alone, but I have a considerable amount of money. Therefore, I certainly won't miss the three thousand francs you took and it's absolutely unnecessary for you to pay me back—or to even seek employment, unless you really want to have a job."
For several moments following, she continued looking at him with complete surprise. Then, however, she seemed to accept his explanation and shrugged, though she looked somewhat uneasy.
"Well, I think it would be good for me to have a job," she said. "It would give me a useful way to occupy my time and it would allow me to be financially independent—"
"You can be financially independent without having a job. Tomorrow you and I will go to the bank and get you access to all my accounts so that you can withdraw funds at your leisure—so you can have any amount of money you'd like at any point in time without even asking me for it."
She let out a little sigh. "I don't know how comfortable I feel with just living off your money. It doesn't feel right to me."
"As long as I'm permitting it, which I am, it's perfectly fine," he informed her with a rather firm tone. Then he gave her a smile. "What's mine is yours now."
"Hmm," she murmured. "Well, I'll think on whether or not I want to get a job. But if I decide that I want to work, I'm not going to start seeking employment for several days. I… I'd like to spend some time just getting to know you for the next little while."
Upon hearing this, he felt his heart warming as his smile widened a bit. "I'd like that, too."
After smiling back at him, she turned her attention toward the path ahead of them and saw that they had arrived at the alley where she'd spent the past several nights. "We're here."
Then, without waiting for him to say or do anything more, she stepped into the alleyway, locating her carpetbag while he stood just outside the alley and watched. After checking that she still had all her possessions in the bag, she closed it back up and picked it up, walking back over to him. They nodded to each other to silently signify that they were ready to go back to Claridge's, then headed back toward the direction from which they'd come without speaking to each other for the rest of the journey.
"Monsieur, Mademoiselle," Cameron greeted the two when they arrived in the lobby of Claridge's, nodding and smiling to both of them. He produced a key, which he extended to Marielle, who took it. "I was able to get the room right next door to your suite, Monsieur Tourneau—room 286. So the mademoiselle will be staying there."
"Thank you, Cameron," Erik said to the younger man, giving him a nod, and Marielle gave him a small smile in order to show her own gratitude. "Did you tell whoever was working at the front desk at the moment that the expenses for her room will go onto my bill?"
"Yes, sir, of course."
"Very good." Erik paused for a moment, then gave a brief glance toward Marielle before looking back at Cameron. "Well, I think the two of us are about to retire for the evening… it's been a very long night. So we'll see you in the morning."
"All right, Monsieur." Cameron inclined his head to his employer, then turned his attention to the masked young woman. He smiled and bowed, taking her hand and then pressing a kiss to it as he had when he'd first been introduced to her.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Tourneau. I'll see you in the morning."
In the back of her mind, Marielle still felt certain that Cameron was only being as polite as he was because she was his employer's daughter, but she couldn't help but feel thrilled by the fact that a handsome man such as he was giving her the time of day.
"Bonne nuit, Monsieur MacAlister," she finally said softly after a few moments, shyly smiling back at him and then curtsying.
Erik hid the smile which was threatening to surface. It was plain to him that his daughter was rather fascinated by the Englishman, but he didn't want to do anything which might give away his realization, lest she know what he was on about and become embarrassed.
Cameron's smile widened just a bit upon hearing Marielle's parting words, and then he gave a nod to his employer before turning and making his way toward the nearby staircase, apparently heading up to his own room to retire for the night.
For several moments following, Erik and Marielle watched him leave. Then Erik turned his gaze toward Marielle, however, and found that she was still looking in the direction the young man had just been traveling despite the fact that he'd now disappeared from sight. He noted, with some amusement, that she looked rather entranced.
"Would you like to see your room now?" he asked her.
"Hmm?" she murmured somewhat absently, then inhaled deeply through her nose as if he'd just woken her from some deep sleep. She then blinked several times before turning to him, her expression now one of focus. "What?"
He bit back a smile once again. "I asked if you wanted to see your room now."
"Oh, yes," she replied with a nod, letting out a somewhat long sigh before yawning. "That sounds good. I'm feeling rather tired, after all, and I'd like to go to bed soon."
"Then let's go," he said, motioning toward the staircase which Cameron had just ascended several moments before. "To the second floor."
She nodded once more, then moved toward the staircase, beginning to climb it once she reached the bottom stair. He followed after her.
Once they'd reached the second floor and come to the room which was to the immediate left of Erik's suite, she took hold of the key that Cameron had given her and stuck it in the door's keyhole, turning the key and then opening the door. And as she and her father stepped inside the room, she let out a gasp of amazement.
This room was, in fact, a suite—one which wasn't quite as grand as Erik's, but still far grander than any place Marielle had ever resided. From what she could see just by standing at the front door, she saw that the suite had a sizable parlor complete with a fireplace, a sofa, several chairs, and a desk.
After absorbing the sight of the parlor, she practically flew into the bedroom while he remained standing at the door. And when she entered the bedroom, she discovered that it contained a king-sized bed, an armoire, a nightstand, a small table, and a big closet. There was a large marble bathroom attached to the bedroom, and it had a rather deep bathtub alongside having a sink and a toilet.
Upon realizing that this entire space belonged to her and her alone, she let out a sudden giggle of enthusiasm and quickly made her way back into the parlor, where Erik was now standing.
"Well?" he inquired, arching his visible eyebrow at her and smiling upon seeing her so excited. "Is it to your liking?"
"Oh, it's wonderful!" she breathed, clasping her hands together and then sweeping her gaze over as much of the suite as she could see from where she stood. "It's so lovely… I think it's marvelous! And everything is so big!"
The smile on his face remained. "You've come a long way from the simple maids' bedroom you had at the Château deChagny."
She nodded fervently, seating herself on the sofa and then letting out a long sigh in an attempt to slow the excited racing of her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she looked up at him with a somewhat serious expression on her face as she stood back up and removed her cloak.
"If I took off my shoes and stockings, would it offend you?"
He raised his eyebrow once more as he took her cloak from her and hung it on the nearby coat rack, which earned him a nod of thanks from her. "No, of course not. This is your room, after all; you can do as you like. If you want your shoes and stockings to come off, take them off."
Without waiting for any more of an answer, if he would have even give one, she seated herself on the sofa once more. Then she reached down and unlaced her shoes, pulling them off her feet with some difficulty because they were so small. And as he watched her feet begin to stretch out to their natural length and she let out a sigh, a somewhat stunned expression came to his face.
"Do you not have shoes that fit you?"
"No," she confessed, wincing a bit at the painful sensation of having her feet finally be released from the confines of her shoes. "This pair of shoes is the only one I have. And since they're sturdy, Monsieur le Comte said he wouldn't get me any until these wore out… so I've been wearing them for six years, even though they haven't fit for quite some time."
"Hmph," he murmured, his face momentarily darkening as he watched her continue to flex her toes until she could comfortably have her feet at their natural length. "Well, tomorrow we shall have to go out and buy you a new pair of shoes—perhaps several, if you find more than one pair that you like."
"Thank you," she replied, not looking at him as she then proceeded to take off her stockings. Then she leaned back on the sofa for several moments, letting out a sigh and feeling her body relax.
For several moments, he looked down at her before turning his attention to her carpetbag, which was sitting nearby on the floor. Then, curious to know just how much she'd brought with her from Paris, he strode over to the bag and opened it up, inspecting its contents and finding her book, the money she still had, her undergarments, her stockings, her nightgown, and her other dress.
"Where are the rest of your clothes?" he demanded upon not finding any other dresses. "Surely you had more than this in Paris."
"No, I didn't," she replied with a shake of her head. "I just had two dresses; I would wear one for two days, then let it air out while I wore the next one for the two days following that. And once a week, I would wash whatever dress I wasn't wearing that particular day."
He pulled out her other dress, regarding it with distaste for a moment or two. Then he let out a short, huffy sigh and tossed it onto the floor.
"I won't stand for you to have only two dresses," he informed her in a frustrated tone, looking up at her, his eyes meeting hers. "Especially not these pathetic, flimsy servants' clothes. You're not a maid anymore; you're my daughter and you're going to dress like a woman who's never worked a day in her life if I have anything to say about it—which I will."
She cocked her visible eyebrow at him in surprise, but she didn't say anything to protest. She instead replied, "All right, sir. Then I suppose we'll have to buy me some new clothes tomorrow as well."
"Yes," he agreed. Then he paused, looking at his pocketwatch and regarding it for several moments before turning his attention back to her.
"Maybe we should go to bed now," he said. "It isn't too terribly late; it's only ten o'clock… but I myself am feeling rather tired. I suppose it's thanks to the monumental occasion of your sudden appearance."
"Well, it's not just you," she informed him, stretching and letting out a rather loud yawn. Then she rather slowly rose to her feet. "I'm tired, too. And it's probably all the excitement combined with the fact that I haven't been getting a lot of sleep these past few nights… as I'm sure you can imagine, it's not very comfortable to sleep in an alley."
He nodded. "Then we'll off to bed. Sleep as long as you'd like; we're not any kind of schedule. Alongside shopping, we'll do whatever else you want to do at your leisure. How does that sound?"
"Good," she replied, giving him a contented, suddenly-tired smile. "Should we have breakfast together?"
"I'd like that."
She nodded, then gave him a curtsy. "Well, until I see you, I hope you have a good sleep."
"You as well," he said, inclining his head toward her slightly. "And you know, you don't have to curtsy to me. I'm not your employer or anything to that effect… in fact, I don't even make my employees bow or curtsy to me, so you certainly don't have to. Remember, you're not a maid any longer."
"Right," she agreed, inclining her head a bit as he'd just done. "It's just habit, I suppose. But anyway… good night, sir."
"Good night, Marielle," he replied, giving her a smile before turning and making to exit the suite. Before he was able to make it out the door, however, she stopped him.
"Monsieur Tourneau?"
Upon hearing her address him in that fashion, he suddenly felt inclined to tell her to call him Father, but he wasn't sure that she was ready to be that familiar with him. He therefore merely turned back to her, raising his visible eyebrow at her.
"Yes?"
For several moments, she stood there, looking at him with as she fidgeted with her hands. She had an intense desire to go over to him and embrace him, but she still felt certain that he wasn't really the type to give or receive physical affection, so she stayed put and spoke the words she'd intended to say regardless of whether or not she chose to hug him.
"Thank you for… well, everything you've done in the short time since I was brought to you. Accepting me, allowing me to stay with you… it all means a lot to me."
A soft smile came to his masked features. "I'm only treating you as I should—as a father should treat his daughter."
She didn't say anything in response; she merely smiled back at him, and he saw that what was visible of her face lit up from his words. Then, however, his smile faded and his expression became solemn.
"I'm sorry I didn't know before," he continued, his voice suddenly rather soft and filled with remorse. "Because your mother lied to her husband about how you came to be, and judging by the fact that none of my contacts in Paris ever attempted to get in touch with me, I can safely conclude that no one wanted me to be in your life."
Upon hearing him say that, tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she whispered, "I wanted you there. It's true that most of the time I thought you were nothing but a villain, but… even through all that, you were still my father. And there were many times when I wanted my father."
"And you would have had me," he informed her, his voice thick with sudden emotion as tears came to his eyes as well, a lump rising in his throat. "If I'd known… if I'd had any inkling… I swear I would have been there."
In that moment, she knew that the words "you're my daughter" were now no longer the most important she'd ever heard. Those had now been replaced with the last statement he'd just made, and this realization caused a sob to escape from the back of her throat as tears began to roll down her face.
"I would have fought for you," he told her, his voice almost sounding desperate, pleading. All the while he was fighting his emotions, willing himself to not cry in the face of her tears before him. "I would have gone to Hell and back if it meant having you for myself… I would have willingly raised you on my own; I would have given you the life you should have had…"
Once he'd said these things, she couldn't hold back any longer. And so, without any hesitation and without worrying whether or not he'd be bothered by it, she rushed over to him and threw her arms around him, crying harder than she'd ever cried before as she pressed her face into his shoulder.
When she first embraced him, he was entirely taken aback, for he had thought it would be some time before she would give him any kind of physical affection, if ever, especially considering what Raoul had put her through. But emotions were running high, and he was probably telling her things she'd probably never thought she would ever hear.
It wasn't as if he minded the fact that she was so emotional and that she wanted to hold him, however—because truth be told, he was probably feeling just as affected as she was. The news that he was a father had rather overwhelmed him, and the knowledge that his daughter had suffered so much before she'd found him had made him want to hold her, too. He just hadn't taken the initiative because he hadn't wanted to make her nervous.
Since she'd invited this contact between them, however, he couldn't deny either of them any longer. A tidal wave of feeling washed over him, and he wrapped his arms around her as tears began to escape his eyes, sliding down his unmasked, undeformed cheek and landing so close to her face that his tears began to mingle with hers.
"If I ever cross paths with that blasted deChagny again," he said in a harsh, fervent tone, "I'll kill him. I swear to God I'll kill him for everything he's done to you…"
His voice trailed off then, and then neither of them said anything more for a long, long time. They simply continued holding onto each other, letting their tears fall until their eyes were completely dry. And in the time during which they embraced, they knew that in each other, they'd suddenly found the family they'd always wanted.
~ o ~
Author's Note: A couple of FYIs. First off, what Marielle said when she was brought into Erik's suite, translated into English, is "Let me go! Please, I'll do anything! I don't want to die…" Second, cours élémentaire première année, the level of reading and writing that Christine taught Marielle up to, is the French equivalent of first grade.