Chapter 19
Utterly exhausted from the previous day's events and a terrible lack of sleep-he hadn't slept since the stay in Rouen-Erik had collapsed immediately onto the couch the moment he returned to the Girys' apartment. In spite of his extreme exhaustion, he could not stay asleep. He tossed and turned through endless dreams and nightmares, often waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing. He was tortured by the faces of the people he'd murdered, and by the faces of the love he'd lost and the one she'd chosen over him. Sometimes in his dark dream world he caught glimpses of light, felt a warm hand in his. Someone was there with him, helping him through the mad maze of torment, but there was always something else there, making him unable to see that someone clearly.
Madame Giry and her daughter woke early in the morning and prepared for their day of work, watching as he tossed back and forth. They both said a prayer for him, that he could be at peace, and also that his nightmares would not make him cry out too loudly and risk his being discovered. They quietly exited the apartment, leaving him muttering and moaning in his sleep.
Though he kept waking, Erik stayed where he was, trying to rest, until the middle of the afternoon, when he was unable to take it anymore. He rose, bathed, dressed, and ate a little bit of bread and drank a few glasses of wine, then set out to write some simple sheet music for Alana, as he'd promised the night before. At first he worked feverishly, writing down the music for as many classic and popular songs as he could think of, but in time his restless mind began to wander. His thoughts drifted to Alana; what she was doing now, how she would feel about tonight's lesson, the way she would respond to the music he gave her, how well she would sing for him, how she would look, even. But as he sat at the kitchen table, his eyes moved from the paper, out the small window before him to the clean streets and little gardens behind all the fine houses in Parc de Seigneurs. His thoughts floated away across the city, searching, as if he could really find what he was wishing for.
Christine, where are you?
The question repeated itself over and over in his head. He swore he could almost see her there, walking in the street, looking up at him in the window, coming to him…
But he knew it was nothing but his imagination playing a cruel trick on him. She would never come back to him. He forced himself to push back the feelings of anger, bitterness, and miserable loneliness that came upon him whenever he thought of her, and tried to focus on writing the music, thinking of the lesson. He enjoyed being able to play the piano and organ again, and the fact that he was able to teach someone again should have filled him with happiness, even joy. After all, music and teaching were his life's passions. And spending time with Alana…for once in his life, he had what he now believed he could call a true friend…that was something very special indeed. But now, as he tried to picture her, countless, haunting images of Christine flashed through his mind, and he could see nothing else.
Evening came and at last, Erik finished his work. He had a massive stack of sheet music for Alana, as well as his own commentaries on the pieces, with background information about the songs and composers, as well as hints and exercises to help her play them, or sing them, with greater ease. He was busy placing them in a case when the door opened.
His whole body tensed, and he was instantly ready to fight or flee if he had to. But it was only Madame Giry.
"Good evening," she said, lighting the gas lamps in the front room. "Are you feeling well?"
"Where's Christine?"
He couldn't stop himself from saying it, and as soon as the words came out he saw the woman's face darken.
"I don't know," she said firmly.
"Have you seen her at all?"
"No." Erik looked closely at Antoinette; he knew she was lying to him. He could feel her uneasiness.
"You're lying to me, Antoinette," he said, his voice cold as ice. "Tell me what you know."
Madame Giry's eyes sparked with anger, resentment. "I have seen her."
"And you know where I can find her."
"Please, Erik, put this behind you. I can't tell you where she is."
He stepped closer and looked down on her, anger creeping under his skin. "Just a few simple words, Antoinette."
"I promised I would not say…"
"Promised who, that blasted vicomte?" Erik growled, his fury rising.
"I am very sorry, I truly am, but I cannot…"
Suddenly the rage burning inside him grew until it took control. He seized the woman by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her sleeves. "Tell me where she is!" he shouted.
Without warning, the door flew open, and Meg stood in the doorway, her face pale as she took in the scene unfolding. She quickly slammed the door shut and stared at Erik, who didn't seem to notice her as he stood there, glaring fiercely at Madame Giry, who, though she should have been terrified, just stared back at him, stone-faced.
"Let her go!" Meg burst out, her voice shaking.
Erik regarded her coldly for a moment, then turned back to Antoinette. "Tell me, and I'll let you go."
She sighed. "Very well." He relaxed his grip on her shoulders and stepped back, waiting. "She lives not far from here at all. On the other side of Parc de Seigneurs."
Erik's fury had immediately dissolved. His heart was racing and he felt a strange tingling sensation throughout his entire body, happiness mixed with fear. She was so close, he could easily go to her, and yet…he was afraid. He watched as Madame Giry and Meg exchanged worried glances. As he looked at them he was suddenly overcome with guilt. Meg had just walked in on him and witnessed him being violent towards her mother. Her mother, who had done nothing but help him in all the time they'd known each other.
She and Meg were just standing there, waiting to see what he would do next. He knew he couldn't bear to be in the apartment any longer; he felt so incredibly guilty. He pulled on a cloak and took up his suitcase as he headed for the front door.
"What are you going to do?" Antoinette asked him.
He stopped. "Give a music lesson. Visit Raven." She was about to say something, but he already knew what it was. He raised a hand, and she was silent. "I…don't think I'm…ready yet, to face her again."
Antoinette nodded, and moved past Erik to open the door and peer into the hall. "The way is clear. Now go. And be safe." Her eyes seemed to plead with him, and his heart ached as he realized how much she truly cared about him. Why did he always forget that?
He stepped through the door, and turned back to face her. "Thank you," he said softly. She nodded to him, looking somewhat surprised by his gratitude, and began to close the door. "Antoinette! Wait!" She opened it again, a crack. He sighed and said, "I'm sorry."
Then he turned and went to the window, leaving Madame Giry staring at him, alarmed and in disbelief. He didn't see the smile that slowly spread across her face as she watched him go.
Face obscured by his dark hood, Erik wandered through the alleys and backstreets of Paris, encountering no one but a few scattered drunks and tramps who did not give him a second glance as he went on his way. He memorized the streets one by one, mapping out each alley in his head as a possible escape route. Every sense was on alert; no sound or movement escaped his attention. Fear of others was nothing new to him, but this was different-he didn't believe he could become used to the idea that there could be unknown people hiding in the shadows as he did, trying to kill him.
When the sun had set, he made his way toward the church. Alana had not come out yet, so he decided to pick the lock on the church door and go inside to wait for her. It was as dark as it had been the night before, so he lit some gas lamps and candles near the entrance and through the sanctuary, and sat at the piano, playing to pass the time.
He found himself playing through some of Don Juan Triumphant, the most un-triumphant opera he had ever created. Most of the music, lost now to everyone but him, had been dark, but there were some lovely arias, especially near the end, that the world had not been able to hear, and now never would. His heart grew heavier and heavier as he played, and he imagined what it would have been like to hear Christine sing them, to join with her in singing the opera's other dark love songs. It hurt him to play that music again, in that dimly lit room, without her. All by himself.
"Good evening, Erik."
He started and spun around. There was Alana, smiling at him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "But I suppose I did startle you, didn't I?"
"Of course not," he said firmly, though she was correct; she had caught him off guard, when he was completely lost in his music.
"I didn't want to say anything and make you stop," she explained. "What was it you were playing? I've never heard anything like it."
Erik didn't want to talk about it. Even thinking about it hurt like a knife cutting into his chest. "Perhaps we can discuss it later. Now, I'd like to show you what I've been working on for you." He opened his suitcase and let Alana take the pages out. She stared at them with excitement and fascination, but she seemed a bit overwhelmed by the amount of music he had given her.
"Thank you so much," she breathed, flipping through the pages. "You've almost written me a book, on singing and the piano. You didn't have to do all that."
Erik shrugged. "It was nothing." It was like a gift for Alana, a well-deserved one. She had given him friendship, and he was simply trying to repay her in one of the only ways he knew how. In fact, he'd rather enjoyed doing it, when his thoughts hadn't turned into bitter flashbacks and memories and longing for a chance to live his life over again. To erase all the mistakes. Why couldn't he just focus on the positives in life for once?
For once he had something positive in his life. Right now, standing right in front of him, in a white dress with blue flowers on it, simple but very pretty. It's time to focus, Erik. And he began to teach the lesson.
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Alana sang as best as she could, though she still felt she wasn't good enough. When they sang together, it seemed Erik's voice vastly outshone hers, but he was patient, and encouraging. He really was a wonderful teacher; when he was giving her a lesson, he seemed like another person entirely. In the past, she had seen the darkness disappear from his eyes as he taught her something new, seen him light up when she sang something perfectly. But tonight, though he was kind to her, he avoided her gaze more than usual, and he seemed distracted, lost in thought. He looked…troubled, but she wasn't sure whether she should ask him what was the matter or not.
"So, what were you up to before you came here tonight?" she asked instead, when they had finished and sat down on the front church pew.
Erik gave a little shrug. "Nothing really. I wrote you the music…"
"That's definitely not nothing, Erik. It's so good…it should be published!"
He smiled wryly, looking at the floor. "Do you think anyone would actually buy it?"
Alana laughed. "If I didn't think people would buy it by the masses, I wouldn't have suggested it. Honestly, Erik, you underestimate yourself far too much."
His expression darkened for a moment, and she could see just how much was going on inside his head. Then he turned to her. "As do you, you know. You will be a great singer someday. You're already well on your way. So." he let out a breath. "How did you spend the day?"
Alana almost giggled at that. He was actually trying to make conversation. He really was changing, the more she got to know him, but there was still something there, holding him back. "I went to church in the morning, and you'll never believe who I saw there!"
"Who?" Erik seemed mildly curious.
"Damien! The man I met in Rouen. He invited me to dine with him and his friends, so that is where I spent most of my time today."
"Oh." Alana thought she detected a hint of irritation in Erik's voice. "Well, how was that?" he asked, his speech sounding rather forced.
"Damien himself is very kind and amiable," she began, "and he made me feel welcome. But his friends on the other hand, obviously didn't care for me much at all. It hurt more than I thought it would…I could tell they were looking down on me, because I don't look like them, because I'm not as rich as they are, you see…they are all aristocrats." She could feel her cheeks grow hot again just thinking about them, their stinging disapproval.
"They're fools, then."
"What?" She was taken aback by Erik's intensity as he spoke the words.
"If they look down on you because of that, they are fools." Erik looked her straight in the face, his eyes blazing. "Don't let yourself be troubled by what they say."
Alana smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you. It's hard. I want them to like me, I almost want to be like them, and yet I don't. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do," he replied, looking down at the floor again. "I know exactly what you mean." Alana watched as he stared off into space, his expression sad. He was silent for a while, and then he turned to face her. "But do you know what?"
"What?"
"It doesn't matter what they think of you. What they think of me." A thousand emotions passed across his face, and she could see that he was thinking aloud, every word coming from some place deep inside.
"We don't need anyone's approval to be who we are. People can't change who you are unless you let them, Alana."
"I know."
"Don't change for them," he said softly.
"I won't," Alana whispered. She felt like she were melting under Erik's gaze.
"Do you promise?" he asked.
"I promise," she said, smiling. "I'll shake on it." They reached out and shook hands. Neither one let go right away. Erik's hand was warm and soft against hers. Then he pulled his hand back abruptly, and the moment was over.
He looked away, to her relief, and he didn't see her face flush. But something about him was bothering her, and when the heat left her cheeks, she decided to ask.
"Erik…earlier tonight, during the lesson, you seemed…distracted. Maybe even a little upset. What's troubling you?"
He closed his eyes, almost wincing at the question, and immediately she regretted asking him. "Nothing."
"Oh come now, Erik." The more she looked at him, the more she wanted to know what was bothering him. "I can see that there's something the matter. Now what is it? You can tell me."
Erik turned his gaze back on her again. In all of her life, she had never seen a pair of eyes with such a depth of sadness within them. He pulled out the chain he wore around his neck, cradling the little diamond ring in his hands. "For so long, this ring has been a symbol of everything that could have been, of everything I lost. But now, I have this feeling, and it's telling me that maybe…I haven't lost her yet. Maybe there's still a chance for us."
Alana couldn't help it; she was sorry she had asked, and she wasn't sure why.
"You mean…for you and Christine?"
"Yes."
Her heart felt as heavy as stone. "What are you going to do?"
Erik thought for a while. "I don't know," he said with a sigh. "I know where I can find her, but I don't know what to do. What if I make the same mistakes over again? What if it's too late?"
Alana bit her lip. "The only way to know for sure is to go to her and speak with her. See what happens. Is there any bad blood between you?"
His eyes flashed for an instant with sudden intensity, and then the look faded into a softer, sadder expression. "If I could only be with her again," he said slowly, "then I can say that I would have no angry feelings towards her. But I am afraid to know what she feels…if she wants to come back, or if she is happy with the path she has chosen."
He truly felt strongly for Christine. Alana could see it now more than ever. "You have to talk to her. It's the only way you can find out."
"You're right," Erik said, though he wasn't looking at her. He got to his feet. "I have to go now. I'll see you tomorrow night." Then, he turned back to face her. "Thank you, Alana. You truly are a good friend."
Friend. For some reason, instead of being encouraged by his words, her heart sank, and a melancholy feeling like nothing she'd ever experienced before came over her.
She watched him go, his black cape billowing out behind him like a dark cloud. And then she was sitting in the church with just herself and God, wondering why she had to feel this way.
The next morning, after waking from a night of troubled dreams, Alana went to mail her letter to Madame Margeuerite. Cerise accompanied her to the post office, chatting merrily as they walked down the lane in the sunny morning. Alana tried her best to keep up with the conversation, but her heart was in another place. She thought of Erik, and her father, whose faces had haunted her dreams the night before. A strange cloud of gloom had fallen over her, and she worried about Erik, about his decision to go to Christine. What if she had given him ill advice, what if she only brought more hurt to him? She had definitely, unexpectedly, brought more than enough hurt to herself, she thought as she carried the letter, her hands shaking. But more than anything, she worried about her father.
This was the longest she'd ever gone without seeing him. Had he been angry, when he'd found her gone? Did he miss her at all? Had he been drinking? It pained her to think of him, to imagine all the harm that could have befallen him, and she wished she could be there with him, wished he would be the way he once was. As she approached the mailbox, she said a silent prayer for Andre. She brought the envelope to her lips and kissed it, then dropped it inside the box. She closed her eyes, hoping with everything she had that she would get an answer from Marguerite soon, telling her that her father had gotten better, that he was asking for her, that it was safe to come home.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked into Cerise's kind, concerned face. "It'll be all right," her cousin said quietly. "You'll see."
Alana made herself smile back and they turned to go back home. It'll be all right, she repeated in her head over and over again, though she couldn't shake off the agonizing doubt in the back of her mind that told her that it wouldn't be all right. Never again. Not unless her mother could somehow, miraculously come back. Her eyes stung as she fought back tears on the long walk back.
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A man walked in the alleys, feeling more alone than he ever had in his life. For as long as he could remember, he'd been surrounded by family and friends-it was part of his lifestyle, who he was. But they were all gone now. Dead or vanished. Or they had abandoned him, like the last of his friends had done just days ago. He was embarking on a fool's mission, they'd said, and they would have no part of it. They didn't want to die.
The man didn't want to be killed either. He wanted someone else to die. But as he wandered through the city, he couldn't shake off the words of warning his friends had given him. What if he never found what he was looking for? What if he did, and ended up dying as soon as he found it? He could never know, unless he tried. And so he kept searching. It was his new job, after all. If he could provide valuable information, he would be rewarded.
He shuffled through a pile of garbage, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell, worse than most in these filthy alleyways. He looked down, and glimpsed something horrifying.
A human hand.
Hurriedly he pushed away the rubbish, discovering to his repulsion, not one, but two corpses. From the looks of it they had not been dead for a very long time. Disgusted, but curious at the same time, he knelt down to get a closer look. Their clothes were torn and stained, but he could tell they were wearing officer's jackets. Soldiers. Both of their necks were broken.
He almost turned away, but then, something inside his mind clicked.
He had seen something like that once before.
Looking back at the dead bodies, his heart began to pound as his mind raced toward a conclusion he was almost sure of. No, he was sure. It had to be. He had only been here a few days. These corpses were new. And he had seen someone before, with his neck broken, just like these most unfortunate soldiers. It was something he would never forget.
He broke into a run, leaving the dirty streets for a beautiful park with fine houses and gardens. At the finest house of all, he stopped, ringing the bell over and over until someone answered, a grave-looking woman with braided hair.
"I must speak to the Comte de Bellamy!" he cried, resisting the urge to run past her into the mansion.
"Come with me, then monsieur," the woman said, slowly, leading him inside at an agonizingly slow pace. She brought him to a drawing room, and after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the Comte arrived, looking as restless as his guest.
"You may leave us, now, Madame Giry," the Comte said, and the woman left, closing the door behind her.
The Comte turned to his visitor, his gaze intent. "Well? I'm assuming you've found something."
"Yes, my lord!" The man was so worked up he could hardly get the words out. "I was walking, in an alley…about half an hour's walk from here…"
"And?"
"I found…two dead bodies, sir! Soldiers, just recently dead."
The Comte raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's interesting. But what is its relevance to you or me?"
"Their…their necks were broken, my lord. And I have a hunch, sir."
The Comte looked thoughtful, but apprehensive. "Are you saying you think you know who killed them?"
The other man nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, my lord. I have seen such an injury once before, and it is something I will never forget."
"Ah." The Comte gave him a sympathetic look. "There are so many of you that I've talked to, but your story in particular stuck out to me. Your poor uncle died in a similar way, did he not?"
"Yes he did, sir."
"And do you think the person who murdered your uncle and the one responsible for the deaths of these soldiers…they are one and the same?"
"Almost entirely certain, my lord."
The Comte smiled bitterly, if that were possible. "Thank you for this bit of information. Continue to investigate what you've found. See if you can learn who these soldiers are, where they came from…speaking of which, where exactly did you find these dead bodies?"
"I don't remember the street name, but I know one near it. I went through Sacree Boulevard to get here."
The Comte grinned strangely and clapped him on the shoulders. "Excellent. Now, back out into the city with you. Keep looking." He reached into a wallet and pulled out some francs.
The informant showered the Comte with gratitude, and counted the money over and over again. With this, he would be able to afford many of the things he'd been forced to go without. And should his information prove to be truly useful, he would become a wealthy man.
"Yours is not the only lead I have, my friend," the Comte told him, and the informant's heart stung a little with jealousy. "As we speak, my closest friend and I are devising a plan. Soon, we will have our revenge. You have been a great asset already, Emilian. Thank you." He smiled beatifically and motioned for the informant to leave.
Out in the hall, Emilian was immediately met by the woman with the braided hair, a housekeeper, who led him back to the door.
"If you don't mind me asking monsieur…" she began, her voice nervous, "…what was it you and the master were speaking of?"
"The Comte and I have a personal score to settle with someone, a madman who ruined both of our lives. I can tell you nothing more, servant. You would do well to mind your own business."
And with that, Emilian left, eager to dig up more information, maybe even catch a glimpse of the target. Meanwhile the Comte de Bellamy plotted alone in his mansion.