"I didn't realize that it was so…isolated," Christine murmured as her brother-in-law's driver eased down the rutted lane leading to Monsieur Erik Guérin's home. At first glance the road wasn't so different from the one that led to the de Chagny estate, except that it was dirt and not gravel.
But the uneven rows of trees that flanked the path were nothing like the neatly trimmed ones that lined the estate's drive. These trees had spindly branches that clawed at the sky, many of them jagged and leafless. Christine almost felt as if she was about to enter one of the dark faerie tales her father had so loved to tell her when she was a little girl.
"Don't you live with your in-laws in the middle of the forest, Christine?" The coppersmith turned around in the front seat to grin at her. They'd become friends over the last several months, and they had dropped all formalities. "I can still hear Rouen from here."
Christine rolled down the window and listened, but the only noises that reached her ears were the trees rustling in the faint breeze.
"The drive to the de Chagny estate is much smoother," the driver grumbled good-naturedly as he guided the car to the right and edged along a particularly deep gouge in the lane. "I bet this is a bloody slog after it rains." He glanced in the rearview mirror and offered Christine an apologetic smile. "Pardon my language, Vicomtesse."
She waved his apology away with a flick of her hand and returned her attention back to the trees that towered above them. "Doesn't it seem like trolls or goblins should waylay us at any moment, Maël-Louis?"
The coppersmith made a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Christine settled back into her seat and allowed her mind to drift. She missed Raoul with a fierceness that made her chest ache. Her husband had always enjoyed hearing her father's stories, almost as much as Christine had loved sharing them.
Would there ever be a time when the mere thought of Raoul didn't pierce her very soul?
After a few more bumps, the lane curved sharply to the right to reveal a small two-story home nestled in a snarl of trees and overgrown bushes. The house's pale golden stones were almost the exact shade as the ones used to construct the de Chagny estate, and Christine wondered if they had been built near the same time.
Someone flung the faded red door open before the car came to a full stop. M. Mnatsakanyan, the gentleman who had come to Maël-Louis's shop the day before, strode outside and waved at them, a cheerful smile fixed on his face.
Maël-Louis returned the man's wave and sprung out of the door before the driver had a chance to cross to their side. The driver opened Christine's door with a more elaborate flourish than he used with Philippe and presented his bent arm to her.
Normally Christine would have brushed away his offer of help, but the ruts and holes in the lane were so large that she clung to the driver as they picked their way to the steps. The wooden stairs squeaked and sank rather alarmingly as Christine joined Maël-Louis and M. Mnatsakanyan on the narrow porch.
"Monsieur Desmarais!" M. Mnatsakanyan clapped Maël-Louis on the back like they were old friends before turning his bright eyes towards Christine. "And Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny! It is such a pleasure to have you join us!" He offered her a sweeping bow as the driver stepped back to the ground behind her.
"Madame is sufficient, Monsieur Mnatsakanyan." Christine flushed when she stumbled a bit over his last name, but the man grinned at her.
"A splendid attempt at my name, Madame. But please, call me Petros. Not only is it easier to pronounce, but I feel like I should be looking for my father whenever I'm addressed more formally." A shadow crossed his face for a moment before Petros shook his head and beamed at them once more. "Please, come inside."
Christine and Maël-Louis filed into the house behind Petros, their guide chattering the whole way. "I'm glad that you found us! Erik's house is a bit difficult to locate for those who aren't familiar with Rouen." He peered over his shoulder at the pair of them. "I suppose you could have found us with little problem M. Desmarais, but Madame might have had considerable more difficulty. You're from Paris, no?"
When Christine nodded, a little surprised at his guess, Petros's broad smile somehow managed to widen even further. "I've a fascination with accents," he explained further as they walked down the dim hallway. The house had a rather peculiar layout, with a long hall and rooms branching from either side with no apparent pattern. "Yours gives you away, Madame. M. Desmarais speaks as if he's lived in Normandy for every day of his life, but you are a newcomer."
"You're right about me never leaving the area," Maël-Louis admitted as they passed what appeared to be a formal parlor. "But I don't know that I would have found this place easily either. I've cycled past this drive hundreds of times and never knew that a house was back here. Thankfully, the vicomtesse's brother-in-law was kind enough to loan us the use of his car and, more importantly, his resourceful driver."
Once they came to the end of the hallway, Petros veered to the left and guided them past the kitchen. "I hope you do not mind informality," he murmured as he opened a large wooden door and ushered them into what appeared to be a sun parlor. "But this room is my particular favorite."
Large windows faced east, and even through the glass Christine heard birds twittering as they basked in the rays of sunshine that filtered through the trees. A faded sofa and a matching pair of equally faded chairs clustered around a low table, and Petros gestured for Christine and Maël-Louis to sit on the sofa. "Erik avoids sunlight as much as possible, but I can't stand the stuffy gloom that he insists upon for the rest of the house. I hope to lure him out today."
Petros waited for them to be seated before lowering himself into one of the chairs with a loud exhale. "I feel duty bound to warn you again that my friend is…" He blinked a couple of times and peered up at the ceiling, as if he might find the words he wished to say there. "Erik is peculiar, and his injuries have only made him more so. He's often irritable and rude. I hope you won't take offense at his behavior today."
"We've dealt with more than one rude man in our line of work," Maël-Louis offered without pause. Many of the soldiers they'd made masks for had been irritable, even angry at times. Showing their faces to anyone, especially to a woman, had been difficult for almost all of the men who'd sought out their help.
Petro's ever-present smile wilted. "Yes, well, I hope all goes as expected." He popped up from his sofa and stroked his thin mustache for a couple of seconds. "It's difficult for Erik to accept help from anyone, but he needs this. He locks himself in this gloomy place for days at a time without speaking to another soul. It isn't good for him. I'm afraid…" Petros drew in a shaky breath before giving a decisive nod. "I'll go fetch him now."
I'm afraid…
His words echoed in Christine's mind, but it was the expression on his face that triggered the memory. Victorine had worn that exact expression when she'd come to Paris after Raoul had died, and her sister-in-law had had every reason to fear for her then.
Christine, if I leave you here…
What will happen…
I'm so afraid…
Christine's heart lurched in her chest as she recalled just how close she had come to making a horrible decision that day. It still filled her with shame to even think about it years later.
She blinked and turned to Maël-Louis, who was studying her with inscrutable eyes. "Ten francs says I give his friend the bras d'honneur before we leave today."
His comment was so unexpected that Christine almost choked on her laughter. "I'd take that bet," she managed to wheeze after a moment, coughing indelicately into her fist. "You're too polite to do it. I've never even heard you raise your voice before."
Maël-Louis smirked at her. "You should tell my wife that the next time she comes to the shop. I'd wager another ten francs that she won't believe you."
Christine was still wiping the corners of her eyes when the door opened behind them. She turned to see Petros with a very tall man standing behind him, his features strangely obscured. It was only when the man joined them in the sun parlor that Christine realized that he wore a large piece of black leather on his face.
It was the crudest mask Christine had seen since starting to work with Maël-Louis. Someone had taken the time to punch three holes into the leather for the man's eyes and nose, but otherwise no concessions had been made. Only a sliver of his forehead and part of his chin were visible.
But the soldier's eyes were even more disconcerting than his mask. The thickness of the leather made them appear sunken, as if they peered out at the world from a skull instead of an actual living man. And when the sunlight caught them, they almost seemed to flash an otherworldly amber.
When those strange eyes turned towards her, Christine tried not to shiver as they briefly scanned her face before appearing to dismiss her.
"Allow me to make introductions!" Petros's voice sounded slightly strained to Christine's ears. "Erik, this is Madame de Chagny, the artist, and Monsieur Desmarais, the coppersmith."
Christine hadn't been introduced as an artist since she'd married Raoul, at least not in polite manner. Plenty of the society hens had liked to cluck about their scandalous match. Oh, and there is the Vicomte de Chagny's frivolous little wife, Charlotte or Celine or something like that. She's an artist, you know.
Her jaw clenched at the memory.
"And this is Monsieur Erik Guérin, lately of the French Army."
Maël-Louis murmured something that Christine didn't quite catch as Petros and his friend settled into the empty chairs. Christine couldn't help but notice that the soldier had chosen to sit closer to Maël-Louis, as far away from Christine as possible while remaining in the sun parlor.
Her gaze locked with M. Guérin's, and those peculiar eyes of his fairly simmered with something that looked like displeasure.
She wasn't sure what she could have possibly done to make this man angry. She'd never met him until this moment; she hadn't even exchanged a single word with him yet. But it was obvious as he narrowed his eyes at her that, for whatever reason, he was irritated with her all the same.
A small, rebellious part of Christine demanded that she glare right back at him. It was what the old Christine — Christine Daaé, the artist — would have done. The Christine who had captured the heart of a man everyone had said was too good for her. The Christine who had stood up against Raoul's family and Society in general when everyone had frowned upon their marriage.
The Christine who had died off the coast of Greece during the war.
At least that was what Christine had believed until this very moment. But that old Christine, proud and unwilling to accept that the bastard daughter of a painter didn't deserve happiness just as much as anyone else, roared back to life in an instant.
And it was M. Guérin who blinked first, who averted his gaze to the threadbare Oriental carpet beneath their feet. "I'd rather not remove it," M. Guérin muttered as he shook his head.
So that is what angered him, Christine realized as the soldier sent another baleful look in her direction. While Christine had been lost in her own thoughts, Maël-Louis must have told M. Guérin that he'd need to bare his face for the molding process.
She wondered if the coppersmith had informed the soldier that he'd have to do the same when she painted his new mask, too. Christine had learned after the first couple of masks that watching how a man's skin moved when he spoke was the best way to make them as realistic as possible.
Maël-Louis sighed. It was a long-suffering sigh, the one he reserved for the most trying circumstances. Christine wondered if she might have to pay those ten francs to him after all. "It has to be removed so I can take an impression of your features in clay. If I don't do that, then the mask won't fit properly."
M. Guérin inhaled sharply. "I haven't allowed anyone to see my face since I was in hospital, M. Desmarais. I don't want to show it to anyone." His gleaming eyes darted back to Christine, leaving no doubt what he was trying to truly say.
He didn't want her to view his face.
"I won't need to be in the room when M. Desmarais does his work, but I will need to see you speak in the light without your mask." Christine still felt too brittle inside to be as conciliatory as she might like. She didn't want to quarrel with this man, but something in his gaze challenged her anew. "I prefer to use natural sunlight, but I've worked with other soldiers who can't leave their homes, so I've also made do with lamplight."
"No," M. Guérin hissed at her. "I understand that it's necessary for the mold, but you'll have to make do with guessing at what my face looks like."
A small ball of fury wedged itself between Christine's ribs as she gaped at the man. How dare he tell her how to do her work, how to paint? She'd been painting since she'd been old enough to hold a brush, her father's deft fingers guiding her through daily lessons until he'd been too weak to continue them.
It was the same outraged emotion she'd experienced when Christine had been slighted by Raoul's family when she'd first been introduced to the de Chagnys, when they'd tried to make her feel not good enough to join their family. Even Victorine, whom Christine now loved as a sister, had snubbed her.
She'd tried to repress it then. Christine had wanted to win over Raoul's brother and sisters, so she'd swallowed her sharp words for the sake of harmony. But she could not seem to quash her anger now; it burned as bright as a torch in her chest.
"It is just as necessary for my part of the process," Christine snapped. She could feel her control slipping away, and she was equally frightened and exhilarated at the prospect. It had been a very long time since she'd felt anything except grief this strongly. "Do you realize how many men want us to make masks for them, M. Guérin? We receive letters every week from former soldiers begging for our help, I assure you. I likely could make four masks a month for the rest of my life and never meet the demand. If you don't want our assistance, there are plenty of others who would be glad to—"
"I bloody well don't want your assistance!" M. Guérin almost threw himself out of the chair in his haste to loom over them once more. The fire in his eyes matched the flames in Christine's belly as she met his scowl with one just as ferocious. "And I bloody well don't want to put my face on display like some freak at a carnival, to be stared at and pitied! You, Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny, are welcome to leave. Find your thrills elsewhere."
"Erik, please." Petros stood and placed his hand on M. Guérin's shoulder, but he jerked away from Petros's touch. The soldier's breathless panting filled the room, an alarming wheeze making an appearance as he flicked his glower between Petros and Christine.
The ire seemed to seep out of him after a few shocked moments of silence passed, and M. Guérin's shoulders sagged as the wheeze grew louder. He coughed once, then twice, into his fist, his gasps for air becoming louder and more frequent, before stumbling from the room. M. Guérin slammed the door so hard behind him that Christine could have sworn that the glass in the windows shook from the force. Even the birds outside quieted.
"My apologies," Petros hastily murmured as he trailed after his friend. "Allow me to speak with him. Perhaps I can talk some sense into him…" His voice faded to nothing as he raced down the hallway where M. Guérin had retreated.
Maël-Louis exchanged a look with Christine and shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said after a moment, "obviously I should have bet that you would be the one to give the man the bras d'honneur. Foolish of me not to, really."
Christine took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. "I don't know what came over me." Now that M. Guérin had left the room, her fury deserted her in a rush, leaving her empty and hollow once more. "I don't know why he infuriated me so."
One corner of Maël-Louis's mouth hitched upwards in amusement. "My dear Christine, I think that man could infuriate anyone. I'm rather impressed that you held your temper as long as you did. He glared at you from the moment we met him."
"Still…" Christine looked at the door once more. She tangled her fingers together in her lap and hoped that Maël-Louis could not see how badly they shook. "Are we meant to stay here and wait for them to return?"
The coppersmith chuckled as he heaved himself to his feet. "I'd rather not." Maël-Louis turned his back to her and ambled over to the windows, and it took Christine a moment to realize that her friend was giving her a couple of minutes to compose herself. "You're right — we can make a mask a week for the remainder of our lives and never hope to meet the demand. I'd rather go where our work is appreciated."
Frowning, Christine returned her attention back to the door as she smoothed down her hair and took a couple of deep breaths. "M. Guérin likely needs our help most of all. That mask covered almost his entire face."
Most of the veterans who made their way to Rouen had much smaller areas of disfigurement. Almost every one of them had gone to see physicians before visiting the coppersmith's shop. They only came to Maël-Louis and Christine when the limits of science and surgery had already been reached, relying on the artists to create the illusion of unmarred flesh when the doctors had not been able to fix what had been damaged beyond repair.
But something told Christine that M. Guérin had not submitted himself to the surgeon's blade. And she suspected that the wounds beneath the mask would be much more extensive than most, if not all, of what she had already seen in the past several months.
Maël-Louis puffed out his breath and wheeled around to examine the door where M. Guérin and Petros had disappeared. "I have a feeling that that man requires much more help than we are able to provide him, Christine. Some of the men who returned from the front…they didn't come back, not truly."
"I know." Christine frowned as she rose from the sofa. She hated feeling like she was giving up on someone, especially when she could help him. Christine had needed help once, and she was forever grateful that Victorine had been willing to provide it.
But M. Guérin seemed to have a stalwart friend in Petros, and even if he didn't, the man had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want her assistance in anything.
They crept through the hallway towards the front of the house, and Christine expected for Petros to appear at any moment to beg them to stay. He'd been so insistent in the shop according to Maël-Louis, so desperate for their aid. But all was silent as a tomb, and there were no hints to where M. Guérin or Petros might be.
She sighed with relief when they reached the porch. Petros was right; the gloomy darkness, provided by the drawn curtains in every room, threatened to suffocate anyone who walked through the door.
"Take care with the steps," Maël-Louis called out, even as he navigated them as nimbly as a mountain goat. "They're about rotted through in places." He reached the bottom and extended his hand to help steady her.
Philippe's driver rushed to join them, a puzzled frown on his face as he tucked the book he'd been reading into the front pocket of his jacket. "A quick visit then, Vicomtesse?"
"Very," Christine agreed in a flat voice as she slid into the comforting familiarity of the car. She suddenly felt exhausted from her verbal sparring with M. Guérin, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this unhappy place. "And I doubt that we'll make a repeat visit."
The coppersmith tried to smother another chuckle as he climbed into the front seat once more. "I believe that I owe you ten francs, but I'll only win them back from you once my wife comes to the shop again! She'll never believe that I heard you raise your voice, Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny." He drew out her title with obvious relish, and Christine's cheeks heated as the driver's eyes grew round as saucers.
Christine looked back over her shoulder one last time before they turned the sharp corner and M. Guérin's dreary home disappeared from view. The sun reflected off of the windows, making it almost impossible to see, but she could have sworn that she saw the curtains twitch in one of the rooms upstairs, as if someone watched them leave.