Erik grimaced with annoyance and something electric that wasn't annoyance as Meg fussed about him, straightening his tie, buttoning his jacket. She would not look into his face. He had his new mask on, along with a false black mustache not dissimilar to Stephen Marcus's.
At last she patted his shoulders and examined him. "There!" She announced, nodding once. "We're ready."
Erik swallowed, trying not to dwell on the light lavender scent she wore, the tickle of her bright silken locks as they touched his chin as she'd fussed, her look of nervous satisfaction. He himself must focus, as this was the first visible role he would play in the French secret police's machinations.
When Meg told the police about her interaction with Verron at the ball, they'd immediately seized the opportunity presented by the invitation he'd extended to her. Even Madame Giry was pleased: if Meg could learn what she could merely from acting the mildly interested observer instead of the phony seductress, the happier the ballet mistress was.
However, due to new auditions for the ballet chorus, she was unable to act as her daughter's chaperone when Tuesday came. Since Verron had spies of his own that might be able to identify one of the police's agents when even in disguise, Erik was chosen for the task.
She kept looking away from his mask, he noted. He felt a pang.
He sucked in a breath as Meg took his arm as they stepped out of the Giry home into the night.
She smoothed her skirt self-consciously. The force convinced her to dress somberly for the occasion, so as not to give the impression she was a frivolous, fashion-obsessed thing who lacked the serious nature to take in Verron's words. She was dressed in a dark forest green gown with a high neck. She wore a thick black shawl around her shoulders and a quiet black bonnet that covered most of her bright curls in their strict bun.
Erik had never seen her so modestly attired, and damned himself for noticing anyway that the green shade of the gown gave her eyes a deeper, more mysteriously alluring shade.
So anxious Meg was to get going that when Erik looked down at his watch, he saw they had a half hour before the meeting was to start.
Relief crossed Meg's features. "Oh, good! Let us walk then. It's such a nice night."
She tucked her small gloved hand into his elbow.
And Erik felt a ridiculous and laughable surge of manly pride.
Neither broached the subject of their last unpleasant encounter. They each wanted to hang onto the lovely evening air and each other's presence.
Her fingers tapped quickly against his arm as they strolled down the boulevard.
"Our butler, Eric Dequenne," she suddenly said quickly.
Erik sighed. "Yes, yes, I know."
She spoke to an imaginary figure in front of her. "My mother is unavailable, so she sent Eric to act as my chaperone. He's fairly new to our family, but trustworthy and a firm believer in your cause, Monsieur Verron."
She turned eager eyes to Erik. "Convincing?"
"Not when you say it rapidly like preparing for an exam," Erik replied. "Just be natural, Meg."
Again her cheeks warmed as he used her given name once more. He's no longer mad at me, I can tell.
He continued. "I don't know what you're so nervous about. This is far less of a perilous task than throwing yourself into the arms of the Count."
Meg nibbled her lower lip. "I know, but…" It was she who sighed now. "Monsieur Verron is not like the Count. And…well…I'm just sort of on edge about everything lately." Her tone darkened.
As did Erik's mood. He knew of what she spoke. That damnable oafish king.
Somehow the fact that he lacked the guile and subtlety of the average Count or debauched French nobleman made it more difficult for Meg to shake his attentions.
She'd politely but firmly turned down every one of his invitations: carriage rides, dinners, a weekend in Rouen.
Yet after every rehearsal, there he stood in the empty audience, clapping with an innocent wide grin peeking out from his wiry beard. After every performance there he stood outside her dressing room door, surrounded by his attendants, and stretched out a bouquet of roses to her. Cast members and audiences had long since taken notice, and word was beginning to spread.
Meg was usually the type of girl to take things in stride, but Erik could see she was reaching her limit. "I just don't know what to do," she said now, in obvious distress. Again her sincere eager eyes on him. "Tell me, what should I do?"
Erik was suddenly angry at himself, and angry at her mother. In their combined efforts to keep her safe and innocent, both had neglected ensuring she was educated in the arts of evasion. Her straightforward nature did not know how to reconcile the king's straightforward nature here.
All Erik could do now was place a hesitant delicate hand over hers tucked into his arm. "Stay strong, Meg. I will make sure no harm comes to you."
The small smile she gave him, and the way her eyes sparkled so warmly in the night, was more precious to him than any other thanks in the world.
They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence.
When they entered the tavern by the dock, Meg knew that her planned introductory speech about Erik was as of now unnecessary. The space was crammed so full of various laborers, scholars, and speakers, that she knew she'd probably not have a chance to speak with Verron until the end of the night – if even then.
She quailed at all the rough looking men around her. Was…was she the only woman in attendance?
She coughed and waved away thick plumes of smoke from cigars, craning her neck trying to find a suitable place for Erik and her to sit.
She felt him stiffen beside her.
It was a subtle move, but one that shamed her as she stared into his hooded eyes above that ridiculous mustache.
Of course, he's the one nervous now! How long has it been since he was in the middle of such a large crowd as this? Over twenty years? He's so used to seclusion. And back before he was…crowds meant nothing good to him….
A protective burst made her tighten her grip around his now faintly trembling elbow.
She looked around again more intently, eager to find them a place and get them a little bit out of the mayhem.
Luckily she spotted a couple of chairs by the aisle near the back. She'd have preferred seats closer to the platform so that Verron could see them, but she couldn't quibble about it now.
One more squeeze to Erik's elbow. "Come on," she said in a deliberately cheerful and careless tone of voice. "I think I've found something."
He let her lead him, feeling detached like he was floating above it all. Luckily Meg had no fear of crowds, having grown up amidst the mob-like chaos of the opera.
She heard him exhale out his tension once they sat. He visibly relaxed.
Not long after they'd settled in, the tavern owner took to the platform usually used for floorshows and called for quiet.
The speakers all sat in a row behind the tavern owner, a mix of rough bohemian types and pale awkward professors. At the very end was Verron. Gone was the enthusiastic jovial look of the ball. As each speaker took to the podium, his eyes never left his feet, one arm limp against his lap, the other akimbo. His face grew more and more somber, reflective.
At last it was his turn to take to the podium.
Up until that moment, Meg found it difficult to follow what the other radicals said. They spoke in lofty intellectual flourishes, citing legislative acts that Meg had never heard of and could scarcely comprehend. She clapped mechanically as the crowd around her cheered, the ballet girl feeling slow and out of place.
I really am a slow-witted ninny, she thought despairingly. Just a little dancing doll who has no place here.
She occasionally stole a glance at Erik. His mismatched eyes were inscrutable in his patchwork face.
Meg turned her attention back to Verron.
He stood staring down silently at his notes, brow furrowed. He closed his eyes and breathed in.
The hall was more silent than ever.
He spoke.
"My friends, I left school at age nine to work in a factory to support my family. I am only self-educated; so I lack the verbal prowess of my associates here. I am inelegant and a bit of an oaf. Therefore, I can only speak from the heart. And I can only speak from the heart because I am not you. I do not walk in your shoes along the docks. I do not feel your pain, your frustration when the foreman tells you there is no work today. I do not feel the wave of shock when you walk home and a carriage carrying a drunk member of the elite splashes your last good pair of trousers with mud.
"But I once felt all of this. I am fortunate enough to have made a living writing about these feelings, but I remember hunger. I remember pain.
"It is easy when our stomachs are empty and there are sick children at home to forget there are others like us. Hell, we ignore entirely that there are others not like us who suffer still more. But if we are to achieve equality, we must not forget these others. What good is equality if it only helps white men of a certain religion?
"What of our sisters and daughters and wives, and their struggles? Left to look after the children, without a say about what laws could affect their living situations – your living situations? What of our Jewish brothers and sisters, despised by the government, hunted down and arrested? What of the black immigrant father turned away when there is certainly work he can do, of the uneducated girl who has only one career option available for her? Do they suffer less than you or I? 'Hath not a Jew eyes'? Hath not a black child, an immigrant, or a prostitute eyes and hearts and minds and mouths to feed?"
Meg shivered. She saw Christine's face, Cecile's face. Elodie alone in her flat with little Clara.
She was alarmed and disappointed that those around her were shifting impatiently, some grumbling under their breath.
Meg just leaned in closer.
Verron spoke simply and sincerely, looking around the audience as if he were gazing into a face of a trusted confidant. "Can we let this go on? I know of three Jewish political prisoners who did no more than peacefully – peacefully, I emphasize! – plead for government assistance in the press, as their shops and homes were subjects to vicious attacks.
"Just the other week, a black woman suffered injuries as she tried to stop vandals from breaking the windows of her little restaurant – and she was the one arrested, for disturbing the peace! With five children at home and their father gone on a merchant ship!"
Pain was in his eyes, true pain. An anger touched by compassion dwelt there as well, which Meg had never seen before.
He listed more examples, tying in policies in such a seamless way that Meg could easily follow, easily understand. Her heart pounded.
At the end he pleaded directly with those present. "I do not ask you to take it on yourselves to fix what is the government's job. I only ask you do what you can. You see a family of color, of Jewish origin walk down a street, and you hear others fling slurs or spit at their feet? Say something. Do something. Stand in their way and take the spit yourself. Give them your strength, your privilege – and yes, my friends, you are privileged in this regard. As long as your skin is white and your name Christian, you carry a magical privilege in this country that the Jewish prisoners and black mother will never know – not unless we band together and show parliament we are all one community of hard workers and fellow countrymen and women.
"To sit back and ignore, you are no better truly than the King of B -, whom I personally saw try to proposition a respectable young woman in public" – Meg flushed bright red – "—Or like any of the other careless and corrupt wretches who see fit to profit off our misery."
He took in a deep breath and cast one more penetrating look across the hall. "Be decent. Be loving. And stand with each other, not against each other. Thank you. Good night."
Meg prepared to leap to her feet to clap but Erik's hand reached out and stalled her. She saw why.
She would have been the only one.
There was a smattering of applause, and there were groups of people who looked as genuinely affected as Meg. But it seemed to her there were more grumbling dissenters as people stood and made their way out.
Meg heard mixed mutterings of, "Old Verron talked sense until he had to bring up all that damn rot about the blacks and Jews," "if they're suffering so much, why don't they go back where they come from? Let us have some of their work," and "What are those damn Christ killers wailing about, the ghettos are gone."
Meg felt herself go hot and cold.
Christine. Cecile.
"Hypocrites!" She hissed to Erik. "Did they not listen to anything he said?"
Erik was remarkably passive. "No. They heard words and ideas, but did not connect them to anything greater."
He about lost his breath at the flame of resolution that lit up her features. Without a word, she dove toward the stage, where Verron was collecting his notes and shaking the hands of his colleagues.
"Monsieur! Monsieur Verron."
Again that happy, glad glance as he recognized her. He shook her hand vigorously. "Miss Giry! You made it! How splendid of you! You did not mind the reference I made to you in my speech, did you?"
"Oh, no. Heavens, no. A nuisance like that rotten old king deserves exposure."
"You are good, truly good. Tell me, was the evening enlightening for you?"
She nodded eagerly. "Yes, very!"
He noted the strained look on her face. "But?"
She wavered for a second, then couldn't help everything bubbling out. "It's all those people who refused to take in what you were saying, monsieur! So many dissatisfied people who are still so…so…bigoted! I guess I just don't know how you can go on like that with so little support."
His small smile was full of sad understanding. "Ah, but not everyone felt that way, did they? Such as yourself. And there were some others who seemed to listen and comprehend."
"Well, yes. But so few compared to" –
"I have long since learned never to make comparisons, except to ask myself, 'Verron, are there more people today – even one or two – who look speculative instead of dismissive than in the last meeting? Who look a little more open-minded than when they came in?"
His smile widened. "And each time, I have found the answer is yes."
The silence Erik and Meg walked back in was more charged this time. The night was very dark now, and Erik made sure to pull in her little hand closer to him. He could sense her mind whirling like a ship's propellers.
He couldn't help but chuckle. "Such a state you were in when you conversed with him I noticed you failed to introduce me. And you had so carefully prepared your speech."
She ignored his jest. "Erik, what do you make of it all?" Her eyes shot through him like arrows.
Once upon a time, she would squeal with fright at the very thought of the opera ghost. Now she looks me straight in the eye and asks my opinion, and holds onto my elbow.
He shrugged. "What is there to make of it? Verron is a foolish man full of foolish dreams."
She was indignant. "How can you say that? You know what he says is true!"
"Yes, I do. And I also know it's no use. You saw the reactions. People can't look past their own misfortunes. They want none of anyone else's."
She shook her head stubbornly. "I don't agree."
His voice lowered. "Remember, mam'selle: he's the enemy."
Meg shivered. She'd almost forgotten her mission. In a weaker voice she asked, "But how can he be? He wants to help people, not hurt them."
Erik laughed harshly, making his thick mustache bob up and down. "Don't you know it doesn't matter, silly girl? All this political strife is for nothing anyway. Radicals and conservatives alike, it all ends in bloodshed and horror, no matter what either side promises."
Their shoes click-clacking along the empty city streets were all the noise either made for a space.
Then very quietly, Meg said, "I'm not so sure."
She felt his elbow tighten in her hand as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Then you better become sure, little Meg, or you won't be able to do the work you must."
His eyes glowed enigmatically.
Meg swallowed. Her eyes stung as she stared hopeless down the dark road before her.