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Chapter 5
Madeline returned that evening as promised and brought food and supplies, including a salve for the wound on my arm, which she insisted on cleaning. I could have easily taken care of the injury myself, but she would not hear of it and I submitted without question.
Truthfully I enjoyed the way she doted and fussed over me. My uncle had cared for me in a different fashion in which he was firm and direct. If he asked me to gather firewood, I was on my feet at once. If I dropped a piece of wood or burnt my fingers making my meal, he looked at me from where he sat smoking his pipe and nodded once to acknowledge my plight.
"You're fine," he would say regardless of whether or not I was truly well.
At the end of the night he praised me for a well built fire and my skills at learning to boil rabbit and potatoes. He did not lavish me with undue praise, but a nod and a smile meant the world to me. When he placed his hand on the top of my head, i felt as though I had truly done something remarkable. For all my father had withheld from me, my uncle provided with stern leadership.
Madeline, on the other hand, was a mother hen who spoke softly and fretted over my well-being. She took a deep breath and looked from the rag soaked in calendula salve to me, her eyes filled with concern. With a sympathetic frown, she placed her free hand just below the inch-long wound as though to brace me.
"I apologize if this hurts," she said.
She dabbed the rag against the walnut-sized hole, apologizing profusely even though there was little discomfort. I kept my gaze trained on her face as she winced on my behalf and wrinkled her nose. I marveled at how she sucked in a breath and mouthed an inaudible prayer on my behalf. No one had ever shown so much concern over me, and I relished every second of her attention.
"This is quite deep," she said. Her eyes flashed up to meet mine as she silently asked for permission to continue the treatment.. "How long has it been like this?"
I thought a moment, deciding whether or not I wished to tell her the truth a I assumed she would be quite horrified. "A week or so."
Her eyes bulged. "A week? My goodness, that is far too long for something like this to go untreated."
"It looked worse a few days ago," I offered, which it had. There had also been a fever to the wound, but I decided not to tell her every detail. Clearly she was already concerned and I did not want to worry her further.
To my surprise, she merely grunted. "What is it from?"
"A nail."
At once Madeline froze, the color draining from her face as she stared at me. "What do you mean?"
"I hit my arm on a wagon. There must have been a nail sticking out from a board."
Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she did not believe my story. "You must have hit your arm hard for it to be so deep."
I grunted in response. Andrie, Garouche's oldest son, had shoved me from behind and I had slammed shoulder first into the wagon. The head of the nail snagged against not only my shirt, but tender flesh. The incident left behind a wound the length of my small finger and the depth of my thumb nail. I hadn't noticed the laceration at the time as Andrie had wrapped a rope around my neck and threatened to strangle me when I refused to obey his orders. The rope burns had faded, but the iron nail had left its mark.
"This will sting," Madeline said.
"What is it?"
She removed the cork from a small bottle and I knew by the smell immediately what was inside. I held my breath and turned away from the familiar smell of alcohol. Madeline most likely assumed I turned away from the threat of pain, but it was the overpowering stench that made my stomach churn.
A splash of cold liquor trickled down my arm and I grit my teeth as it bit into the wound. I jerked my arm away, muscles tense at the surprising stab of discomfort. I steadied myself as Madeline mopped up the excess and apologized again.
"How long will I smell it?" I asked as I attempted to breathe out of my mouth.
"A while I would think," she answered. "Does it bother you?"
"Immensely." I swallowed hard, my mouth filled with saliva and my belly in knots.
"Do you need to sit?"
I shook my head and turned away from her. Without a second thought I walked directly toward the lake and crouched ankle deep into the water. I splashed my upper arm until the smell of alcohol dissipated, then I splashed more water on my face and neck to quell the sickness I felt in my gut.
"Erik?" Madeline called. "I apologize. I did not know you were sensitive to the smell."
I stood and shivered, my trousers and hair soaking wet. With my back to her I looked at my upper arm. The fresh scab had come off, the flesh beneath it pink and tender with a small amount of pus. There would be yet another scar left behind, another reminder of how my appearance had made me into more than a pariah.
Madeline placed her hand on my bare shoulder, her touch gentle and soft. I startled at the unexpected sensation of her fingers against my bare flesh and unintentionally pulled away. She did not attempt to place her hand on me again.
"Come out of the water and let me wrap your arm," Madeline coaxed. "I promise I will only apply the salve."
I nodded and allowed her to guide me out of the lake and back to the table where she instructed me to sit. She stood beside me and arranged the three candles side by side, then unrolled the bandage and placed the small jar of salve beside it. Thankfully the alcohol was nowhere to be found. Arms crossed, she examined the contents on the table in silence.
She was stalling, I knew. Perhaps she was uncomfortable in my presence now that I had broken down multiple times. Perhaps she realized at last I was far beyond saving.
I imagined-or rather hoped-she would place a day's worth of food into a sack and politely inform me the fair had left Paris and I was free to leave. Perhaps she would include a few extra bandages and the salve to help my arm heal.
Cast out again, I thought to myself, before I had a moment to settle. I could not help but think to myself that in this lifetime I was not meant to have a family or friends. I was destined to live alone in the shadows or put on display for others to mock. There was no in between.
Honestly I could not blame her for wanting to be rid of me. In truth I was surprised she had helped me escape in the first place. Expecting anything more was foolish and naive.
"Lift your arm," she instructed.
I stared straight ahead as she dabbed salve onto the wound. I imagined this would be the most suitable time for me to take my leave as it was close to nine at night according to my pocket watch and the city streets would be dark. On foot I would head north and exit the city as I suspected the gypsies would continue west.
With any luck I could return to the village where Amelie Batiste lived. Perhaps I could learn a trade or tend fields for her family. I hoped her brother would allow me to stay in the stable for a night or two, perhaps longer if I proved my worth. If he did not, I would seek shelter in a monastery. My uncle had mentioned it in passing as a place he thought I would be safe as long as I labored and earned my keep.
"You'll need a change of clothes," Madeline said as though she heard my thoughts.
I nodded, resigned to the idea of leaving at once. Solemnly I stood and looked at the fresh bandage on my arm, grateful she had taken such care to dress the wound.
"The hood," I said. I reached up and touched my damaged cheek, the reason behind my solitude."I am without the hood."
Madeline clearly recognized the panic in my voice. Her eyebrows shot up and she straightened her back. "What of it?" she questioned.
"I would like it back before I leave."
Madeline placed one hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side as she mulled over my words. "You do not wish to stay here?"
For a long moment I stared back at her, perplexed by her question. No one had ever wanted me to stay and I could not understand why she was different.
"What is wrong?" she asked. "Please, tell me."
"I thought you wanted me gone," I said at last. "You were so quiet. I was afraid I had offended you."
Her gentle smile eased my racing mind. "There was terror in your eyes," she said. I watched her grab the blanket from the ground where I had slept. She shook it out and draped it over my shoulders, her hands lingering momentarily on my arms as she looked me over. "I was frightened for you and I did not know what to say."
Her actions soothed the anxiety I felt bubbling up. I closed my eyes and leaned into her touch, thinking of how each night I had spent with the gypsies I had seen mothers engulf their children in heavy blankets around a fire. They smoothed wild hair, touched round cheeks, and kissed small heads in loving, protective fashion.
How I had envied such small gestures, longing for just one night of my own mother acknowledging me as her son. One kiss to the top of the head was all I wanted, one loving embrace instead of a cold stare.
I knew my own mother heard my father stumble down to the cellar, his belt in hand. I knew she heard each crack of leather against flesh and the yelp I always tried to stifle when the buckle broke skin. Not once did she come to rescue me from his anger. Not once did she tell her husband to leave me alone. Not once had she seen the aftermath of his drunken rage.
She lived within the house and yet in my world she did not exist.
I looked up and found Madeline's face close to mine, her eyes filled with concerned.
"Please trust me enough to tell me what troubles you."
"My father," I said under my breath. Tears flooded my eyes, which I shamefully swiped away with the back of my hand. Emotion got the best of me, that razor's edge between anger and melancholy. Many nights I thought the sadness would eat me from within. How worthless he made me feel even when months had passed since I had lived in his violent hell. "The smell reminds me of him, and the recollection is not a fond one."
"Did he drink?" Madeline asked.
"From the moment he woke in the morning until he passed out at night."
Most often he passed out drunkenly on the cellar stairs or somewhere else within the house. I hated when he remained in the cellar with me, mumbling and snoring while I crouched beneath the stairs and prayed he would not hear me whimpering. My every breath was calculated as I feared waking him. From the time I was a small child I learned to sleep lightly in his presence.
Madeline took my hand in hers, which took me by surprise. Her hands were soft and warm, her touch more comforting than I had ever imagined. For the first time in my life, I understood what it was like to experience the love and protection from a motherly figure-and it came from someone I barely knew.
"You were hurt by him when he drank," she said.
There was no question. Her words were simply an acknowledgment of what I had implied.
"I recall nothing of him other than the smell and…"
Pain. Fear. Agony that now didn't seem real. Humiliation that left me numb for days. I did not need to explain what I experienced as the look on Madeline's face told me she already understood.
"I will not make the same mistake again," Madeline promised. She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, the sort of reassuring gesture I had seen between mother and child many times. While I had been prepared to beg my own mother for an ounce of affection, Madeline offered a soft touch willingly-and to me without my hood. Her actions truly mesmerized me.
"I did not mean to blame you." My gaze shot up to meet hers. "My intention was not-"
"There is no need to apologize." She pulled the blanket tighter, her knuckles grazing my chest. "I've brought you trousers that should fit better and a shirt my younger brother left behind the last time he visited. It's good quality. You will like it."
She rose from her place beside me and gathered up the salve and unused bandage, which she exchanged in her bag for two pairs of trousers, a wool sweater and a brown button down shirt neatly folded.
"Change into dry clothes before you fall ill," Madeline instructed. She gave an impatient flick of her wrist as she walked out the door and said to make haste.
I pulled off my wet trousers and undergarments and shivered as I put on the shirt and wool sweater over it. The trousers, as she said, fit much better than the first pair, and I smoothed my hands over the fabric, I could hardly believe I was given such luxurious items.
Once dressed, I opened the door. Madeline gave an exaggerated curtsy and clasped her hands together.
"Monsieur," she said. "You look very nicely dressed for supper."
I gave an awkward bow before I followed her back to the table. "You look very nice as well, Mademoiselle."
Fine manners were not my strong suit, but I very much desired to be a gentleman. I pulled out a chair for her and she smiled back at me. "How very kind of you," she said as she took her seat.
I plopped down across from her and sat forward, awaiting another shared meal.
"Unfortunately there was not much left for supper once rehearsals ended and I didn't have time to run across to the cafe before they closed up, so there isn't much to eat," Madeline said as she produced a second, smaller bag that had been placed on the floor next to her chair. She set a dish with a silver cover on the table. "Haches parmentier," she announced as she uncovered the plate. "I hope it is enough."
"What is it?" I asked. Truthfully it looked like someone had smashed potatoes atop meat.
"Delicious." She pushed a fork toward the plate and sat back.
"You are not eating?" I asked, feeling somewhat self-conscious of devouring food while she looked on.
"I took supper with the other dancers," she explained. "They will start to question why I choose to eat alone if I do not sit with them at the table. Already there are rumors."
"What sort of rumors?" I asked before taking my first bite.
The meal was nothing like what I expected. The potatoes were mixed with cheese; creamy on the inside and almost flaky on the top. Beneath the layers of fluffy potatoes was tender beef and sausage. A hint of tomato sauce and a bit of onion and garlic added to the flavor. I had never tasted anything quite like it.
"I have heard twice already that I am married," Madeline said with a chuckle. "A secret husband staying across the street from the Opera House. By next week I am sure I will have a dozen children also in hiding."
"You would be an excellent mother," I replied without considering my words.
Madeline blushed. "Some day, God willing" she said. "Once my career on the stage is finished and I have retired happily somewhere in southern France, I will find me a wealthy husband and give him many sons."
"You do not enjoy the ballet?" I asked.
Madeline shrugged and rested her chin against her palm. "Most days." She twirled a strand of long, dark hair around her fingers on her free hand and sighed. "I suppose this is better than awaiting my mother's choice of a suitable husband. Her ideal fiance is much different than mine, which is why I intend to save my earnings and do as I please for at least a year or two after I leave the Opera House. Other girls spend all of their wages on dresses and perfume in hopes of snagging a suitor, but I am buying my freedom."
When I looked at Madeline, I did not see a person who needed freedom. Her honesty surprised me and I appreciated her openness. In truth I barely knew her and yet I felt as though she had already become a dear friend. I told myself no matter if I stayed in the Opera House for another day or for a month, I would remember her always.
"Has she found a husband for you?" I asked. A spike of jealousy fueled my inquiry as I did not want to lose her company.
Madeline's eyebrows shot up and I realized my question was far too intimate.
"That was rude of me," I said. "My apologies for prying."
"She has picked out at least a hundred and each time I roll my eyes or tell her I am not interested the list grows by a dozen. Do you know what I should do?"
The question was rhetorical, but nonetheless I shook my head.
"I should tell her I want all of them." She flashed a devilish grin. "My own harem in the middle of London. She would spend weeks on end praying for my soul."
"I did not know women could have harems."
"I will be the first."
Her words made me smile as I finished the rest of my haches parmentier. "This is the most delicious meal I have ever eaten," I stated.
"I am glad you enjoyed it as the kitchen prepares this meal at least three times a week."
I grunted. "In no time I will be fat."
Madeline giggled to herself and crossed her legs. In the process she kicked one of the boxes I had set on the floor and peered beneath the table. "You found a violin?" she questioned.
I had almost forgotten my treasure. "I did. There was a card inside with the name Daae."
Madeline furrowed her brow. "Ah, I remember him. He played first violin for several years, one of the youngest men in the orchestra."
I could not help but feel a sense of disappointment he was not a pirate.
"Swedish gentleman." She sat forward as though confiding vital information in me. "Or perhaps I should say he was a Swedish louse. He was having affairs with three different women. Not a rumor, complete fact. One was Simone della Costa, who was a famed soprano from Italy here for a special performance, another was Katya Kornova from Romania. She is only famous because her husband is wealthy. The third-the one who was with his child-Christianna Maria del Rio San something. She was to be the next big star on the stage, but she gave up her career for him. Now we have a new Italiana Prima Donna, one who is more spectacular than Christianna. The best in all of Paris, of course."
Monsieur Daae was so much more than a pirate; he was a hot-blooded scoundrel. The violin was treasure indeed.
"What happened to him?"
"Two of the husbands found out," she said. "The third woman was in a family way and they left Paris for Sweden last I heard. He has been gone two or three years now. I have heard Christianna wants to return to our stage, but Cathedra, our lead soprano, will hear nothing of it. I cannot say I blame her."
"You knew him well, this Daae?"
"Not as well as some women," Madeline said, her tone somewhat virulent. "His given name is Gustave. Black haired, blue eyed, very tall and broad shouldered. Women practically fell over each other any time he waltzed out of the orchestra pit," She blushed as she spoke. "He was a very good looking man and quite….virile, from what I have heard. I suppose with so many mistresses..."
Her voice trailed away as I sat speechless across from her, my eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief. The conversation was quite indecent, and to her surprise and mine I released a hearty laugh.
"He must have been the envy of every other man in the orchestra," I pointed out.
"For shame," Madeline teased. She covered her mouth and giggled to herself, and together we chuckled for quite some time.
As expected, Madeline was first to recover from our childish display. She sat up straighter and took a breath as she gave me a pointed look, which made me straighten my spine and place both feet flat on the ground.
"I have said far too much." She cleared her throat and fanned her face with her hand. "He will not return here, that is for certain. He has ruined the reputation of far too many women and the Opera House owners will have nothing more to do with him. I suppose you could keep the violin if you so desired. I'm sure he has completely forgotten it exists."
"I will learn to play it well," I vowed. "As well as the original owner."
She looked me over, her features soft and warm. Her gaze lingered just long enough on the right side of my face-the ruined side-for me to notice. I watched her closely for a grimace or sign of disgust but she did nothing more than reach across the table and place her hand over mine. For a long moment she regarded me in silence, like a mother proud of her child's new interest.
"I will not be able to pay you a visit until late tomorrow night, so you have plenty of time to practice."
Disappointment must have shown on my visage as she gave a sigh and frowned sympathetically.
"We have a special performance for a guest." Madeline explained as she stood up very straight and held her head high like a show horse. "The Queen of Spain is attending our opera along with many honored guests. We are to be presented with special awards from the queen herself."
The news surprised me, as I knew the queen was not popular. Over the months I had heard many unflattering remarks about Queen Isabella II of Spain. Undignified, unrefined, and a plain-faced sow, the gypsies called her. They spit when they spoke of her and cursed her reign simply because she was a woman in power.
Naturally I felt a kinship toward the despised Queen of Spain-and a spike of disappointment that I would not see her for myself.
"You will tell me about her visit when you return?" I asked.
Madeline nodded readily. "No detail left out," she promised.
She kissed the tips of her fingers and lightly brushed them against the left side of my face. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn I saw adoration in her gaze. Without the mask covering my scars, however, I knew there was no way she could have adored such a grotesque face.
"Good night, Erik," she said over her shoulder.
Good night, Mother, I wanted to say.
"I will see you tomorrow."