"This is so much better than the foyer," Adele says as she walks to the parson's table. "Much brighter."
"I can turn on more lights if you like," Pere Charles replies, lighting an aqua-colored oil lamp before she has a chance to answer. "I must admit I used to upset my father by leaving lamps burning all through the house. As a child, the cost of the oil never occurred to me…I just liked the brightness."
"Churches tend to be so dark…I wonder at your comfort being a priest…even the chapel here is always dim…it would seem odd if it was otherwise," Christine says, walking to the bay window. Pulling aside the heavy brocade curtain, she looks out into the darkness.
Even with a full moon, the garden is a stark grey contrast to the bright blue and gold of the sitting room. A mild breeze disturbs the branches of the trees casting strange shadows. Drawing the drapes once more, she shivers as she returns her attention to the priest and Madame Giry. Their everyday chatter is comforting as is being locked inside this warm and comfortable home. After too many nights on the road with Pappa, not having to be outside is always a blessing, even though those years are long past.
Ironically, someone referred to as a phantom and a priest are responsible for her current sense of security. Even so, she wishes Erik were with them here rather than still in the foyer. All the talk of drafts and unlocked doors and strange sounds dull the comfort she felt just a moment ago.
"I am quite happy to be inside…dark or light," she says. "The outdoors is so vast. So many unknowns."
"Theaters are dark as well," Adele says.
"I suppose there is something about large buildings not entirely lit that might cause some distress," Pere Charles says. "Even this house, which is large by many measures is filled with nooks and crannies which made excellent hiding places when we were children."
"Exactly," Christine agrees. "There is something about walls and ceilings, however dark, that I find comforting. Looking outside just now, I found myself wondering what or who might be lurking about."
"Are you still worried about someone trying to get in?" Pere Charles asks.
"You must have been concerned – you were testing the locks," Christine replies.
"Living in the city, I always lock the door to our flat…and my office," Adele says, pouring herself a brandy. "Would you like one or two fingers, Pere?"
"I think I shall wait for the cocoa and add a finger to that," he says. "I must still pray my Office and do not wish to be inebriated when speaking to the Lord."
"I never thought there was a problem with spirits and praying," Adele says. "Wine seemed to have played a large part in the life of Jesus and his followers…the first miracle…changing water to wine at the Cana wedding."
"True enough, however, moderation in all things is a good rule and I did indulge a bit earlier this evening."
"Since you spoke about the chocolate, I best look to preparing it…and the tea for M. Khan," Christine says, making her way to the kitchen. "Perhaps by the time the drinks are ready he and Erik will be finished with making certain the house is secure."
Pere Charles moves to escort her.
"No, you sit and chat with Madame," Christine says. "I can manage."
"This door is secure, but I would really like to walk around the house, just to be certain there is no one lurking," Erik says as he looks through the cut glass window. Unable to make anything out since the glass is decorative and only installed to provide light. The peephole in the door itself only allows a view of the immediate front porch. A brief check reveals no one standing in plain sight.
"Well, then let us go," Nadir pushes forward, but Erik blocks his way.
"No, I want to do this myself – for what it is worth, I have some knowledge of the property and can move more quietly…two of us would certainly be seen if there is someone watching."
"But I have my revolver."
"And I have my garrot. Whatever else the thuggees were, they were good teachers on how to sneak up on someone without their knowledge."
"Thus your ghosting at the Garnier?"
"Yes," Erik says simply. "I actually turned myself into a myth while still existing as a person. My mother started me on that road when I was quite young and I was an apt student."
"You seem quite real now."
"Amazing, is it not?" Erik says. "Even in this short time…being with Pere Charles and Christine…and to some extent, Madame Marchand, I feel human, loved and accepted. I no longer have to hide to exist safely."
Nadir frowns, squinting at his friend, finally offering a wry smile. "Yes, I can see that. I knew something was different…your level of sarcasm has diminished. Sadly so, as I quite enjoy our repartee."
"Give me time. I am certain this loveable person will return to his old self," Erik laughs. "Be grateful for any kindness."
Nadir laughs. "Very well. I shall join the others in the sitting room."
"I suspect your presence will ease their minds as well."
"Think of me, think of me fondly when we say good-bye…"
The lyrics soon turn to a simple hum as Christine sings as she strikes a wooden match on the side of the black cast iron stove. Quickly lifting the burner cover, the lighted match is tossed onto the small pile of wood. Satisfied the wood has taken hold, she returns the cover and places the freshly filled kettle to heat.
Isis jumps onto the larder eyeing a small pitcher sitting in the sink.
"Go ahead, there is no longer much there, but lick what you can find, I shall wash it when you are finished," she says, washing the cups from her earlier conversation with Pere Charles.
Not since Pappa died has she felt such comfort just being close to someone. Loving Erik brings about an entirely different range of emotions. With him, she is often the one who gives comfort. Despite their difference in age and his incredible intellect, many times he is more like a little boy…insecure and afraid of being judged. Having learned more of his background and what might have been had he been raised in this household rather than his mother's she only appreciates him more.
With Pere Charles, who she suspects would be as loving and kind were he not a priest and wishes he might have married and had children, there is an ease being in his presence – being able to talk to him about Erik…both her love and her concerns – eased her mind about the upcoming nuptials.
"So, his deformity does not disturb you…it is quite severe…even more so than Emilie's if I am being honest."
The comment took her aback for a moment. "Does his face disturb you?" she countered.
"Not the physicality as much as how much it must have affected him all these years," the older man said. "Emilie was protected here. She was loved and knew kindness and gentleness. Even so strangers were cruel. Our mother did her best with bonnets and ribbons to cover her face, but soon Emilie refused to leave the house, except for the garden. Even then, the occasional townsperson strolling by would see her…and shun her. From what I gather Erik was abused by his own mother and that sort of treatment often hardens one's heart and creates a deep rage and hatred toward others."
"I know a little of his past and even experienced some of his more negative feelings myself. But, there is so much more to him. He wears the cloth mask most of the time…as he has done here…it matters more to him than to me, I think."
"We all need our armor. You are quite an exceptional woman and Erik is lucky to have you in his life."
Making this trip has been such a blessing for all of them. She is more than happy to take advantage of this home and the warmth and love they are finding here.
That song. How he hates that song. After Raoul returned home from the opera humming the melody, his initial pleasure about the boy enjoying his evening quickly turned to annoyance and later rage at the girl who sang the song that night.
"Think of me."
After meeting with the strumpet again, all Raoul would talk about was Christine. Her voice. Her beauty. What fun they had that summer at Perro Guirec.
Even dismissing the father and daughter did not diminish Raoul's obsession. Time would cure the lovesick boy, he believed. After six years, he began showing interest in other young women of his stature. Phillippe never intended to marry himself – the family and all the properties took up too much of his time and raising his sisters and the boy was fulfilling in its own right. Still, there must be an heir. As it would turn out both Elizabeth and Margaret were barren. Carrying on the Chaney name was up to Raoul.
For himself, he found pleasure in his relationship with La Sorelli – she was content in being his mistress and over the years their early passion settled into a comfortable routine resembling marriage.
Raoul, however, even if he chose to address his physical needs with one of the ballet rats, he must still marry someone of his class. He must father a child…a son…to continue the line. That wish was no longer possible and it was all her fault.
They all seem so happy here…for the moment. The policeman thought by confessing his involvement, explaining how he was the one who killed Raoul would settle the issue. Better if he had kept his story to himself. While suspicious, the story about the robbery gone awry made sense. His brother was always a sloppy drinker and was accosted fairly often returning home from his adventures. The intention was finding the criminals who left him to die.
"I only want to find the person who killed him," Phillippe insisted to the magistrate. "He died for a watch, a flask and a pistol. Raoul would have happily given those things to anyone who asked."
"Good hearted was he?" the foreign looking man with the strange hat asked.
Phillippe had not really paid much attention to him.
"Yes…he was. Raoul was kind…soft, perhaps too soft," Phillippe replied. "I am ashamed to admit this was not the first time I found him drunk on the steps…robbed, but never beaten…certainly not shot…dead." The effort to keep control of his emotions began to crack. The grey-blue eyes filled with tears. "He was harmless. Who could do this to someone so much at their mercy?"
Did M. Nadir Khan think he was going to sooth his grief with the truth…that his brother was actually the aggressor? Even if he did initiate the assault, it was her fault – tempting and taunting him, trying to get him to marry her.
"Too smart for his own good." Well, now he could deal with the lot of them. Dealing with the priest was discomfiting, but what must be must be. He should have checked the locks earlier.
"Only a short while longer…when they are gathered together." Cracking the door of the cramped broom closet, he adjusts himself to look out. In his efforts, he accidently kicks the canister of kerosene at his feet he brought with him, bending down quickly to keep the oil from spilling. "Damnation," he mutters.
Seeing Isis has finished her snack, when Christine reaches for the pitcher Isis hisses. The hair on her back raises up and with a short growl, she jumps off the larder and plants herself at Christine's feet.
"Whatever is wrong? Not enough cream?" Christine asks, shaking her head. Reaching down to scratch the cat's head, Isis pulls away…her tail flipping back and forth. "Isis?"