Dance
MacabreParis, Late Spring, 1881
Messieurs Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin,
the new owners of the
Paris Opera House, that fabulous edifice built by Charles Garnier,
argued
over the economic future of their latest business venture. An enormous
investment was at stake! The two managers stood next to a large
oak desk,
it's glistening surface covered with various newspaper clippings.
Firmin,
the taller and more forceful of the two men, examined the print on
a paper
just handed to him by Madame Giry, one of his employees.
"What on earth, Madame!" Firmin uttered a disgusted snort
of impatience.
"Have you discovered the Phantom of the Opera sitting in Box five again?
Did he not leave you a generous tip after last night's performance?"
Firmin's words were cruel and brusque for he considered this
person to be
unbalanced mentally and a liar. What further irritated him was
the
hysterical state she appeared to be in, quite a change from her normal
pomp
and circumstance.
The matronly woman, her figure like a thick stovepipe stuffed
in an
unfashionable black dress, wore a small furry hat perched above black
coils
of hair laced with wiry grey. She wiped enormous tears from her
pudgy
cheeks and aspired to compose herself. She lifted a round sausage of
an arm
and pointed to the copy of the day's L'Epoque Firmin held. A
large red
circle under the Obituary heading jumped off the page.
"It is him!" she cried. "Don't you remember Inspector Fauré
telling us
that Christine Daae called the Opera Ghost 'Erik'? This is him...I
know
it! He hasn't been seen for several weeks...and now...he won't
be needing
Box five anymore." She burst into fresh sobs as she pressed a
wrinkled
handkerchief to her face and fled from the room.
"Dear God, she is demented beyond belief! What a loon!"
Moncharmin said,
looking to his financial partner for confirmation. But Firmin
stared
thoughtfully at the paper.
"She is insane. If I were certain this was true, I would
sack her at
once. " He was remembering the last lamentable accident which happened
when
he sacked the illustrious Mme. Giry. He shuddered with violence
as he saw
in his mind, for the thousandth time, the massive chandelier in the
Opera
House fall from the pinnacle of the ceiling onto the audience below.
He
would always hear the cries of terror and grief as his patrons scrambled
over each other to escape the catastrophe. Only one person had
been
killed, the woman he himself had hired to replace Mme. Giry.
The Phantom
of the Opera's will prevailed that time, Mme. Giry's current
presence was
proof of that. He was fearful of what else the Phantom might
do if he
discovered his personal concierge dismissed.
"Until I know for certain that he is truly dead, thanks to the
assistance
of our 'anonymous' employee, I won't rest at ease."
Moncharmin shuffled around the desk and bent his short frame
to get a
better look at the ad which Firmin had tossed on the desk top.
It simply
said, 'Erik is dead."
"Dead?" he whispered as cowardice stirred within him.
"If that's what it takes...." Firmin pointed to the newspaper
clippings on
the oak desk, his expression aghast with disbelief.
"Armand, what ever have we done to deserve this? Look here,
"OPERA SINGER
KIDNAPPED!" "COMTE de CHAGNY FOUND MURDERED!" "THE PHANTOM
OF THE OPERA
STRIKES AGAIN!" "THE OPERA GHOST'S LOVE TRIANGLE!" His
rich baritone
voice was accented with righteous indignation.
"But Firmin, the article says that the inspecting Magistrate,
M. Fauré has
declared it was a love triangle between the Comte and his younger brother,
a fight for Mlle. Daae's affections! He wouldn't even abide
any mention
of...the Phantom. Said it was poppycock!" M. Moncharmin
looked eager to
put the ugly scandal behind them and look to the future.
"Good things have come our way. Our ticket receipts have
gone through the
roof since the disappearance of Christine and the Vicomte de Chagny.
We
are sold out for one solid year! All except Box five, that is...his
box,
the Opera Ghost's."
"You and I both know the Ghost is real!" Firmin leaned
across the desk
and rested his weight on two slender palms.
"Perhaps this fiasco
has benefitted our pocketbooks, but I refuse to allow that maniac to
embarrass me any further with his hellish pranks. I've decided
that it is
time for us to do something drastic to keep the Phantom at bay.
No longer
will I allow us to be preyed upon!"
"Us? Did you say we are to do something?" Moncharmin
stared at his
partner. "What will we do?"
Almost as if on cue from a prearranged plan, a light knock sounded
on the
other side of the office door and Firmin barked, "Come in!"
A tall figure, dressed in a sweeping black cloak with a billowing
hood
pulled over its face entered the room on silent cat-like feet.
The shadow
of a person stepped forward several paces and paused folding black
leather
gloved hands across its chest, waiting.
M. Moncharmin's complexion drained to a ghastly white and his
wide mouth
fell open in sheer surprise and terror.
"Armand!" snapped Firmin, reading the transparent thoughts of
his partner,
"This is not the Ghost! Come back to your senses!" With
a mutter under
his breath he added, " if you have any!"
Moncharmin blinked his eyes in disbelief, not able to relax just
yet.
"This is the gentlemen we were told about, the one with...ahem...no
'official' name." Firmin attempted to explain to his partner.
The mysterious man remained silent, watching them so intently
that they
both began to feel nervous.
"I told you I intend to rid ourselves of this cursed Phantom,
once and for
all," Firmin said as he turned his attention to their guest.
"Sir, I am told that you are quite familiar with the subterranean
territory of our Opera House and that you may be able to help us locate
that individual known as 'the Opera Ghost?'"
"Have you seen him?" sputtered Moncharmin, still terrified.
His short
compact frame trembled with fear and his padded knees knocked together
behind the desk.
"I know where he lives. " The shadow spoke in a wintry voice.
"Wonderful! Splendid!" Firmin clapped his hands together.
"We are
prepared to offer you the same fee that our esteemed state provides
you for
your services. We want you to persuade this vexatious individual
to leave
us...forever! Do you understand?"
"Usual fee?" Moncharmin asked, his puffy face a mask of wide-eyed
ignorance as he stared from Firmin to the shadow.
A stuffed envelope which Firmin shoved across the desk was at
once
snatched by the shadow who made it disappear in some inner pocket of
his
cloak. Without so much as a 'good day' or 'thank you for your
business',
the dark shade exited the room, leaving the two managers standing alone.
"Who on earth was that?" demanded the confused and distressed
Moncharmin.
"That individual lives here in our Opera House and performs...services
for
the state," Firmin gestured with the elegant movements of a conductor.
"Protecting important visitors...guarding them, etc., etc. It
seemed you
and I inherited much more than we bargained for when we bought this
place!"
"Indeed! Indeed!" bustled Moncharmin. "We'll loose
far too much money if
we allow these sort of tragedies to happen here. Just can't tolerate
any
more! Partners should stand together, don't you think?"
He stared at the
closed doors, thinking of the mysterious shade, his brow furrowed in
unpleasant thought.
A subterranean lake lay still and dark in perpetual blackness
deep beneath
the stage floor of the Paris Opera House. Here below the fifth
cellar
exists a night so thick no light can ever penetrate. In that
black void, a
solitary figure, the man who at times was called 'Erik', cursed in
despair.
Mournful, weary sobs echoed and reverberated like a bevy of bats
about the
defeated shoulders of the person known as the Opera Ghost.
He wanted to die, was more than ready to surrender his life having
lost
all to this wretched world of human beings. His heart was lost,
his
dreams...and he'd come so close to achieving them...resting in his
grasp
for a second before vanishing like smoke, like a whisper into the
night...the cursed night. He had come so close to capturing her
heart...and now he was so utterly defeated. Why couldn't he just
vanish...evaporate into nothingness? It had been his plan to
lay down and
rest, finally at peace, beneath this Opera House he himself had helped
to
build.
A sigh full of torture and melancholy was torn from his desperate,
wounded
soul. Death would bring her back to him, his beloved Christine,
one last
time. She had promised to come and bury him here in the darkness
after
slipping the gold wedding band she now wore onto his dead finger.
He had
forced her to promise she would come back, forced her to promise to
wear
the ring until she returned. She would come in honor of him and
of his
love for her... A sob wracked his thin shoulders and he shook
with sorrow.
Why did he have to force her to promise? No matter, she
would come. But
not until he died! And he couldn't bring himself to do it!
What would happen now? He had sent all her things, the
precious letters
and her gloves, all he had left of Christine Daae, to that damned Persian!
That chief of police from Persia had shadowed his every move from the
moment he'd arrived in Paris so many years ago. All her things
were gone
and the Persian had placed Erik's obituary in L'Epoque, just as he'd
requested of him. That was seven days ago and still he breathed!
Still he
lived! He sobbed until his voice was ragged and raw, that hauntingly
beautiful voice which had almost persuaded Christine to love him...almost.
If not for his ugly face, she would have been his!
He threw his weak, malnourished body down onto the cold gravel
shore next
to the lake and writhed in agony. Clenched tight in one sallow
bony fist
was a small stoppered bottle, so like a miniature perfume bottle, fluted
and elegant. It held not a fragrant perfume, but a bitter, fast
acting
poison. At the end of the stopper was the image of a minute glass
skull.
It was his own face reflected back at him, mocking him. The face
of the
living dead. He would be dead if he could just drink, one sip
and his
despicable life would be over. But he couldn't lift a hand to
his mouth,
he was too weak, too afraid. All the cries of revulsion, the
screams of
horror which had been buried in his tortured mind, years and years
of
shrieks and yells, erupted afresh in his memory and forced him deeper
into
an abyss of loneliness.
But as he cursed and gnashed his teeth and hot stinging tears
ran down the
taut yellow skin of his face, the man known as the Phantom of the Opera
wrestled with the same spark of stubborn life, that proud determination
which had enabled him to survive and live despite cruel treatment as
a
monster, a freak. He had survived life as a prized pet, an oddity,
escaping death many times, starting over more times than he could remember.
Now he needed to die and couldn't bring himself to do it.
Oh, I am so weak, he denounced himself, too cowardly to die,
too exhausted
to live. He drew himself up to his feet and began to shuffle away in
the
darkness, moving like an elderly man. Disappointment crushed
in on him.
What should he do? Where else could he go?
"I haven't the strength..." he whispered to absent ears, "...couldn't
begin to decide..."
The anonymous person employed on a regular basis by the state,
and now by
the new owners of the Opera House, had no difficulty finding the famous
Opera Ghost. Jacques Satie smiled, his lips twisting with smug
assurance
in the darkness. Those two bubbling jackasses, M. Richard and
M.
Moncharmin, could have saved themselves a lot of money for the object
of
their wrath was making an abominable amount of noise. With
satisfaction
he realized this new job would take no time at all to complete.
He felt as
much pity and sympathy for the Opera Ghost as he would if he were going
to
rid the world of a dangerous dog, a rabid, useless animal. He
liked the
idea of no more traps to guard against in the crawlspaces and catwalks,
no
more tricks and dangerous pranks once he rid the managers of this
troublemaker.
Fortune smiled on him as the Ghost seemed too absorbed in his
own loud
misery to note Jacques' presence. This made his attack a surprise
and he
encountered no resistance at all from the blubbering creature as he
crept
behind and clubbed him into unconsciousness with the tapered wooden
baton
he kept in a slender pocket of his cloak.
Jacques lifted the still form over his shoulder like a bundle
of straw and
hauled him up through the maze of cellars to an area where he could
exit
into the street through a side door at ground level. Earlier
he had seen
several wagons parked here, across from the street vendors. It
was his
efficient intention to deposit the Phantom in one of these conveyances.
Let
them deal with the disposal of the body! In his younger days
he would have
sold the corpse for the extra money. Several doctors would pay
him
generously, if illegally, for the privilege of having cadavers to work
on.
But the bulge of money in the fat envelope he felt pressing against
his
chest allowed him the luxury of simply doing the job the managers had
assigned him. Besides, the lunatic slung over his shoulder probably
didn't
have enough meat on his bones to give a physician any challenge!
When he reached the side exit, he cracked open the door to peer
outside.
Momentarily blinded by the sunlight, his eyes stung with tears and
he
blinked rapidly to get a good look at his options.
Several wagons were covered with tarps and blankets. A
few were stacked
too full and Jacques could find no place to put the repulsive creature.
At
last he found a wagon with an narrow straw-covered spot, just big enough
to
hold the slender freak. Better
make sure he's dead, the hired
assassin thought as he pushed the body off his shoulder into the wagon.
Warm blood trickled across one of his wrists and soaked into the lower
edge
of his gloves and sleeve. Though he was all too familiar with
stories of
the ugly man, as the ghost was called, the living death's head which
dwelt
in the same darkness as he, himself, Jacques didn't fear anything.
Nothing
could be that ghastly, not after all he had seen and done, the men
he had
killed with and without weapons, the corpses he'd robbed from graves.
It
took more than ghost stories or some poor mad fool to frighten him!
He reached down to feel for a pulse against the still form's
pale neck,
the ugliness of the face was hidden in the dark folds of a black cloak.
Jacques' broad flat fingers moved quickly and detected a faint twitch
beneath the skin. One more blow from his baton would probably
do the
trick, just to be sure. As he began to reach for his weapon once again,
the
bleached hand of a skeleton shot up and grasped his own wrist with
a fierce
strength.
The startled thug cried out and quickly abandoned all further
thought of
attack as the blood-soaked hood covering the Opera Ghost's face fell
back.
The sight so chilled his already frozen heart that he cried out again,
like
a frightened child and pried the monster's claw off of his arm.
To hell with him, he thought, running back to the side entrance.
They'll
never know! He told himself as his heart pounded in fear and
alarm...won't
know he's not dead...I won't tell them..." He disappeared into
the
darkness and refused to stop running until he at last found his own
lair,
hidden in the bowels of the Opera House.
Built ten miles west of the town of Epernay, the Chateau de Leon
was the
home of Jean Luc de Leon, otherwise known to everyone as 'the Judge'.
Gone
were the miles of streets and storefronts of Paris, gone the magnificent
stone edifices and the wonders of architecture in the world famed capital,
gone the hustle and bustle of grand commerce and city life, the flat
greys,
browns, rusts, and whites which were the staple of building materials.
Green pastures rolled away on either side of the river Marne
as fields of
wildflowers and blossoming crops delighted the eye with vibrant yellows,
lavenders, pinks and blues. Thatched huts and cottages dotted
the horizons
as the sweet fragrance of alfalfa, barley, and wheat infused
the spring
air. Flocks of blackbirds rose from beneath the verdant sea of
grass,
vaulting into the turquoise sky with the graceful turns of their aerial
ballet before plummeting back to the earth to disappear beneath the
green
canopy. As the wagon approached Epernay, the fields filled with
row after
row of vineyards.
A turn off the main road led to the parish of Father Samuel Paré,
the sole
spiritual manager of one of the most historical churches in Champagne.
Almost three hundred years old, it had been built with the sweat and
labor
of the country folk who paid tribute to God with the hard labor of
their
hands, carving grapevines and clusters of heavy grapes from oak and
pine
and mahogany to weave into the construction of their church. Pillars,
altars, pews, all exquisite offerings of love from strong humble hands,
artistry of the meek.
Exhausted, Rameau sighed with relief as he stopped the wagon
beside a
porch of pieced stone stairs and glanced up at a pair of narrow stained
glass windows. He jumped down and stretched his stiff back.
This is where
younger men could outshine him, they didn't suffer the kinks and knots
of
age in their backs and legs. Oh, he could probably toss most
of them into
the dust, but he would surely pay for it later! It just wasn't
the same
anymore.
"Hector!" A boy's voice rang out from the arched doorway
of the church.
The high clear youthful voice belonged to Father Pare. Hector
was
accustomed to the priest's voice, as were all the parishioners and
he
smiled, watching the small round man approach. The priest radiated
good
humor and a pleasant sense of well-being which was highly contagious.
"You made good time, as usual!" Father Paré complimented
him as he
reached out to give Hector a hug around the hips. The difference in
their
height was so great, Hector could almost rest his arm on Father Paré's
shoulders.
The priest chuckled. "You are a giant, my friend! And I'm grateful
for
it, too. This is quite a load of boxes and I need every bit of
your
strength!"
Hector wandered to the back of the wagon where he had carefully
organized
the supplies for Father Paré since they were to be unloaded
first. Six
large wooden crates. He unlatched the back of the wooden wagon
and let the
gate swing down and slid out the first two boxes.
"Where do you want them?" He waited for the priest to answer.
Father Paré didn't respond. Rameau could see the
top of his head above
the far side of the wagon, a bald spot surrounded by a halo of brown
hair.
"Father!" Hector chided himself for the irritation in
his voice. The
priest wouldn't blame him for being tired, he just wanted to get home.
"Who is this?" Samuel stared down into the wagon.
Hector grunted and set the boxes down. "Who is what?"
He leaned over the
wooden railing.
"Mon Dieu!" Rameau cried aloud. His face blazed red with embarrassment
as
he realized he'd just taken the Lord's name in vain in front of the
priest!
"You didn't know he was there?" Father Paré's small
blue eyes were
wrinkled with concentration, taking the surprise in stride as if
unusual
occurrences were a normal part of his day.
Rameau shook his head. "I never noticed him! Do you
think he was there
all the time? Coming all the way from Paris?" An odd sensation
crept over
the large man.
The priest shrugged his shoulders and thrust an arm over the
side of the
wagon to touch the still body. There was no response. He
pulled back the
edge of the black hood to feel for a pulse, hoping the man was still
alive.
Hector gave a great yell and leapt back from the wagon unconsciously
making the sign of the crucifix with a tanned muscular hand.
Father Paré
gasped at the sight of a terrible, blood soaked face.
"Is it...a man?" Hector shuddered. Had he traveled
all that way from
Paris with that thing in the back of his wagon? It was too horrible
to
consider.
"Lord have mercy!" The priest shook his head. "Who
could have beaten
another human so fiercely? He'll surely be scarred for life!"
Father Paré laid a warm hand against the cold neck to
search for a pulse.
"He's alive, but barely." Both of them were wondering what to
do. The
answer was simple.
"Let's take him to the Judge. You don't mind if I ride
along, do you?"
Father Paré waddled to the front of the wagon, his heavy thighs
chaffed
against each other as he hoisted himself onto the bench seat to wait
for
Hector.
Fear had parched the driver's mouth. He tried to moisten
his lips as he
quickly unloaded the four remaining crates for the parish and wondered
at
the first taste of cowardice he'd experienced since his youth.
A long gravel driveway led to the entrance of the Chateau. To
the left, a
weak, wandering tributary from the Marne fed water into a small man-made
lake which sparkled like a happy, blue sapphire. A thatch of
trees lines
its banks. Several small cottages were scattered off to the sides
in all
directions, like moons orbiting the planet of the Chateau.
The Judge's home was two storied, constructed in stone with brick
trim and
covered with creeping ivy vines, blossoming wisteria, and climbing
roses.
Below the Chateau, a maze of long corridors had been carved out of
the
chalky earth to house the Judge's passion, champagne. The chalk
gave
flavor to the vineyards of grapes growing throughout the region and
allowed
the production of miles and miles of caves tunneled through the earth
to
house the fermenting bottles of champagne. The whole of the nearby
town of
Epernay sat atop the caves, like a dragon guarding its prized underground
treasures. Though most of the world famous Champagne companies
have large
'houses' devoted to production, hundreds of small 'houses' exist due
to a
fascination by their owners for the science of blending the effervescent
wine, a desire to make their own mark with their own creations.
Judge de
Leon was one of these men.
Chateau de Leon was his imprint, his logo. Twenty years
ago, he launched
his venture on a slow scale, buying the ripe grapes from vineyards
around
the region and attempting to create his own special Champagne.
He
delighted in every step of the laborious process, even the temporary
set-backs he had endured. Now he grew his own grapes on his lands
and
worked on his blends and mixtures with the determination of a scientist
trying to unlock the mysteries of life.
Father Paré told Hector to drive to the side door knowing
the Judge would
likely be in his study at this time in the afternoon. Hector
complied and
Father Paré clambered down the side of the wagon and walked
over to knock
on the glass panes of the double side doors. He saw a blur of
white from
the opposite side of the glass and knew the Judge was moving to meet
him.
"Samuel!" The Judge's presence was forceful and matched the buoyant
volume
of his voice which was deep and scratchy.
"What are you up to, friend?" He reached a large hand
out to clasp the
priest by the shoulder. A faint sour rotting smell permeated
the air
between them, something Samuel had learned to ignore. He noticed
the thick
cotton bandage obscuring the lower right portion of the Judge's face
was
larger than before.
Samuel Paré pointed to the wagon, "We need your
advice, Messieur."' His
own small fat hand clasped the arm of the white linen jacket the Judge
wore
like a uniform and led him outside.
Jean Luc de Leon considered himself to be in the prime of life.
He was no
longer a young man, soon to be fifty-five in the fall, but neither
was he
ignorant and stupid, that terrible curse of youth! Until
recently, he
knew he was attractive, almost six feet tall, muscular chest and arms,
broad shoulders, stomach reasonably flat for his age, looked striking
in a
suit or his robes when he was working. His face was oval with
angular
planes, entirely masculine with tan skin, dark curly hair and brows,
now
shot with a few grey hairs at the temple. His eyes were clear
and grey,
intelligent and quick. His nose, long and straight, his lips
were full and
hinted at moodiness or pouting. His presence was like a blast
of air,
either warm and inviting, or cold and judgmental, critical and condemning,
a man who could not be ignored. Conviction and stubbornness permeated
his
life and relationships and usually allowed him to prevail. Until
now.
"What is this you've brought me?" the Judge said. "Rameau,
this 'package'
wasn't on my list." His statement was friendly and curious as
he stared at
the still black form in the back of the wagon while Hector remained
subdued, standing at a distance.
Samuel began to chatter, as was his custom. "It seems Hector
didn't
notice this fellow hitching a ride in the wagon until he reached the
parish. He's still alive..."
"He looks like death itself, quite literally!" Jean Luc
peered under the
bloody hood. "Poor fool! Can you imagine living with a
face like that?"
Unconsciously, his broad hand rose to his cloth-covered chin and touched
the soft gauze fabric.
"What should we do with him?" Samuel winked at Hector who
stood at a
distance from the wagon. "Shall we call Dr. Valéry
to tend him?"
"For heaven's sake! Don't I pay that man enough already?
I don't intend
to give another franc to him unless I have to, and why do you assume
I
should pay for this...this thing to be treated by a doctor? You're
the
priest! You're supposed to help people in need."
"Yes, I know, Jean-Luc, that's why I am here. Perhaps there
is something
else you can do for him, besides a doctor."
The Judge spotted the wooden barrel full of new corks.
"Ah! They were
ready! Fine, fine!" He patted the side of the wagon, pleased
with the
thought of making his Champagne bottles look professional with his
own
stamped corks.
"Angelique's things are here...priceless treasures from an aunt
she barely
knew...."
"Sir?" interrupted the priest who had followed the Judge around
the wagon
like a small boy pestering his father for a favor.
"Um?" Jean-Luc looked down into Samuel's expectant face and then
into
Hector's fearful one. "He's a freak!" he said as if to
allay his wagon
master's unease. "Very well, good Father," The Judge squared
his
shoulders.
"Why not? I help hundreds of freaks all the time, don't
I, purchasing
their medicines, clothing, blankets, eh? How many lepers do you
have now,
Samuel?"
"Seventy-three, Judge, and only because of your generosity!"
Samuel wore
a huge grin.
"More like my wife's lack of sense. Before you know it,
she'll come down
with leprosy and the both of us will be rotting away!" Jean-Luc
pursed his
lips and stared at the still form in wagon, considering.
"Your mercy," Samuel began, "and your wife's willingness to help
me nurse
these people ...it is beyond mere words for me to express. I believe
she
truly has a gift of healing."
"I know, I know!" The Judge cut off his words and spoke
to Hector. "Take
this thing and put him in the caretaker's cottage with the rest of
these
boxes. He may stay there until he's better, if he lives!"
Jean-Luc moved
away from the wagon and walked back toward his study.
"I'll tell my wife you've found another wounded 'pet' for her
to tend.
That should keep her out of trouble for awhile, don't you think?"
Samuel bit the end of his tongue and nodded thanks, but he was
no longer
smiling.
What a face it was! Angelique stared at a gaunt, malnourished
form. It
was the face of a skeleton, pale and waxy, with a touch of yellow jaundice
to the translucent skin. The nose began and ended so quickly
it was almost
nonexistent. A pair of thick dark eyebrows snaked across the
top of two
dark eye cavities while a thin gash of a mouth with pale, blueish lips
twitched in pain. The man rolled his head beneath the rain of
gentle water
droplets and another long deep sigh escaped his mouth. His head
was almost
completely bald, a few long dark locks of hair grew above the forehead,
behind the ears. It was the face of a living skeleton!
As close as
someone could get to looking dead without actually being a corpse!
Angelique's tender heart wrenched in sorrow as she saw deep bloody
gashes
atop the fellow's head. Her need to do something to ease his
suffering
grew by the second. She bit her lip in impatience waiting for
Samuel to
move out of the way and let her examine the injuries. Whether
or not any
demons had been exorcized from the man was beyond her knowledge.
But the
moment she saw his injuries, her own fear fled into the darkness, replaced
with a determination to cure and heal. The palms of her hands
grew warm,
burning with the urge to touch and clean his lacerated skin.
Father Paré stood and grinned like a child who had
endured an unpleasant
learning situation and survived to tell about it! With relief
he
announced, "There now! Your turn."
He wandered across the room and stared out the black windows.
Night had
descended and his body felt overly weary.
"Think I'll sit here while you tend to his needs."
He pulled a white
sheet from a large overstuffed chair. Before he could sit down,
Angelique
asked him to start a pot of hot water for her on the stove. That
was all
she requested of him as she organized the collection of oils and ointments,
bandages, scissors and wash cloths she routinely kept in a large wicker
basket for the frequent occasions her skills were needed.
As tiny hollow bubbles formed on the bottom of the pan, she decided
she
needed more light to inspect the fellow's wounds. Father Paré
had melded
with the thick padding of the chair cradling his rotund body.
His head
leaned on an open palm, the elbow resting on the arm of the cushioned
seat.
Thin dark hair around his scalp reminded Angelique of a scraggly
bird
nest. High arched brows branded his face with a perpetual expression
of
surprise, the innocent wonder that children wear. A short, blunt
nose,
padded checks, a wide, friendly mouth were arranged around a small
reddish
moustache and a free-ranging beard.
She heard muffled snorts coming from his direction and shook
her head in
amusement. Samuel could fall asleep faster than anyone she'd
ever met, and
in the strangest places. If she sang at the top of her lungs,
he would
snore through the concert! With a downward glance, she realized
she had
neglected to remove her cloak. Fear will do that, make you forget
the
obvious, she told herself. What a nasty beginning to her evening!
She unfastened her lightweight brown cloak and tossed it across
a low
pile of wooden crates stacked next to Father Paré's chair.
I must remember
to unpack them, thinking of the various articles and treasures she
had just
inherited from her late aunt. These boxes arrived in the same
wagon as our
guest, she thought, looking down at the unconscious man.
Behind the piles of crates she spied a walnut end table.
She needed this
to set the candles on and wound her way through the boxes to lift the
rather heavy table over Samuel's oblivious head, carrying it to the
sofa.
At times this cottage was used for visitors, or hired help, if the
Judge
deemed it necessary. He fired the last caretaker two months ago
after he
found the man letting poachers escape without suffering dire consequences.
The building was small but nicely equipped with stove, sink,
fireplace and
a fine set of oak bookshelves. An old harpsichord butted up against
the
wall in one corner, a tall wrought iron hat and coat rack stood by
the
door, a pine table with two bench seats, the large beige stuffed chair
currently holding the priest, the maroon davenport, and a hooked rug
beneath the large pieces of furniture filled the main room.
The bedroom contained a bed with a feather mattress, an old armoire
with
partially busted doors, and several dark wooden chests with tarnished
brass
fittings. A make-shift privy and a short bathing tub were hidden
behind a
screen in the far corner and thin white lawn curtains hung in delicate
folds over the windows in both rooms.
Angelique placed the candelabra and Samuel's small candle on
top of the
end table, wiping off a thick layer of dust with the hem of her skirt.
Tonight she could pass for one of the maids in her simple white blouse
and
narrow brown skirt. Her heavy dark brown hair was twisted up
in a simple
braided knot; she hadn't felt like fixing it properly.
She bustled over to the stove to check on the water. It
would do now,
warm and comforting to the touch. This she poured into a shallow
basin she
discovered sitting empty on the counter next to the sink and carried
it
across the room, setting it on the end table. She used the small
wooden
crate as a seat for herself and pulled her supply basket over to nestle
against her feet.
Dear Lord, what a sight he is! She sighed as she studied
the man's
garments, wondering how to unfasten his cloak. She felt with
her tapered
fingers around his neck until she found the toggle fastener and released
it, pushing the garment off his shoulders and back onto the sofa.
He was
dressed like a proper gentleman in elegant evening clothes. He
wore a
pleated white dress shirt which looked as if it had been recently pressed.
Dark rust patches of dried blood stained the front as well as the white
bow
tie beneath his chin.
He wore a curious vest crafted of navy blue satin with an intricate
pattern embroidered across the front in fine, navy silk thread.
To her,
the pattern looked oriental, like ones she had seen woven in expensive
carpets, perhaps Persian. The suit jacket was black and of the
most
fashionable cut. Inwardly she acknowledged the tailor who did such
exquisite work would be horrified to find his handiwork looked the
same on
his client as it did on the hanger, for this man was cadaverous, he
was so
thin!
Angelique removed the jacket and unbuttoned the vest. She
tried to avoid
looking at his face, it was too disturbing. Fear shot through
her as she
touched cold flesh. He is almost dead, I can feel death hovering
on him.
Countless times she had nursed people and just as they died, this peculiar
chill descended on them. She remembered once holding a tiny finch
in her
hand as it labored for breath. While it lay on her warm palm
and she
stroked its fluffy feathers with the tip of one finger, she felt the
chill
come and the bird breathed no more. This chill, this cold was
an
announcement, a warning that death had come to claim another soul.
A sense of urgency seized her as she plunged a clean white square
of
Turkish towel into the warm water and began to wipe the stranger's
bloody
wounds with the rough fabric. Her strong fingers grasped his
head, devoid
of resistance or awareness, turning it from side to side as she rushed
to
clean his battered skin. She rubbed hard and when she had finished,
she
rinsed the cloth and wrung it out, only to begin rubbing the backs
of his
hands, the palms and long fingers, noting thick calluses at each tip.
She
unbuttoned the shirt and as she pulled it off his back she exposed
thick
welts, crimson and swollen, across gaunt, jutting shoulder blades.
Her cry
of anger caused Samuel to squirm in his sleep.
Defiance and anger surged through her veins. Live!
Live! She urged her
will on the man with every touch of her hands, every brush of the cloth.
I
won't let death have you tonight. Not as long as I breathe, she
thought.
She walked to the sink and tossed out the bloody water, refilling the
basin
with what remained in the pan on the stove.
Once again she sat down next to her patient and moistened her
washcloth.
The man twitched, a series of small spasms about his neck and shoulder.
She had no idea what to expect if he regained consciousness.
Would he
speak? Could he? Was he simpleminded or deficient in mental
abilities of
some sort? Perhaps someone else chose his elegant clothing for
him, or
then again, maybe he was brilliant with excellent taste. Who
knew? She
washed the rounded top of his skull once more and checked the depth
of the
gashes, wondering if he needed stitches.
As if Father Paré could read her mind, he stirred
in his chair, opened
his eyes and leaned forward to say "How is he?"
"There is terrible bruising all over and he may need a few stitches
here." Angelique pointed to the deepest gash at the back of the skull.
"I can hold him still for you." Samuel stood and stretched.
"I thought you were sleeping." She glanced up at him.
"Well, I feel quite refreshed now." His voice did sound
energized. "Do
you think we need a doctor? I could send for Valentine...."
"Samuel! You know how Val feels about anything less than
perfect! His
first instinct would be to smoother this man, not heal him!"
Horror shone
in her eyes. "I don't want him here. If you call him I
refuse to help you
anymore, ever!"
"Shhh! Angelique! Forgive me for baiting you!"
Samuel rushed to his
friend and patted her shoulder. "Why do you think I never ask
the
magnificent Dr. Valéry to help with the lepers? I know
his philosophy
of...what does he call it?"
"The perfection of life." She tried to calm herself.
"Only the fit
should live."
Samuel could discern the deep sadness coloring her words.
"Oh, I am sorry. I can be tactless at times." Samuel's
voice was infused
with enthusiasm. "I feel certain you will be sufficient
help for this
poor bloke."
"Good! Then go up to the Chateau and bring back some of
the broth Dottie
made for supper." She gave the order and turned her back on the
priest.
"He can't eat!"
"Not for him! I'm starving!" she said.
Father Paré moved toward the door.
"And bring back one of my husband's nightshirts," she added.
"That will please him!" Samuel paused at the door. "You're
not afraid to
be left alone with him?"
She spun around to face him, her brown eyes were wide and glistened
with
moisture.
"He is too cold." Her voice was tinged with fear and no louder
than a
whisper.
"You sense death here?" Father Paré was all
business once more. He had
learned through many years of experience to trust the odd, unexplainable
discernment he had seen Angelique display time and time again.
She nodded her head, unwilling to say 'yes', afraid that admitting
it
would bring it to pass.
Samuel gave her a strange answer. "I don't believe the
good Lord brought
this poor devil here to die tonight. I truly don't. But
if He has, his
last moments will be spent beneath your kind and loving touch."
The priest
disappeared through the doorway.
Father Paré returned an hour later with a small
wooden crate which held a
pan full of chicken broth, loose shreds of stringy meat and chopped
soggy
vegetables. Several heavy flour biscuits were wrapped in a linen
napkin,
slabs of butter and jam embedded within the still warm centers, a flask
of
white wine nestled next to two short fat glasses, two bowls nestled
together with large soup spoons. The tray had been arranged by
Angelique's
aunt, Dorothea. Dottie's domain was the kitchen which she ruled with
an
iron fist. She kept inventory on the food and serving items as
if she were
the manager of a bank guarding valuable deposits.
Samuel noted the quiet inside the cottage and was not surprised
to find
the disturbing guest cradled in the arms of his dear friend who glanced
up
at him as he entered.
"Has he come around then?" he asked in hushed tones.
Angelique shook her head. "I think he's hallucinating.
He's not making
any sense."
The priest set the pan on the stove and started the fire to keep
the soup
warm. He ladled some into the bowls and carried them to
the sofa.
"Why don't you eat while he's sleeping?" he suggested.
She eyed the bowl of soup as hunger twisted in her belly.
"It smells
wonderful! Dottie always insists her chicken soup is medicine
not food!"
Angelique stood and shifted her weight over the sofa to allow the man
to
fall gently back into the cushions. He groaned and collapsed
into the
pillows with restless movements. She accepted the bowl from Samuel
and
they ate in silence.
After the small meal, they began to wrestle
their guest into a clean
cotton nightshirt Samuel had acquired from the Judge.
"I told him it was for me!" Samuel said, laughing.
"But he knew better.
Made some vulgar comment about his hospitality only extending so far!
Jean
Luc is so witty!"
The stranger groaned and resisted their efforts to slide his
arms into the
crisp white sleeves.
"Bring her back, Chagny!" The man's whisper was hoarse as he
grabbed
Samuel's arm with a bony fist.
"Now, now, sir! You're being well looked after here." Samuel
pulled this
hand free and pushed it through a loose cuff as he looked at Angelique.
"What did he say? Who is Chagny?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "He was mumbling earlier, as well.
You can
go, now, Samuel," she said as she carried her bowl to the sink and
gave it
a quick rinse in clear cool water. "I'm going to stay with him
through the
night."
The priest studied her for a moment. "Shall I return when
the sun gets
too high for you?"
"I brought my glasses and I'll keep the windows covered until
twilight
tomorrow. The light will probably irritate his eyes, anyway,"
she replied.
"Besides, I am getting used to creeping and crawling around at night,
like
an insect!"
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Samuel gave a hearty laugh.
"Jean Luc thinks I'm raving mad, staying up to write or take
walks, or a
carriage ride."
"I'm sure he's more understanding than you think."
Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew sharp. "I believe
the correct word
is...patronizing."
"Perhaps you are missing Lucie more than you realize. It
has only been
two months since her wedding." Samuel picked up the wooden tray and
set the
empty soup bowls inside, noting a few fluffy crumbs of biscuit which
he
popped into his mouth.
Angelique's face lit up with the first real smile of the evening.
"I do
miss her, Samuel. The house is so quiet and empty without her.
It took me
some time to get used to Alexandre being gone when he left for medical
school, now I have to get used to Lucie having her own life. To me
she'll
always be a little girl."
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay? I don't want you to
brood on
your troubles until the sun rises!"
"Go home! I'm going to unpack some of these crates."
She stared down at
the man on the sofa. "I don't think he'll harm me."
"Goodnight, Madame de Leon!" Samuel bowed as deeply as his fat
body would
allow.
"You are a buffoon!" She placed her hands on her hips and shook
her head.
The priest drew in a deep breath of mock offense and stood ramrod
straight. "This is how you speak to your priest?" he asked. "I
shall think
of some particularly nasty penance for you while I walk home to my
humble
parish."
The man appeared to be asleep. Too restless to stay seated, she
investigated the wooden crates and found that Hector had thoughtfully
pried
each lid loose earlier that afternoon when he brought in the boxes.
"Excellent! Now I can explore Aunt Regina's treasures! Which
shall I open
first?"
She choose a short narrow crate and began to lift out objects
wrapped in
newspaper and set them on a old table. Once the crate was empty she
sat
down and began to unwrap each item, tossing the newspaper onto a pile
on
the floor.
A second tall crate beckoned her and she pushed back the unveiled
collection of china plates, a brass clock and several pair of candlesticks
to make room for the new treasures to be unearthed. A pile of
the guest's
dress clothes lay atop this crate and she gathered them up to hang
on the
coat rack. When she lifted the blood stained cloak, something
fell from
within the folds onto the carpeted floor with a light thud. She
hung the
garments and dropped to her knees wondering if it had bounced beneath
the
sofa. A glint of glass winked at her and she shoved her arm into
the dark
shadows and felt her fingers close around something very small. Still
kneeling, she drew closer to the candelabra and opened her palm.
A small glass bottle, tinted a faint green held an amber hued
liquid.
The stopper was an exquisite replica of a grinning skull. Without
knowing
why, she knew it must be poison. The bottle spoke of death.
She
considered it, opened the stopper carefully and sniffed the fluid.
A faint
scent of something she couldn't identify. Pushing the skull back
into
place, she dropped the tiny bottle into a deep pocket of her skirt
and
returned to her unpacking.
When the second crate stood empty, Angelique decided to be efficient
and
tidy up the newspapers which littered the cottage floor. She
sat on the
bench at the table, her body and mind weary as she one by one picked
up
each crumpled sheet, blackening her fingers as she smoothed the newspaper
flat. On the very last page, a familiar word caught her attention.
She
stared at the heading and brooded, trying to remember why it felt
important. "COMTE de CHAGNY FOUND MURDERED!" claimed the first
page of the
Paris Gazette. It was dated three weeks ago.
The fellow on the sofa began to cry out in unintelligible syllables,
interrupting her concentration and drawing Angelique to his side like
a
moth to a flame. A skeleton's hand grasped at her own.
"Christine...sweet angel...." He grew still as if comforted by
her
presence. "You came back...."
Poor starved creature, she thought to herself, wondering who
Christine was
and if he was 'poor Erik.'
Angelique fell asleep sitting on the hard floor next to the davenport,
her
hand still prisoner in the stranger's possessive grip. As the
sun dawned,
rosy and warm outside, blinding golden rays of light drifted into the
room
through the gauze of the white lawn curtains and crept up to Angelique's
face. The muscles around her eyes twitched in irritation and
annoyance and
the light glowed red beneath her closed lids.
The sun! Annoyance irked her, urging her to get up and
shut out the light
which had become her enemy. She felt irritated and pulled her
hand free
from the sofa, rubbing her eyes and temples. Her glasses peeked from
the
basket of medical supplies and she quickly put them on. The wire frames
held dark forest green ovals. She cursed the fact the cottage wasn't
decorated with the heavy brocade drapes she used in the Chateau, feeling
sorry for herself and the crosses she must bear to get through each
day
with as little pain as possible. Then remembering the agony her husband
faced, she asked for forgiveness and tried not to think about herself,
anymore.
Water was set on the enamel stove to heat for coffee next to
the pan of
broth keeping warm over a light flame. Angelique used part of
the water to
pour into the basin she'd used last night. She carried it to
the sofa,
deciding to check the stranger's wounds and apply more salve.
When she
touched him, he stirred and opened his eyes. Though he remained
quiet, he
shrank back against the cushions and she felt his eyes study her, cautious
and aware.
"Good morning, Messieur." She peered through the dark lenses
perched on
her nose.
"I am going to change the bandage on your head. You've
been wounded."
Angelique laid her hand on his cheek and found the moment of contact
brought a ragged sob to his throat. His eyes squeezed shut and
his
forehead wrinkled as her strong fingers unwound the soiled bandage
on his
skull.
She could not know that this was impossible for him. No
one touched him.
No one looked at him, at his face, his curse.... His conclusion
was
simple, it was the only one that could be true.
"I am dead." He whispered this as a statement of fact. If this
was death,
he must be in heaven, for an angel which looked like a woman was touching
him. He sighed with relief, struggled against crying. Who
could care in
heaven, if he cried? Maybe now he would never have to struggle
again.
Contentment flooded through his aching frame.
"No, you're not dead. You're at my home, near Epernay."
The angel's voice
was mellifluous to his ears.
"You are very much alive and I intend to keep you that way!"
He began to
tremble and felt a pair of delicate hands cradle his bony shoulders.
"You arrived here yesterday in a wagon from Paris." The
angel's words
sunk into his awareness.
"Paris?" he echoed.
"You have been hurt, your head and back, beaten, I think.
Do you remember
anything?" She was rubbing something onto his head, medicine?
"Beaten?" The horror of reality began to encroach on his
foggy mind.
"Not dead?" He jerked away and stared into a sensitive feminine
face. A
face which was looking back at him...but not screaming...not horrified.
One
of his hands fluttered to his face, to make certain. No! His
mask was
gone. Why wasn't she repulsed? He noticed her adjust the
dark glasses.
She's blind, he told himself. She can't see, that's the reason
she's not
screaming, the only reason she can bear to touch me. At once,
he was
relieved and disappointed. He so wanted to be at peace.
What had
happened? Where was he now? He began to weep, in misery
once again, that
old familiar tormenting friend, misery!
"Don't cry, Messieur! Don't be upset." He felt her warm hands
take a hold
of his face.
"You are safe here, no one will harm you. You need to get
well, to regain
your strength." He didn't want to listen to her. He was supposed
to be
dead. Why didn't he swallow the poison when he had the chance?
He moaned, low and soft. The angel startled him by pulling
him into her
lap, holding him in a tight embrace. Despair and hopelessness
drew him in
like a drowning man. He didn't even have the strength to resist.
"I should be dead...was supposed to be...dead and then...she
promised to
come back...." He choked out the words between sobs.
"You're not supposed to be dead!" The voice was harsh with him.
"That's
why you are here, with me. It's not meant for you to die, not
today!" She
pressed a linen handkerchief next to his face.
"Are you 'Erik'?" she asked, remembering his incoherent muttering
but the
stranger remained unresponsive. Disappointment fell over her,
though
several seconds later he whispered, "Erik is dead."
