Page 49 of Angel's Mask
“That’s ridiculous,” Christine found herself saying aloud.
“I didn’t mean to offend the expert,” Jammes snickered. “A head of fire is better than a death’s head like Buquet claims he saw, I think.”
“A ghost would look dead though, wouldn’t he?” Julianne added. “Or a revenant. Whatever that is.”
“But maybe he’s not a dead person,” Christine again said without thinking and Julianne gave her a curious look.
“You believe the ones who say he’s a demon?” Jammes shot back and Christine was suddenly less happy she had joined them.
“Or something else,” Christine muttered, casting her eyes back to her nearly-drained cup. “Who is to say?”
“I heard from Sorelli, who heard it from her favorite lover, that the management send the Ghost ten thousand francs a monthas a salary!” Jammes went on, ignoring Christine again. And again, Christine rolled her eyes.
“What would a ghost need that much money for?” Élodie laughed. “And do you think he can spare any?”
“Who is it Sorelli is sleeping with again?” Julianne asked. Christine had barely met the prima ballerina, given how separate the worlds of the ballet and the singers were, but she had a better reputation than Carlotta in terms of her character at least. Christine could envision the elegant woman with any manner of well-off patrons at her service.
“Philippe de Chagny,” Jammes drawled, unimpressed. But Christine’s heart jumped to her throat. “He claims some title, I forget what.”
“Count,” Christine said, and all the women looked at her. “He’s Comte de Chagny.”
“How would you know?” Jammes said, but next to her, Julianne had gone wide-eyed.
“Wait, is that...is thathim?” Julianne asked with glee. “No, you said that was the brother! Jammes, does Sorelli’s man have a brother?”
“I have no damn idea,” Jammes scowled. “Sorelli keeps him to herself. Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Christine said flatly. She didn’t. She couldn’t. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want any part of the patrons.”
“You’re right there,” Élodie declared, more serious than Christine had heard her all night. “Men like that aren’t worth chasing. They don’t see people like us as, well,people.”
“Mama, they can’t all be that bad,” Julianne argued. Christine wanted to do the same but Élodie shook her head.
“The men at your opera, the ones that trade and buy ballerinas and divas like the latest fashion, they’re the same kind that thought my mother was a thing they could own and sell,” Élodie said grimly. “You’re safer keeping away. You too, Cécile.”
“Oh, I think I’ve quite given up on any man at all.” Jammes muttered, then chuckled to herself. “I was about to say you’d have better luck in love with a ghost but, well, some of us are.”
Christine scowled and looked into the fire. She knew it was a joke, but she also knew it was true. Or at least close enough to the secret she held. If any of them really knew...they would call her mad. Or a whore or a witch. Something wicked and damned. They didn’t understand that the ghost they feared was an angel and that the girl they teased lived for him entirely.
––––––––
Erik usually didn’tbother with anything other than his opera cape and a good hat in the Opera, but tonight, he had ventured into the waking world. And that meant more precautions. He wore a long, black velvet cloak with a deep hood, and a scarf wrapped around his face. It was over-dramatic perhaps, but no one had ever accused him of subtlety. The disguise meant that no passerby would see his mask, and he could blend into the shadows in alleys and catacombs when needed.
He was at the edge of one such alley now, right off the littleRue Feydeau, watching the building that Christine had entered hours before. It was rash, to have followed her, he knew that. But he hadn’t seen her since the day before, and she had to walk home alone from Bonet’s in the dark.
It had been an hour since Jammes had arrived, to Erik’s slight surprise. The love lives of the company were not his business, but there was a small part of him that was relieved to know Bonet and her lover had reconciled. He had never seen a moment of anything but friendship between Christine and Julianne that would have ignited his jealousy. But he also knew better than to assume the kinds of people others might desire. Still, he had no animosity towards the dresser. There was world of difference between someone like Bonet – poor, female, with African blood and unconventional taste in lovers – and a patron. While noble titles had meant nothing since the latest revolution, the rich still wielded them like swords.
Finally, the front door of the building opened, and Christine stepped into the snowy night. She had a heavy shawl on, and a new hat, to keep the snow at bay, but she still had to be cold. Indeed, he watched from the shadows as she shivered and pulled her shawl tight, her breath forming a cloud before her in the flickering gaslight.
Erik stayed well behind her as she made her way home. Down theRue Feydeauto theRue Vivienne, she walked with a shadow behind her. Erik, like so many Parisians, both hated and respected the modern streets. Paris was orderly, clean, and bright; a beacon of progress. But he preferred the older parts of the metropolis, where the buildings leaned and listed, and once in a while you could see remnants of the city that had stood for centuries peeking through. Places like that were easier to find on the roads Erik would take home.
That city beneath was the Paris Victor Hugo had known and written about, Erik thought to himself; therealParis full of thieves and rebels and monsters, not the tidy, fussy version presented to others in grand spaces like thePlace De L’Opéra. But even in this Paris there remained dangerous things and people. Erik was certainly one of them. But his concern was with the others, like the other shadow that emerged from a dark doorway when Christine cut through the alley between theRue Vivienneand theRue de la Banque.
Erik sneered. This was why he had come. It wasn’t safe for a young, beautiful woman to walk alone, no matter how holy the day. The man moved like a predator, quiet behind Christine as he readied a knife.
The Punjab Lasso made no sound in the winter night, but the man did gasp as the length of catgut trapped his throat. He struggled, slipping in the snow as Erik reeled him in like a floundering fish, pulling the ruffian into the shadows just as Christine turned to look behind her.
Erik kept his hand over his prey’s mouth as he watched Christine. She hadn’t seen, but she did look curiously at the path behind her in the snow. She paused a moment longer, then continued. Erik returned his attention to the criminal in his clutches, sputtering for air as Erik kept the lasso tight around his neck.
