"He killed himself," he replied. "Though it was fortunate for me that he managed it on his own, for I sorely wanted to help him along."
Maude, known as Madame Giry to everyone else in the Opera House, moved closer to him. She smelled like lilies, an erotic scent for a woman nearing fifty. She was the same age his mother would have been, had she lived a full life and not died when he was merely twelve.
The two women had been the best of friends, close as twins from their childhood in the south. They moved together to Paris to pursue dancing careers. His only portrait of his mother was one that Maude had given him of the two women together, and they could hardly have been more different. The young Maude was fair-skinned and fresh-faced, with generous curves, while Erik's mother had the lithe, exotic beauty of her Persian mother and French father.
Ten years ago, when Erik was in trouble and had nowhere else to turn, he came to the only friend he knew. Maude had been his protector ever since.
"Buquet was a filthy man who did not know to keep his mouth shut. I have caught him spying on my girls more than once. He is no great loss."
"I will be blamed."
She nodded. "Yet another tragedy attributed to your legend. This will only serve to protect you further, Erik, and you know how important it is that you remain a mysterious, shadowy figure. As long as you remain a half-believed legend, you are safe. With a little prompting, the new managers will be inclined to keep you happy in exchange for a peaceful house."
"And you will continue to ensure that they do."
"I will ensure that they have every reason to comply with your requirements. I consider it my duty to keep them satisfied… on all levels." In the low light, her face transformed with a meaningful smile.
Maude loved sex, and she did not confine her lustful appetites to one partner, or even many. She had slept with legions over the years, and prided herself for hiding her great appetites behind a rigid, proper persona. "I'll make myself acquainted with them first before I introduce them to some of the girls." She looked at him thoughtfully. "Something I would be most happy to do for you, Erik. There are one or two who could be counted on to remain discreet. Or I'll see them thrown out on the street."
"No," he managed to say calmly, though his cock shifted beneath his trousers. "I'll wait."
With a sideways glance, Maude raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "You are becoming as chaste as Christine is."
"Your girls might be discreet, but they will still gossip. And La Carlotta, though out of your chaperonage, has the loudest lips of them all. It is best if I remain the shadowy ghost I've been for the last nine years so that none can identify me."
Yes, nearly ten years of his life—one-third of it!—had been spent hovering in the shadows of this Opera House. Hiding and lurking and pretending to be nothing but a specter. Would he ever be free to live in the light?
"As you wish, Erik," Maude told him, with a gentle bow of acquiescence.
After she left, and Erik felt the rage of his cock refuse to subside, he wondered at his instant refusal. He could have taken her up on her offer. It would be easy and quick.
But he'd resolved years ago he would force no one to see his monstrous self. He wanted no more of the fear, of the revulsion, he'd seen in the girls he'd been forced to touch.
He wanted none of them.
None but Christine.
Chapter Three
Christine sat next to Raoul at the restaurant where they supped. In a quiet corner, at a table surrounded by a large, curving sofa, the five of them ate a late meal and discussed that evening's successful performance.
Raoul sat so that his thigh lined hers and the pointed tail of his coat flipped up over the back of her gown. He was solicitous and charming, ensuring that her wineglass was always filled with the deep golden Bordeaux and her plate had the choicest pieces of roast fowl.
Next to Raoul sat one of the Opera House's new managers, Monsieur Armand Moncharmin, the one who had urged his counterpart to let her sing.
He was shorter and stouter than his partner, with soft, puppy-dog eyes and little jowls that added to the canine impression he presented. A shy man, he appeared too nervous to look at Christine for long, although his gaze continued to dart back to her person when he did not expect her to be looking. This was the type of man, she thought as she slipped a grape into her mouth, who would be afraid to unbutton his nightshirt for his wife and would insist on making love with the lights off.
Next to Christine, leaving a greater distance between her gown and his trousers than Raoul had done, was the other new manager. Monsieur Firmin Richard was the elder of the two partners, and he sported a neat, slicked mustache that did not dare to showcase any of the gray that winged his temples. His eyes were sharper and more considering than Armand's, but Christine had already heard that Moncharmin was the one who handled the money, and Richard, the dandy who actually understood music, was the one who managed the personnel.
Directly across the table from her was Raoul's elder brother by a decade, Philippe, the Comte de Chagny. Later, Christine was to realize he had deliberately chosen that seat for the advantage it gave him. A more mature version of his younger brother, the comte exuded power and control from the condescending flare of his aristocratic nostrils to the thin, settled lips that curved in the faintest of considering smiles.
In his shadow, Raoul seemed little more than a handsome, earnest boy who wanted desperately to gain his big brother's approval.
"I see from your uniform that you are a graduated member of the Ecole Navale Impériale," Monsieur Moncharmin commented to Raoul.
"Indeed," replied the vicomte, offering a smile to Christine, then returning his attention to the short manager. "I recently graduated from my training upon the Borda and found myself with little to do until I was invited to join my brother at his patronage of your Opera House. I cannot but think it was a serendipitous occurrence that of all nights, he should invite me to this evening's gala."
"Raoul graduated near the top of his class," added the comte as he set his wineglass down with a smart snap, "and then embarked on a journey around the world. His sisters and I are pleased that he has chosen to return for a brief furlough before leaving on his next journey."
"Where shall you be heading off to next, then?" asked Monsieur Richard. "I myself cannot stomach the sea, even a short journey, for it makes me ill."
"My brother wields enough influence that I was able to be assigned to the mission of the Requin, which will not leave for several weeks yet." Under the table, he squeezed Christine's fingers as though to let her know he would not forget her.
"Is that the ship that is to search for the survivors of the polar expedition?"
"Yes, indeed. The d'Artois. But I shall not be called for a month, so I will have plenty of nights to return to the Opera House."
"Our Miss Daaé was quite a triumph this evening." Moncharmin braved a look at Christine, then reapplied himself to his potatoes.
"Yes… but whatever happened to that Spanish singer? Carlotta?" spoke the comte suddenly. "Although our Miss Daaé turned many heads with her beauty and her voice, I am curious as to how such a young girl managed to snare the stage from the Opera House's star. Unless it was part of your scheme as the new managers? Out with the old and in with the new, perhaps?"
Philippe's gray blue eyes rarely left Christine's person, even as he spoke to his brother or the managers. They were heavy, calculating, and disturbing. When she moved closer to Raoul, pressing her arm against his as if to melt into the protection of his person, Philippe's mouth tipped up at one side in a sardonic grin as if he understood and was amused by it.