In My Darkness: La Chatte Noire

Chapter Thirty: Samuel Beaumont

"I am not ready yet, Samuel," she called in a joking voice, "Always so impatient!"

"I can tell you honestly that he is impatient, but I am not he," came Daniel's voice through the door.

She turned around and faced the door. "Oh, Daniel! Do come in."

The Captain entered the room and closed the door behind him. He took the extra necklace from her hands and moved behind her to fasten it.

"I sincerely doubt your fiancé would stand for this, were he here."

She sighed. "I know that. But he is not here, and it is only supper with an old friend, nothing more."

"Are you certain Monsieur Beaumont knows that?"

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked in a quiet tone, spinning to face him.

He gave her a look she could not misplace. "He seems quite eager to spend time with you, particularly to sup with you. I have the feeling that he wants more from you than to get to know you again. He has that look that says he wishes to court you."

"Daniel, please. If he makes the effort for that end, I will deny him and that will be that. There is nothing to worry about. I would not dishonor my fiancé or myself, surely you know that."

"It is not you that I distrust," he assured her as they left her rooms.

Camillé laughed. "You and Erik are extraordinarily similar. It is a wonder that you are not good friends."

"He stole my woman from me. That generally does not make for a grand friendship."

She was unsure how to respond to that. It sparked a sadness in her that she had left him the way she had, but she was still glad she did. If I hadn't, I would never have had the ability to fall in love with Erik, she told herself as she walked out of the front doors. That was certainly something she would not trade for the world. Samuel held out his hand for her and brought her into the carriage to go to supper.

_____/~~\_____

Two Weeks and Five Days, Mireval

Camillé sat down on her comfortable chaise-lounge and looked over the simple white envelope. The scrawling print on the front was like the finest artwork, poignant and beautiful and quintessentially him. She could smell the scent of roses and wax all about the letter. The only scent it lacked was that deeper musk that only belonged to Erik. It was impossible for her to ignore her excitement as she hugged the letter to her desperately, as if hugging the sheets of parchment would send her affections clear to her beloved in Paris. She almost didn't want to open it because she cherished it so. Her curiosity eventually won her over and she took her letter opener, prying up the wax seal and keeping somehow managing to keep it intact. She unfolded the letter inside and looked at his handwriting on the page. This parchment made her homesick. No, more accurately – it made her Erik-sick.

'Bien-Aimée, ma Camillé,

I forgave you before you were gone. I fully realize that it was of my fault that the argument was born, and it is I that must beg for your forgiveness. You may rest assured, ma chatte, that I have done nothing 'drastic' in light of your absence. Though upon your return you may find that your copy – I continue to deny my ownership of this particular story – of Tristan and Iseult more worn than when you left. I do not wish to tell you this as I know you will not be pleased, but since you will likely force me to tell you despite my best efforts to avoid it, I must admit that I threw the book across the main cavern in a fit of rage at myself after you had left. Please do forgive me; I know that you adore that story. Perhaps that was why I was holding it when I needed something to throw.

My lessons with Ayesha are continuing quite progressively. I believe that by next week she will be able to play 'Alouette' all on her own without any aid. Christine has been working her hardest in our voice lessons, which are commencing four times a week again. Since you have been gone, I have applied my mind to Christine in an effort to distract myself from my sorrow and loneliness. I miss you, Bien-Aimée. The lair is quiet and desolate without you. It feels strange to wake up in our bed without you beside me. There are nights when I cannot sleep because our bed feels cold and empty while you are gone. I cannot express how relieved and overjoyed I will be when you return.

Now that I have known love and joy, I cannot seem to live without it.

There are no words I can use to explain or describe the extent to which I wish to be there beside you, comforting and holding you. It pains me to hear of your anguish. Even Ayesha is crying as I write this – though I believe that is more on account of my neglecting her to write this letter to you. She misses you dearly. I do as well.

You mother is wrong in blaming you. This is the only time at which I believe it is best that I stayed, for I fear I would not have been able to allow her to treat you in such a way. That is inconsiderate and nearly inhumane. Her actions infuriate me to no end. You told me not to come to you and I will abide by your request, but know that I am having extreme difficultly doing so.

I cannot think of more to mention either, aside from the usual horrific singing from the 'Prima Donna' and the insolence of the managers. Actually, there is news to mention. There has been a rumor present in l'Opera Populaire that the managers are retiring and there will be a new couple of managers before the season is over. They have not decided whom yet, but I can almost certainly say that this is unfortunately true. Do they not realize how irritating this is? New managers do not know the requirements of the Opera Ghost. I shall have to acquaint myself with these new fellows. The least we can do is hope that they are not as insolent as the last.

I look forward to your return. My arms will always open and eager for you.

Tu me manques aussi. Je t'aime, ma chatte.

E'

_____/~~\_____

Three Weeks and Three Days, Paris

Erik smiled as he took the letter from Madame Giry – actually smiled. This had been something he had been looking forward to, with the only better option being her actual return. Her beautiful cursive on the front of the parchment, bringing to mind her poetry and his diminished muse – her. She had become his muse, the reason for his music. Camillé de Sauveterre was the only person that inspired him, that made him want to write music. She helped him make the Music of the Night, whether she was present or not. He leaned back in her desk chair, where he had taken to sitting. Erik read the letter for a few moments after reveling in her beautiful writing. He made sure to read every word thoroughly.

Slip.

Fwip.

Fwip.

Fwip.

Swish.

Slide.

Silence.

"What?"