Chapter Seven: Engagement?
Camillé froze, but he took no notice, grabbing her hand and leading her in the back door of a nearby pub. He raced her up the stairs and pulled her into a room in the back. Daniel looked at her lovingly as he discarded his coat and sat her on the bed beside him. His fingers tipped her head upwards and he kissed her softly, though she didn't respond. A little hurt, he pulled away.
"Love, what's wrong? Aren't you happy to see me again?" he asked, sounding so pathetic that she turned back in.
She smiled and placed her hand on his cheek. "Yes, Daniel, of course I'm happy to see you. I'm just... shocked that you're here and not quite sure what to make of this," she admitted, before placing a kiss on his lips, "I'm delighted to see you."
He grinned and gathered her close, kissing her quite thoroughly. Yet for some reason, she didn't feel right. Yes, she remembered everything about their relationship; the kisses, the plans to marry, the winter nights at home... everything they'd done for a year of their courtship. But kissing him didn't feel right anymore and she had no idea why. Confused, she pushed away the feeling and returned his kiss, hoping to mask her unsureness. It worked, because he was quite pleased with it when they pulled away. He kissed the top of her head and whispered sweet nothings at her.
"I love you, Camillé. I've missed you so much," he murmured into her hair.
She hummed softly. "I've missed you too."
He pulled back and gave her a 'you forgot something' look. When she didn't say anything, he scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"I said, 'I love you, Camillé,'" he repeated in a teasing voice.
She smiled, though her heart wasn't behind it, and looked up at him. "I love you too, Daniel."
Warning bells rang in her mind in the most dissonant cacophony she had ever heard. Her head was telling her that what she was telling him was wrong; so wrong. Something was completely off here and she didn't know what.
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She was able to push away the feeling for a good week before it overcame her. In that time, Daniel had procured two tickets on the next boat to England and had talked so much of marrying her that she was beginning to regain her thinking that she never wanted to marry anyone. He had just gone out to find some dinner for them from somewhere other than the pub they were staying in, since they had had that at least six times in seven days. It was a glorious feeling, him being gone, but she didn't know why. Apparently, with the money they had saved up from their less-than-honorable procuring methods back home in London, he had bought her an engagement ring. It sat on her ring finger now, a perfect fit, but... not perfect.
Finally, she made up her mind. Her determination grew as she picked up a piece of parchment and one of the pens provided by the inn. She addressed the letter to Madame Giry on the front, as little as she wanted to. No, she didn't like the woman, but that didn't keep her from being the only person that she knew could get the letter to him. So, begrudgingly, she began the letter.
It took her a short amount of time to finish her letter and when she had enclosed all that needed to be enclosed, she sealed it with a little wax and made sure not to mess up what was already attached inside. With a determined nod, she left the pub and continued down the streets, walking for a minute before she remembered the way back to her destination. She entered through the back door of the Opera House, and walked straight to Madame Giry's room.
The women looked at each other for a moment when she walked in. She very calmly set the letter down in front of her and left without a word. Again retracing her steps, she returned to their room to find Daniel already there, waiting for her with a sour expression.
"Where'd you go, Camillé? I was worried about you."
"I'm fine out on my own, Daniel," she reminded him as she sat down and unlaced her boots, "I just went out to deliver something to a friend. Sorry I worried you."
He walked up behind her and kissed her shoulder. "It's alright, just warn me next time you want to go wandering off like that. Who was this friend, anyway?"
"You wouldn't know him," she assured him, leaning back against him, "He's... one of my clients here in Paris. I just had to give him the delivery I promised and tell him that I'm moving shop to London."
"Alright then. I brought back supper, if you're interested."
"Certainly."
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It had been une semaine (a week) since she had walked out of his – their home and left because of an argument. He had been expecting her to walk back in the next day, but when that day passed and the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that, he had lost hope. She had obviously not intended to return to him, or she would have done so already.
Life was dull. While she was here, he hadn't quite realized how different his life was and how much more interesting it was with her company. Now that she was gone, he was forced to do the mundane things that he'd only done perhaps once since her arrival. He realized that he had gotten used to eating something, since she had been in the habit of feeding him at dîner (dinner) – at first she had offered and offered him something until he begrudgingly accepted it and since then she had fed him every afternoon – and now he found himself becoming hungry. Also, she had rearranged his desk – well, it was more hers now –so she could work on her poetry, making it impossible to find anything on it without her. He remembered that he had always listened intently to her while she read her poems aloud. She was quite a good poet, but now there were no more poems floating around him and nestling in his mind. He'd even secretly turned two or three of her poems into songs.
He stood up from his organ and walked over to the desk. Her poems were stacked about all over it, as always. The parchment was soft beneath his fingers as he picked up a piece that was strewn on the desk and read the poem on it. It was one he had never heard before, and it looked to have been the one she was working on before Giry came the week before.
L'Amour Non Partagé
A father figure, nothing more to her,
Yet so much more he wanted to be.
He saw her in a light she didn't share
And her indifference he could not see.
One day, he asked the question on his mind,
To a girl he scared by his advance.
He asked to her, "My love, will you be mine,
And share with me every day from hence?"
Her father knew her feelings towards the man
He knew as his best friend from his youth,
And so he said, the kindest way he can,
That his friend's ways were very uncouth.
Yet he persisted, and implored to her
Simply to accept his offer to wed.
He told her mother he'd take care of her
And she drank in every word he said.
Eventually, she convinced her husband,
And the girl was made his fiancée.
She was forced to wear his engagement band,
And they ignored every word she'd say.
It became too much; the girl ran away.
She knew her father would be quite hurt,
But simply didn't see another way.
She cast away her fancy girl's skirt
And opted for some riding pants instead.
She snuck out of the house and left,
Knowing a bounty would be on her head,
And that her father would be bereft.
Soon, she found the city unde
It was an unfinished poem, but he was already reeling from what he'd read. Camillé had been promised to her father's best friend. They would have been the same age, and for her father to have two daughters... he would have been at least forty years old. Suddenly, he had the feeling that he had greatly invaded her personal life. She likely would have torn his head off for reading her poems without her permission, and he had known that. Why, then, had he read it in the first place? His curiosity had truly gotten the better of him. He dropped the poem on the desk and turned around.
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Madame Giry walked down the passageways. Undoubtedly, he'd not be pleased about this. This was not something that one takes lightly. The torch in her hand sputtered slightly and she blew at it to give it more air. Finally, after many minutes of walking she entered the cool lair beneath l'Opera. Erik was standing there, looking out across the lake. He appeared to be so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard her enter. Strange, she thought, he always hears me approach. She walked up to him and set her hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention. Erik jumped and turned to face her looking surprised, yet when he saw her, his face fell. Obviously, he had been waiting for his cat to return and had mistaken her for the twenty-year-old. She still thought he was making the wrong decision in her. Particularly in what he had told her yesterday. Despite her inner scowl, her face remained impassive as she handed him the letter.
He gave her a questioning look with his head cocked to the side and took the parchment from her hands. She shook her head, not wanting to explain what he was about to read, and turned around to walk away, following the passages back to la Maison d'Opera. He was definitely not going to be pleased about this.
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Next chapter is doomed to be Camillé's letter!
Any questions, comments, concerns? Vote, Comment, Beat Daniel ~
- Emmy
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