Chapter Text
The explosion of the gunshot blew over his own steps and those of the police. The bullet hit him in the side; it was not a serious wound but it was painful and it would have slowed the escape. He turned a dark corner, hoping that it would be enough to lose the gendarmes but their steps approached inexorably. He started running again, looking for the first exit from the catacombs he could think of. He usually never left the basement of Paris, but his pursuers were more insistent than usual, as if this time they had studied the maze of underground labyrinths and prepared an ambush.
It had been three months since the Opéra had gone up in flames, three months spent trying to leave Paris without success. The mob had not killed him but he had become the most wanted criminal in France and it seemed that there was always a gendarme ready to ruin his attempts to escape. So he had lived in the catavombes, waiting for a propitious moment that never came.
He opened a leaden door and found himself under a bridge of the Seine wet by a torrential rain. Nothing moved around him, everything was swallowed by a black rainy night. Ignoring the water and the pain, he climbed the stairs that would allow him to cross the bridge, looking out over the stone balustrade to see if he was still being chased. A flash tore the air, bringing the day into the night for a few moments, enough to make him discover.
"Alt! Stop! You’re under arrest!" shouted some officers behind him. Erik ignored them and kept running until a carriage blocked his path. It was very luxurious, completely black, driven by a man with a heavy coat and a wide-brimmed hat.
An hand gloved in white silk opened the door. "Come if you want to save your life." said a man with an English accent.
Erik looked back: the gendarmes were taking aim again: if he did not move immediately he would die. Without thinking he got on the carriage and before the door was closed the passenger had signaled to the coachman to leave quickly.
"I am Lord Edward Weston, Duke of Cronley, and if I am not mistaken, you are the Phantom of the Opéra." From the voice he must have been at least sixty years old. The figure was wrapped in darkness and the cylinder hid part of the face but Erik could glimpse two small blue eyes with a determined appearance and a thick beard well-groomed and dusted with white.
"Exactly, monsieur." replied the other, covering his face with the flap of his hat.
"Well, I couldn’t forgive myself for helping the wrong criminal!" sighed with relief "Tonight I was invited to dinner by the mayor and the chief of police who told me a lot about you." He went on to light a pipe and strat smoking "It seems that your capture is strongly supported by the de Chagny family. Matters of self-respect, not to give the impression of a shotgun wedding. They studied the maps of the catacombs, searched them and ambushed you. If it wasn’t for me they would surely have killed you. Not tonight maybe, but soon." Lord Weston seemed to be playing a game in which he knew every move beforehand: he spoke calmly and accurately like an experienced hunter who ambushed yet another prey.
"I thank you for saving my life, Your Grace, but I do not understand the reason for such kindness."
"I have an advantageous offer for you. Many have told me about your ... peculiar talent, I have heard Madame de Chagny sing and I have heard what you did for her when she was a child. I have also heard of your face, and know from now that your appearance does not trouble me: I fought in India and saw the barbarism perpetrated against our officers by the resistance, so I’m not afraid of some bone out of place. I’m only sorry I didn’t witness your Don Juan, it would have been an interesting show."
"You said you had an offer to make me." Erik cut it short, he didn’t like the ease of his savior at all.
"You’re a direct man, but if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to be treated like mouse itrapped n a cat chase. I just wanted to make clear that I know exactly who you are and I’m not afraid of you. I have a granddaughter, Ophelia ." The man paused by taking several heavy breaths, as if preparing to reveal some painful secret, but his voive nevere cracked. "Ophelia hasn’t spoken in ten years, since she saw her parents being hit by a carriage. I got her the best teachers and doctors in Europe, but everyone said she is hysterical and she’s will never speak again. I know they’re wrong, I know somehow my niece will speak one day." The Duke’s hand held the knob of his stick as he would have done with the neck of an enemy; the voice was low and deep, the words came out of his mouth hard and determined. "Ophelia must speak again: at my death she will inherit a great fortune and whoever will administer it will lock her up at Bethlem Royal Ospital appropriating rents and properties."
"I’m sorry about your niece, but I still don’t understand."
"I want you to become her tutor and make her talk."
Erik put his hat on the seat next to him and held a cynical laugh just because the man in front of him had saved his life. "Me? The Enfant du Diable? Do I have to remind you how it ended the last time I had a pupil? Do you want me to set fire to your castle?"
Lord Weston was not overcome by the disbelief of the passenger, much less by his appearance. Even if he understood perfectly well the repulsion it provoked; if he had not served the army in India he would not have been prepared for that face. "I have been well informed about you, I know what you are capable of and I have carefully considered this choice. I tried traditional methods but they didn’t work, now I have to try something less orthodox if I want to save my lineage."
"You are an unscrupulous man." That was not a compliment, they both knew that.
"I am an advisor of the Queen: I am accustomed to evaluating different possibilities and choosing the one with the greatest chance of success, the Empire requires it. ."
"I am not at your service."
"I offer you the opportunity to leave France undisturbed and no one will know anything about you anymore."
"And what will you say to your granddaughter to justify my face? Not to mention the servants in you houdehold."
"I know you had a porcelain mask, I can arrange for you to rebuild one with due privacy. And if anyone asks any questions, I will say that you fought with me in India and you were victim of a tropical disease that disfigured you. I assure you that will be suffice."
Erik grinned " have thought of everything. But what if I don’t accept?"
"The coachman will stop, and you will get off of my carriage.." Weston answered without hesitation, after all he had no interest in a criminal if he could not be useful.
Erik considered the alternatives: he had spent months looking for a way to leave the country and if he had left with that English nobleman, an advisor of Queen Victoria, no one would have suspected anything. But having another student after Christine took his breath away. No one would have been like her, and none other than her was worth teaching his Art. "I don’t take students who don’t have real musical talent. I don’t take any compromises on that." he said resolutely.
A slight smile appeared in the Duke’s beard "You can examine my niece in England and then decide. But I think you’ll accept after you’ve heard her play the piano."
"If you’re so convinced, I think your proposal is acceptable."
"May I consider it a gentlemen’s agreement?" Lord Weston reached out to seal the deal.
"Oui monsieur, you can." Erik replied, returning the gesture as the carriage continued to run in the dark.