Paris, France
1889
As much as Erik loved Paris, he hated the frenetic behavior of its denizens. Always rushing here and there … and such cacophony! There may indeed have been a rhythm to the streets, but the noise was anything but melodious. It was a relief to return to his home in the Opera House’s fifth basement after an afternoon out and about.
Erik took off his cloak and brushed it before putting it in the clothes press; if any one word could be used to describe him, it would be fastidious. Almost as though, in making up for the horrors of his unmasked face, every stitch of his attire had to be perfect. It was one of many areas in which he refused to stint.
He had been watching her again: Claire, the equestrienne. Not for her the swains who crowded around the opera soubrettes; she kept to herself. Her fondness for horses and books had already led Erik to hire her, anonymously of course, to look after his own Cesare; the aging grey Lipizzan flourished under her care.
Today she had gone to the saddler for new reins and stirrup leathers, and then walked along the Seine to see the bouquinistes’ stalls. She’d looked at old books, magazines and broadsides for an hour or more; it was all Erik could do to keep out of view. He was curious about her taste in reading matter; his own appetite for books was voracious and eclectic.
At long last, she’d gotten on the omnibus to go back to the opera house; Erik returned via his own carriage. The driver was paid well and would not reveal Erik’s secrets.
And this, indeed, was the greatest secret of all: despite his belief that he could never love again after Christine Daae had married her facile little viscount, Erik was enamored of the horsewoman.