CHAPTER 2 – FATE

PARIS, April 19, 1871

Erik Mercier:

Explosions pummel Paris, striking ever closer. I race across the abandoned avenue through clouds of smoke rolling between the buildings. Red fingers of fire streak into the late afternoon sky—like devil’s talons reaching out of hell. As I race down an alleyway, the rooftop above me explodes, showering down brick and plaster. Before I can pull up my cloak to keep the dust from getting under my mask, a shard grazes my forehead. Mon Dieu. The soldiers have turned the cannons! I keep running, hopefully beyond their range.

With each footfall, pain radiates through my head and warm blood trickles down my face. Taking refuge behind a livery shed, I pull out a handkerchief and press it to the gash, all the while disparaging the manhood of the soldier who fired that volley. No doubt my landlady is hiding in the basement of her Auteuil boarding house, also cursing the soldiers and claiming they bomb the finer neighborhoods out of spite. She always says that, and I always agree. After all she doles out the food, and a nod of concession to her ranting is rewarded with a larger scoop from the soup tureen. But why would the soldiers not take advantage of an opportunity to avenge their hatred on the well-to-do? That is the poisoned core in the heart of the City of Light. The reason civil war rages again on the streets—all about the few having so much and the many having so little.

A cannonball explodes into the livery, pelting me with debris. Furious, I flee down the alley again. Damn the government. As I run, I keep staunching the blood, cursing them all for their madness. This crazed, patriotic fervor sweeping the city has been a curse on my life since last September when the Prussians laid siege to Paris—and my world ended.

Silence now, except for my boots pounding on cobblestone. The streets are nearly empty as people huddle in their rooms, seeking safety. Another terrifying crash overhead as a cannonball shatters a window. A woman’s scream pierces the air. Again I am struck with fear for Christine and Adèle. How have they fared? Surely Raoul left Christine at his family’s estate in the countryside before he went off to fight the Prussians. I worry more about Adèle. She had no wealthy nobleman to take care of her, and she moved to Neuilly, which is being heavily shelled. Yet I dare not visit her. She was known to be my friend, so the police may be watching. But after every bombardment, I wonder whether she survived.

Another explosion! How many more will die today? And all for nothing. This is the third rebellion since the Great Revolution a hundred years ago, and no doubt it will end as they all have. After the death and destruction, a few bones of concession may be thrown to the people to placate them. But in the end, the wealthy and powerful will retain their wealth and power, and the people will return to their lives of struggle and misery. Nothing will change. Nothing ever does. I quicken my pace and search the ground for one of the entrances into the tunnels. Crossing Paris above ground has become too perilous.As I race across a street, a horse bolts out of a livery stable and nearly runs me down. I yell at the rider, but he does not even look back in his panicked flight. Seeking the safety of a café doorway, I stop to catch my breath. To think I came out of hiding two months ago needing to live again in human society. Even succeeded, passed myself off as a wounded soldier, and no one suspected who I am. But now that I live above ground, humanity has gone mad, trying to destroy itself and me along with it. And I no longer want to be a part of it—desire only a cottage in the countryside where I can live in solitude. Human companionship is not meant for me. And my hope for love? Delusion.

Again I set out, having no choice except to hazard crossing Paris to retrieve the metal box that contains my small fortune. After all, I must deal with my landlady and her greed. My funds on hand have run out, and I need money to secure the relative safety of the boarding house until these fools have tired of killing each other. Then I will leave this City of Suffering and put the past behind me.

A cannonball smashes into the building ahead. The cannons have turned again. I dive beneath a wagon and spot the cover of a manhole that leads into the tunnels. Hefting the iron plate aside, I lower myself onto the wooden stairs.

On the first landing I discover the bracket which holds the torch is empty—and I have only a few matches. Merde! I will have to travel most of the way without light, but that I can do. Despite being a formidable foe, the cavernous underbelly of Paris has often granted me asylum. Night engulfs me as I descend many stories down the stairwell. At the bottom a faint acrid smell hangs in the cool air. Removing my gloves, I light a match. The small flame illuminates three converging tunnels. I choose the one heading northeast and soon the flame sputters out, leaving me in darkness befitting a tomb.

All my senses become acute to outwit the serpentine passageways. I hold one hand in front to detect overhangs and lowered ceilings. With the fingertips of the other, I read the cryptic code on the wall. Here, the chisel marks feel relatively smooth—surely a gallery tunnel the workmen for the Inspection des Carrières carved out to search for lost quarries.

My hand trailing the wall, I walk blindly through treacherous tunnels. The wall’s texture changes, probably a cement buttress constructed to support an abandoned quarry’s ceiling and save Paris from being swallowed into gaping holes. Abruptly, the wall ends. I stop and use one of my matches. Its weak, flickering light discloses the large cavern of a quarry. I hurry across, reaching the tunnel on the other side just as the match hisses out and leaves me sightless once again.

Claws grate the ground as rats scurry away from the soft thud of my boots. After some distance the tool marks beneath my fingers change to gouges that feel like dragon scales. These were made by the men who built the soaring cathedrals in the Middle Ages. I always sense their hovering ghosts. Can almost hear the rhythm of their hammers, raping the limestone from mother earth.

At the next conjunction of tunnels, I light my last match and read the Inspection’s sign that corresponds to the street above, getting my bearings. The sound of feet shuffling against the stone floor sends a chill down my spine. Those are not rats. Quickly I extinguish the match and listen to determine how many are lurking—at least three from the different timbres of their voices. My hand goes instinctively to my Punjab lasso. I throw my voice, sending a low, rumbling growl reverberating through the limestone tunnels. Frightened voices cry out as they scutter away in panic, and I move on into timeless night.

Lit dimly by lamplight filtering through a street grate high above, a cistern comes into view. The workmen used the cistern’s water to make cement for the buttresses. One of their stairways may not be far! I venture back into darkness, clawing at the ragged wall, desperately searching for stairs. Then my hand scrapes against a wood railing. I am safe! Relieved, I begin the seemingly endless climb to the surface.

At the top landing, I cautiously lift the cover. The cannonade is far away, and the moonless night sky promises a cloak of protection. After a one-legged Communard hobbles past, I climb out and pull up my hood to conceal my face. Slipping silently through near-empty streets, I stay to the shadows, unseen.

Finally, the majestic Garnier looms ahead. I go to the side of the building and pull off a hidden grate. Stooping low, I make my way down a musty passage until it connects to the lower level’s ventilation duct, then crawl through the cramped duct to a secret trapdoor. Smirking, I wonder what Monsieur Garnier would think if he knew how many of these I incorporated into the building.

I drop through the trapdoor into the second cellar. A deserted oil lamp sits precariously at the edge of a workman’s bench. I light it and survey my surroundings. So eerily silent now, unlike the noisy activity during construction, when the sounds of hammering and raucous banter assaulted my ears like a discordant symphony. Although the room is unfinished, strewn with wood shavings and piles of lumber, I feel at home. But such sentiments are overshadowed by my disgust for all that has been lost. First the war and siege and now the uprising have halted construction on this grand building. I wonder when, or if, the work will continue.

The wound on my forehead has stopped bleeding, but before I put away the handkerchief, I try to remove the blood embedded in my ring’s engravings. When the gold band gleams in the lamplight, bitter memories return. Memories of hope and pain. And faces.

“Curse you,” I mutter to the specters. “Curse all of you.” Hastily, I pull on my gloves, banishing from my sight the reminder of my follies.

My journey is nearly at an end. At the far end of the room, I discover that the door is locked. Reaching into my waistcoat, I pull out my silver fob and press the ornate engravings until a jagged metal pin appears. With it, I make quick work of the door lock. I grab the lamp and enter a dark corridor, traveling quickly through the maze-like rooms until I reach the stairway, then descend downward into the depths of the Garnier. Finally reaching the fifth cellar, I breathe a sigh of relief. The box I buried with my money and valuables, such as I have, is not far.

Then laughter erupts from around a corner. I snuff out the lamp and slip noiselessly into a room to hide, but a door across the room slams open, and three men in green trousers and blue jackets enter. Communards!

A gangly boy holds high an oil lamp which illuminates a storage room full of kegs. The intrusive light reaches the corner where I have taken refuge, and the boy catches sight of me. Startled, he calls out, “What are you doing here?” The other men aim their rifles.

“Are you a filthy government spy?” an old man demands, his voice shaky. “Or a thief?” He waves his rifle at the wine barrels and stacked bags of flour.

“Non. Neither.” Calmly, I try to explain, “I worked for Monsieur Garnier and came back for some of my possessions.”

The third man, larger, with a nasty scowl, points his rifle at my chest. “Spies are everywhere. I can tell you are one. Hold up your hands.”

I set down the lamp and display my empty hands. “I assure you, I am no spy.”

“You lie,” the man spits.

“Why do you wear a mask?” The old man eyes me. “What are you hiding?”

They approach, rifles aimed. Fear and suspicion have overcome reason. Nothing I say will be believed. Communards accuse anyone who is suspect and shoot them as a spy.

My body coils. Before they can cock their rifles, the Punjab lasso flies from my hand. Snaking through the air, it cinches around the big man’s neck. He drops his rifle and clutches the strangling noose. I lurch forward and shove his body against the others. They fall backward onto some barrels, arms and legs flailing wildly.

No time to retrieve the oil lamp. I race into the pitch-black corridor, feral instincts taking over. I run blind, hand scraping the wall. Blood pounds in my ears. How many Communards are in the cellar? Now fate stalks me.

I turn a corner and collide with a soldier, taking us both to the ground. More Communards come streaming through a door. Hands reach down, pulling the man from beneath me. They circle like hyenas, and from every side boots kick viciously. I lash out and kick back. They scream in anger. I use my forearms to deflect the blows, but boot heels drive into my ribs. Pain shoots through my chest. A rifle butt hammers my lower leg, and I feel the agonizing snap of bone. Pain, sickening pain. Then a strike to my forehead and a shock of cold air. My mask—ripped away. I am exposed. Overpowered. I clutch my hands to my chest and roll over to protect them with my body. Then a piercing blow to my head. All goes black.

Swirling, murky darkness surrounds me. I moan. Agony pulls me out of oblivion. I struggle to open my eyes, but they are clotted shut with dried blood. I try to lift my hand but cannot. Ribs are broken. Raising my other hand, I rub away the blood. With effort I look around my makeshift prison. The door is ajar, allowing a strand of light into my shadowy cell.

Voices intrude from the next room. “He is dangerous,” someone rasps. “If it is who we suspect, they say he is a crazed murderer.”

“What if he struck a deal with the government? The bastard mighta spied on us ta save his own skin.”

“But if he is a spy, he might be worth more as a bargaining chip.”

“Bargaining chip? You ignorant ass,” the voice rumbles, gruffly drowning the others. “We should shoot him right now and be done with it. That devil’s lasso nearly strangled Gilbert.”

“But it didn’t. Gilbert’s off duty for the night and stinkin’ drunk by now.”

“He’s better off than us!”

“And what if Monsieur Masque is a poor fool like us?” a fretful voice asks.

“Yeah, what if he spoke the truth? What if he only came to get his things? Sacre bleu. What if he’s not a spy?” The rasping voice rises to an anxious pitch. I hold my breath.

“Enough! It makes no difference.” The gruff man ends the quarrel. “When the regiment returns in the morning that bastard will be shot.”

I let out a ragged breath. So it is decided. I am to be executed. Desolate, I survey the room for escape routes. No windows. My eyes search the floor for grates marking underground tunnels. None. I scan the ceiling for an air duct. Nothing. The only exit is through the door.

Then I spot it on the floor inside the doorway—my mask. A sliver of light streaks across the black leather. I laugh. So they want me to wear the mask when they execute me. Better that they kill me now and get it over with. I attempt to get up, but pain screams through my splintered leg. I fall back onto the dirt floor, frozen. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes.

The pain makes me acutely conscious of my body. I grimace at the irony that my body will not burden me much longer. In many ways, that is a relief. I have always been at war with my physical self. I take a ragged breath. Even the escape of sleep is beyond my reach. I lie on the cold, hard floor, haunted by memories of things I have done—accomplishments most men could barely imagine. But the many things I have never done also torment me. Human joys that most take for granted have evaded me. A paradox. Ultimately, my life was a paradox.

I send up a futile prayer. If only I had more time. But when I pass from this world, who will know or even care? As if in response, a gentle face appears like an apparition. Adèle. Will she ever learn what became of me? Or will she wait for years, hoping for my return?

Relentlessly, my hopes and dreams continue to mock me. I cannot escape them any more than I can these cursed Communards. I stare at the ceiling, hovering like the lid of my coffin. My body is too broken to put up another fight. I cannot evade my fate—but I vow that in death my specter will haunt this place forever.

Screams and crashes suddenly erupt in the next room. Wounded cries fill the air as an unseen battle rages. Then the door slams open and three Communards rush in. Cold fear floods through me. Wracked with pain, I prop myself up on my elbow and strike out at my attackers. Hands seize me, pinning me down. One man sprays a mist into my face and the world goes dark.

So this is how it will end.