Unmasked

by

Michelle Marcos

Copyright © 2012 by Michelle
Marcos

All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner without written permission
from the author.

This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

The author
gratefully acknowledges the work of Gaston Leroux, who created the
character of the Phantom of the Opera on whom this story is
based.

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

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Discover other titles by
Michelle Marcos at

http://www.michellemarcos.com

~~~~~~~

"A talented storyteller, Marcos gives a very
human face to all her characters and the moral dilemmas and
situations they face."

-- Fresh Fiction

"The depth of emotions, realistic characters,
history and sensuality make her novels keepers."

-- Romantic Times Book Reviews

"When I want a great historical romance, I’ll
reach for anything by Michelle Marcos!"

-- LISA KLEYPAS,
New York Times
bestselling author

~~~~~~~

No one would ever make love with a
monster.

Least of all one that looked like me.

The other villagers made it their duty to be
certain I never forgot this fact. The farrier’s wife, Madame
Bouchard, was especially conscientious in reminding me. “Is that an
earthquake?” she would ask, loud enough for all to hear. “Ah, no,”
she answered herself, “it is only Paulette walking to market.”

The blacksmith was always quick with a barb.
“I think the whalebone in her corset still has the whale
attached.”

I tried to ignore their taunts, careful not
to let a misstep betray my humiliation. But I could never hide the
rising color in my face, which inevitably grew hotter as everyone
within earshot laughed. In a town as small as Sescité, where there
is precious little entertainment, people take their sport in
mocking defects in others. Of Gaspard the drunk, Monsieur Petit the
dwarf, and me, I was the preferred target.

My family had been prosperous when I was a
little girl. Papa was a well known merchant in Paris. He took great
pride in his wealth, and he was anxious that others notice his
circumstance by the grandeur of his home and the size of his wife
and his daughter. Papa used to say that a well fed wife was a joy
to display, and that there were few things more charming than a
child with rounded cheeks at both ends.

When my parents succumbed to the fever, which
for reasons I had yet to comprehend spared me, I was sent to live
with my maternal grandmother in Sescité. My father’s debts had
dissipated my inheritance, leaving Grand-mère without an allowance
and me without a dowry.

Not that the dowry would have ever been
claimed, for I had neither suitors nor followers. Grand-mère
watched with growing alarm as I blossomed into womanhood without a
trace of admiration from gentlemen. There was nothing I could do to
arrest the increase in my weight, compelled as I was into the
sedentary position of seamstress, a post to which I had to devote
myself morning and night in order to provide for us both.
Grand-mère was kind, but honest. She thanked God that He had
bestowed upon me a fair complexion, bright green eyes, and
fashionably wavy brown hair. She used to smile at me, her papery
hand cupping my chin. “Such a pretty face. If only…”

When she passed away, I was bereft.
Friendless and unmarried, my prospects seemed as bleak as winter in
Sescité. I remembered the name of an old friend of Papa’s. Monsieur
Frenet was a business associate who was a patron of the arts. I
thought if he could find me a situation as a seamstress in the
theatre, or even as a tutor, for I had some knowledge of books, I
might be able to make my own way in life. I gathered my remaining
coins and embarked on the uncomfortable journey to Paris, to the
house of the only man in the world who could help me.

The servant who opened the door was very
rude, but I expect his attitude had something to do with my frock,
which bespoke years of alterations, and the scandalous fact that I
was unescorted. Nevertheless, he informed me that I could find
Monsieur Frenet at the Paris Opera House.

Perhaps I should have recognized the name of
the theatre right away, but I did not. The Opera had long been
associated with a sinister phantom, the lurid tales of whom had
reached even the remote ears of our tiny village. But that day, as
I set out on the arduous walk to the theatre, my thoughts were
consumed with steering clear of the pickpockets and dodging the
buckets of waste that Parisians emptied from their windows.

I reached the steps of the Opera two hours
later, nearly collapsing on the banquette near the curb. Though
exhausted, I could not help but marvel at the splendor of the
theatre. The façade was grand beyond my expectations, its gilded
statues and dome ablaze with the reflection of the setting sun.
Approaching the door was like stepping through the gates of
heaven.

The lobby was dark, but I could imagine how
impressive it must be when alive with the promise of a performance.
The lobby was a broad stroke painting of marble, velvet and gilded
plaster. Statues of Greek figures, frozen in the beauty of an
instant, lined the expanse. A wide staircase flowered out onto the
second story, the purview of those wealthy enough to afford
privileged seating.

Tiptoeing upon the blood-red carpet, I
followed the path to the immense doors that led to the theatre bay.
The air was thick with the leaden smell of paint, and the sound of
hammering assaulted my ears. Two men were on the stage arguing
heatedly. At first, I took them to be actors preparing for a play.
But the subject of their dispute proved me wrong.

“Monsieur le Directeur,” said the taller man
with an exasperated flourish, “if you cannot find a way to make do
with the costumes in stock, then I’m afraid you will have to
acquire any new costumes at the expense of your salary.”

“This is an outrage,” yelled the other. “Do
you now expect me to work for nothing?”

“No, Rénard. My intention is merely to
demonstrate to you that I cannot expend a single franc more on this
production.”

The men continued to debate loudly over the
pounding, and I walked to the front row unnoticed. It had been
about eleven years since I had last seen Monsieur Frenet, but I
recognized him immediately.

“Monsieur Frenet?” I ventured.

He turned to look at me, and a scowl twisted
his face. “Who the devil are you?”

“My name is Paulette. I am the daughter of
François de Sauvoigny. He was an old acquaintance of yours,
yes?”

Recognition illuminated his face. “Oh,
yes…François. Now I remember you. How you’ve – grown.”

The double-edged remark was not lost on me,
but I chose to ignore it. “My father spoke of you often as a
friend, monsieur, and I’ve come from Sescité to speak with you.
Might I have a word in private?” I asked, glancing at the workmen
who had stopped their hammering to stare at me.

“I’m afraid not. I’m rather busy at the
moment. Perhaps you could come back next week.”

My hopes plunged at the curt dismissal. “No,
monsieur, I cannot. You see…I…well…”

His expression angered to annoyance. “Come,
come, out with it.”

My courage faltered in the face of his
impatience. “I know no one else in Paris. I was hoping you might
find a position for me in the theatre.”

He heaved an exasperated sighed. “What can
you do?”

“I can sew. My grandmother taught me
well.”

“Another seamstress,” said he, rolling his
eyes. “We have all the women we need. And what we don’t need are
more costumes. I’m sorry.”

He made a move to go backstage, but I stopped
him. “Monsieur Frenet, please. I need to find work.”

“There is nothing for you here,” he insisted.
“I’m sorry.”

“I can teach,” I offered hopefully. “Your
children –“

“I have no children. And I have no work for
you. Good day.”

“Then let me clean for you. I can scrub the
floors or polish the brass.”

“No. I don’t need you. And I don’t want you.
Now go!”

I never intended to show my weakness, but I
could not keep from crying. It seemed I wasn’t wanted anywhere.

“I have nowhere else to go,” I pleaded
desperately.

The director leered at me from the stage.
“There’s a circus in town. Why not try there?”

His off-hand remark brought a round of
laughter from the workmen.

“Why not try raising your skirt on the
corner?” one of them said. “Maybe then someone will take you.”

Again the laughter. My head began to
spin.

“Gentlemen, please,” admonished Monsieur
Frenet, his finger aimed straight at me. “No one would pay half a
sou for
that
!”

The poisoned arrow found its mark. Not “her,”
not “that woman,” but
that
. Something inside me crumbled,
and I began to run. The word beat at me like a club –
that
,
that
,
that
– bludgeoning away my femininity, my very
personhood, and I fled from the bloody, crumpled thing that was the
object of their derision. I flew through the very first door I saw,
away from the unfeeling laughter, that horrible sound that seemed
to follow me everywhere. I hated myself for being so grotesque, not
just to the ignorant villagers of Sescité, but to the enlightened,
sophisticated eyes of the rest of the world. I wished the earth
would swallow me whole, and bury this ugliness forever. Hot tears
blurred everything I saw, one corridor melting after another,
flights of steps leading down to more.

Until I collided with a locked door.

I stopped to wipe my wet face with my sleeve.
The voices that haunted me had disappeared, replaced only by the
sound of my ragged sobs. I had no idea where I was. Instead of
taking me back to the Paris streets, my blind flight had led me
here, to what seemed like an unused part of the theatre. It was
very dim, but I could still see the cobwebs streaming from the
hinges on the door and the heavy dust upon the knob where my
fingers had not touched it. A key glinted in the lock. I curled my
fingers around it, and with a loud metallic grind, it turned.

Opening the door, I was instantly enveloped
by darkness. There was a faint odor of moisture and mildew, but
there was nothing to be seen, save for the palpable blackness. I
released the knob to wipe the tears still pooling in my eyes, and
the door fell closed with a loud echoing thud.

I whirled around to open it again, but there
was no knob from within. I clawed the door, a cold dread smothering
me as I realized that no one could possibly find me in this decayed
cellar. I beat on the door with my fists, but only my own strangled
cries reached my ears. Eventually, my screams grew fainter and
shorter, dying down with the hope that I would ever be rescued.

I had wished to be buried forever, and God
had granted me that wish.

I leaned my flushed face against the cold
mortar. That is when I heard the rustling.

It was very faint at first, but it grew
louder. And nearer.

“Hello?” I rasped.

Nothing. I called out again, afraid of
hearing no answer, but equally afraid of hearing the wrong one.

Then I heard it. Squeaking. I shuddered
violently. A rat! Bunching up my skirts, I flew away from the walls
toward the center of the room. I heard it scurry along the corners
and pause in the very spot I had just vacated. Then it scrambled
across the opposite wall, and then it vanished.

I let out my breath, unaware I had been
holding it. I have never been able to abide rats, not since I was
ten years old and Jean-Louis threw one in my hair and it ran down
my face. The darkness intensified the remembered sensation of the
rodent's sharp nails clawing my cheeks, and the horrifying memory
drew out a whimper.

But it slowly dawned on me that rats do not
simply vanish, and that it must have come from – and gone to –
someplace. I placed my hand upon a wall, and followed the wall
around the room.