Grace was about to cry. She stared hard at Rodger, in disbelief.

   "What did you just say?"

   "The same thing I've just said the previous three times. Someone bought them. Honestly, Gracie, are you going daft?" He looked at her with feigned concern.

  Grace couldn't believe it.

    "I've been working five years of my life... and someone else bought them?" She sank down onto to a chair.

   Rodger was truly confused. "Hey, Gracie, the ultimate goal was reached. You don't need to be upset. They're free."

    "I need a while Rodger," she whispered. Somehow, ridiculously, her voice managed to break even in the whisper.

   Her friend nodded and stood. He tried to give her a brief hug, which consisted of him awwkardly pulling her still torso and head into his chest before leaving her staring mutely into the void of her own mind.

   She couldn't fathom how this could happen, who could have... thirty thousand francs is a fortune, it could keep a family of five in food and house for months. The president of either the U.S. or France couldn't pay that and not see a small knick in there accounts, especially on something like that. For prostitutes...

    And she didn't know where they were. The pain Grace felt was as bad, if not worse, as the pain she had felt with a carriage on top of her. It was as shocking too.

    Suddenly she felt like she was suffocating, like if she sat in that room any longer she'd choke, if she thought about it any longer, she'd lose her mind. She jumped up, snatched her reticule and shoes from the bed, and ran out of the room. Perhaps Fleur would like to walk through some gardens or visit a bookstore. At the very least they could eat a dozen macaroons each and then cry about God knows what. She and Rodger certainly did that enough back in America. Maybe they'd get him to come. He would agree to anything if chocolate was involved.

      She turned the corner, racing down the stairs, and smacked right into a smaller figure.

     "Ah, Mademoiselle, forgive me, s'il vous plair, je suis désolé, mademoiselle Christoux."

      Grace didn't even notice his use of her last name, and he knew not to make the mistake again.

   "I am not Christina Nilsson! Oh - It is alright, Monsieur Leroux."

    She tried to step around him, but he stepped to at the same exact time. Grace smiled at the humor in their meetings. "It would seem that we always run into each other."

   "Yes, I am sorry for that too - and for mistaking you for Mademoiselle Nilsson. I have read and written the newspapers since then, and I do apologize Mademoiselle Treacle. I always make such a fool of myself." He shook his head sadly.

   "C'est dommage. I found you quite charming; not many gentlemen run into girls so exhuberantly."

     Leroux's cheeks colored. "Merci," he coughed out.

   "Well, it is nice to see you again, but I did intend to step out for some fresh air." She gently offered him a farewell. He wasn't being anywhere near as annoying as the first time she met him.

   "Are you hungry?"

     Grace was surprised by the question. "Je suis petite faim."

     "Then may I further my apologies by inviting you to dinner?" He really was very hopeful, looking at her with his youthful face and puppy dog eyes. Whenever Leopold wanted something he always gave her that look, fully aware she could never resist.

    And she had wished for a distraction. Not to mention it might perturb Erik, which was always funny.

    "Alright. Yes, let's have dinner."

                                🌹

      Erik wanted to have in his possession a weapon that would destroy the room. He just couldn't bear it. Any of it. There was his Christina at the alter with Pierre. In front of a priest. And all around them were their closest friends. Even the insufferable child  - that Meg Giry was here. She was once so afraid of his death's head, how he'd adore terrifying her now. Terrifying them all. Christina looked incredibly happy, yes, but she'd be happier with him.
 
    And then, before he thought it could get any worse, from across the room, his eyes met those of another he never wanted to see, ever again. Christina's original lover and fiance, who even Pierre did not know about. The damned Vicomte.

     After the wedding, Raoul de Changy approached him. "Out in the courtyard, ten o'clock, we'll settle everything without Christina this time."

                                  🌹

       Grace had to admit, she liked the smoke filled, hazy cafe Leroux took her too. It was small, quiet, yet just exciting enough - the excitement coming from the tattooed man having a wrestling match with a drunken sailor who cursed like the dickens never had - to keep her attention. The table they sat down at was in a corner, tucked away from the majority of the sporadic noise and bustle of other people.

    Grace ordered a slice of chocolate cake, and to her surprise, Leroux did the same.

    "The chef used to work at a Pâtisserie," he explained.

   "Oh. Then I hope the cake is good."

    "Nothing could be better than an opera though, you must admit. Such a grand treat is the theatre," he said.

  Grace had no clue what one had to do with the other, but she decided to ignore it. He often tried to liken two completely different things and had done so all evening.

   "I guess I can agree," she said, fiddling with her cloth napkin.

    Leroux furrowed his brow. "Really? But you are one of the talented people who create the magic the audience sees on stage, Mademoiselle Treacle, you are a dancer that many people come to see."

   That is extremely obvious, she thought.

   "First, please call me Grace. We are on friendly turns after all."

   "Then please call me Gaston."

     "Okay Gaston. Now... I agree, the theatre is a wondrous place. But it is a lot of hard work. And I don't have the easiest of employer's to deal with, so I am biased. And what did you say you did?" She chuckled at the understatement. Saying Erik wasn't the easiest was an understatement. He was the most demanding, impulsive, direct, precise, perfectionist she'd ever met and ever hoped to meet. Peopke just didn't do the things he did. Of course everything he did turned out to be spectacular... but that's not the point.

    "I am a journalist, and don't get me started on your employer, Grace, I could talk about him for hours."

     "Oh?" He was so secretive, she couldn't imagine what there was to talk about. And given the way he treated her companion, she doubted he had ever opened up to him. If anyone could discuss or attempt to decipher his actions, it would be Christina, and even then... well she wasn't the brightest and she was too good to catch even the most trivial of criminality. "How is that?"

   She saw the waitress coming with the cake. If he talked, she could eat that much faster, and it was a very large slice after all.

    "Well... a lot of the major events in his life have been publicized."

   "What?" Grace asked, utterly caught off guard, and with a big piece of thick, lush, moist chocolate cake and creamy chocolate icing in her mouth. It was literally floating on her tongue. But she paid attention to Gaston again.

  "Yes. Were you in Paris during May, three years ago... during the season?" Ah, the opera season.

   "No, I was in the U.S."

   He smiled, taking a bite of his own cake, then brandishing hia fork as he spoke.

   "Then you did not read the single article about the Opera Ghost and Mademoiselle Nilsson's kidnapping?"

   "Christina was kidnapped?"

   "By the Phantom of the Opera."

   "The who? I like his name."

   "I have reason and evidence to believe that your employer, Erik Destler, is le fantôme de l'opéra."

     Can he just keep speaking without needing prompts from her, she just wanted her cake!

    "Which is...?"

    "The Phantom is said to be deformed, and he uses his nask to hide his deformity. A white half mask. He hides in shadows, hunts girls... Christina Nilsson to be precise, though it seems he is quite fond of you?"

   "That's because I'm the only one who doesn't take any of his tantrums seriously, and  - quite intelligently - he chose to make me a friend instead of an enemy. Continue."I just want my cake.

    "Anyway, he kidnapped Christina Nilsson. I'm sure of it. A wedding dress in her size was found... and no one knows this, but a certain Vicomte... the day after she was found... the day she broke her secret engagement with him, went mad, according to staff, talking of ghosts and lassos and scorpions."

     "Is he crazy?" Grace asked, pausing to breath around the chocolate goodness. She'd have to take her family, Fleur, and Rodger here, and her friends from the Monsieur's. Hell, she should even bring Erik a piece. He might stop screaming at people for once.

    Then her fork paused middair when she realized what he was being accused of. "Gaston, what is your other evidence? I mean... Erik is verifiably insane. He's an absolute lunatic... but so am I. If a person isn't a little crazy then they're normal. Sane people are boring and bland - you're not by the way, that's a compliment. But I cannot see Erik kidnapping... well yes, technically I can. But I don't think he would. He's only obsessed with her."

   "Well, there isn't that much more evidence. But he avoids me." You pester him. "And he does idolize Christina." She's beautiful, all men do that to beautiful women. "He does wear that mask." I have scars that would make your blood run cold, like mine did at the word lasso. "And he does leave people notes  - as the managers of the theatre where everything happened complained. He haunts from the shadows, apparently sees everything his employees do."

   Grace began to feel uneasy, and it wasn't because she inhaled her cake.

   "Grace, I just want you to be careful. One more reason... his wealth. He makes a very large sum from the theatre. But he started off spending a larger sum to get everything together, to make it what it is. You must have noticed how extravagant his tastes are. Where do you think he came across such wealth? Prior to the current managers, the old one had paid the phantom twenty thousand francs a month, for well over a decade. I have made it my life's work to study Erik Destler, and the things I have found are alarming. I just want to warn you since we are on the subject and here your thoughts."

   His whole life's work? Gaston was pretty young... and yet here he thought Erik was the obsessed one.

French Lesson: C'est Dommage: It's a pity.  Je suis petite faim: I am a little hungry.

   Thanks to all my readers! What are your thoughts on Leroux? Cause things are about to get... PHUNNY!