"Just this way, Monsieur," murmured the timid little maid who had opened to Erik’s knock. He followed the young lady as she fluttered down a hallway to the headmistress’ private office, casting nervous glances at him over her shoulder. Pulling aside the heavy door, she whispered, "I shall fetch Madame for you, Monsieur." He swept into the chair she had indicated and watched her hasty retreat; he was used to such treatment after all his morning’s errands, but this young woman was by far the most entertaining servant he had encountered thus far, with her snub little nose and her huge mob cap.

As he waited for the formidable "Madame" of whom the maid had spoken, Erik reflected on this day’s occupation: he had visited several of Paris’ schools for upper-class children, seeking employment as a maestro of music. Hitherto he had been unsuccessful, his strange appearance garnering even stranger responses from the proprietors of those institutions. One headmaster had slammed the door in his face outright. But Erik remained unruffled, confident that it was only a matter of time before he happened on a school that would suit him.

He knew he was in luck the moment he turned towards the clicking of the door latch. Madame Blèdurt, the headmistress of this particular school for young ladies, was an unmarried woman of middle age; but Erik could read in her face as she came through the door a certain flair for the dramatic and self-serving. Such a woman might very well be ... persuaded. "Madame," he greeted her, rising and dusting off that long-unused talent he had for charming the unsuspecting. With a slight bow, he introduced himself; "Erik Rouen at your service."

"Monsieur ... Rouen," she replied, taken suddenly aback by the rich velvet voice that issued from the throat of the strange-looking man standing in her office. It effected her deeply, in some seldom-used part of her heart. "I ... forgive me, have we met before?"

"Oh, no, forgive me," Erik said smoothly, already enjoying his little game; "I have come here quite uninvited. I really must apologize for my trespass, but I have a business proposition I had hoped would interest you."

"Really," Mme. Blèdurt replied, cautiously enthralled. There was something powerfully attractive about M. Rouen that she could not quite define; it was only now beginning to dawn on her, however, that his hat was at such an angle on his head that she could not see his face. She skirted her desk and took the chair behind it. "Please, be seated, and tell me why you’ve come."

Erik rearranged himself on his chair and began, "I shall be brief, Madame, for I know you are busy and do not wish to take up any of your valuable time." He spoke slowly, gauging the effect his voice was having on the schoolmarm; her chin was slightly lowered and her forehead faintly creased, but she was watching him with a definite interest. This was a good sign. Adding a slight lilt to his tone, he continued, "I am an accomplished musician, if you will forgive me for such conceit, and I am seeking a position as a maestro."

Her surprise was evident. "A maestro of music! Forgive me, Monsieur, but we have not employed a maestro for quite some time." She shifted ever so slightly, attempting to peer inconspicuously beneath his hat brim.

"I had heard that," Erik replied as smoothly as silk, "for I will not conceal from you the fact that I have been to several other schools this morning. But surely you must know the benefits of offering music to your pupils - it could prove a most profitable addition to your curriculum. And I assure you, my talents as a teacher are unparalleled."

"Monsieur," she wheedled, perhaps thinking herself coquettish, "one of our primary concerns at this school is to teach the students manners - and every gentleman removes his hat upon entering a house."

Erik smiled faintly, pleased to see his bait taken. "Forgive me, Madame - I have been rather rudely treated by some of your competitors this morning, and have forgotten myself." He removed his hat with his right hand, swiftly running his left over his hair to ensure it was all in place. The graceful gesture stirred something in Mme. Blèdurt’s sensibilities, but the shock of his mask could not be overpowered.

"I ... I don’t know that I can make such a decision today, Monsieur ... Perhaps ... perhaps you might return tomorrow ..."

Having expected such a reaction, he stroked her with his voice as one might caress a nervous cat. "I take your meaning, Madame - the mask disconcerts you?"

His words had the desired effect, acting almost as a truth serum. "Please, Monsieur," she whispered, only half-aware of the admission she was making; "it is just so startling ..."

He held up one graceful hand; the motion was so fluid it made her catch her breath. "Please," he said softly, his tone gentle and almost tempting, "I am really quite used to the reaction. Allow me to explain - the mask is the physical testimony to my concern for your comfort."

"Monsieur?" she whispered, her mind reeling against the almost instinctual reaction his grace and the beauty of his voice were producing in her. This man had only just entered her office, and yet she felt he was speaking to her as if she were reclining in his arms, his mouth only inches from her own ...

"I am quite ugly, you see - a tragic accident destroyed my face." The accident of birth, he remarked wryly to himself; but he found the syllables easy enough to pronounce. Perhaps he really was suited to life above ground. "I wear the mask for you, and for all who must see me - for your pupils, and their parents. I promise you, you will become quite insensible to it once you have witnessed my skill as a musician."

She shook herself mentally, tried to break the hold he was weaving over her. She knew she ought to suspect him of embellishment, but she could not conceive of that voice uttering an untruth ... her own voice was choked with emotion at the beauty of his.

"Madame, I can see you are incredulous," Erik continued, his tone waxing vaguely seductive, "and I can assure you I can understand your position. Please, allow me to prove my ability with a small demonstration?"

The ample spinster seemed to relax. "We have a piano you might play ..."

"Oh, no, you mistake me - of course I am a performer myself, but today I mean to exhibit only my prowess as a teacher. Bring me your best pupil, and allow me to instruct her for one hour on her instrument of choice. If at the end of that hour you do not find her greatly improved, you may turn me out of your establishment with all alacrity."

The strange request worked wonders in breaking the spell of his voice. She stared at him, and although she could not read anything in his strange blank face she could tell he was in earnest. The talent he was boasting seemed impossible - but if it were true ...! Mme Blèdurt had recently heard tell that her school was considered an inferior rival by her fellow Parisian schoolmasters, and that nagging indignity goaded her. Finally she replied, "Very well, Monsieur. Without a doubt, my best pupil is Estelle de Jardin; she is fifteen and studies the piano. I must warn you, however, that she is already quite accomplished."

"It makes no difference," he replied, the waving of his hand seeming almost careless. "One hour under my tutelage shall show improvement in her performance."

"We shall see, Monsieur." She moved to the door and addressed one of the several servants that Erik could sense had assembled outside it. "Fetch Mademoiselle de Jardin here at once, and tell her to bring her music."

Moments later a knock at the door revealed a pale, slender young lady with round spectacles perched atop her little snub nose. Her appearance was peculiar but not unpleasant; Erik consciously put down the reaction her voluminous brown waves stirred in him. "Monsieur Erik Rouen," Mme. Blèdurt said in a pompous tone, "allow me to present Mademoiselle Estelle de Jardin."

The child extended her hand as she had been taught, but her wide eyes betrayed a curiosity that obscured mannerliness. "Monsieur," she breathed.

He liked the child instantly and, reading an abundance of fantasy in her eyes, he decided to indulge it. Taking her little hand in his lithe gloved fingers, he bowed deeply. "Mademoiselle," he greeted her in his most mysterious tone, "I am a teacher of music, and I wish an hour of your time. Would you permit me?"

Erik’s assessment of the dreamy child proved correct - her face lit up like a Christmas window. "Oh, yes, Monsieur!"

Stepping to one side, he invited her to precede him into the adjoining music room. "I am told you are quite accomplished at the piano, Mademoiselle."

Estelle blushed. "Your sources are overly generous, Monsieur ... I have never had a real teacher, and I am sure you will hear that very clearly."

"Have you no maestro, then?" he asked, surprised at her modesty and candor.

She shook her head. "I have learned at home - my guardian began me on the instrument, but when I surpassed her ability to teach me I learned simply by persistent practicing."

Mme. Blèdurt was bringing up the rear of the procession into the music room. "Estelle has had no formal training, Monsieur, but she possesses a great natural ability ..."

Once over the threshold, Erik turned on his heel and closed the door gently on her . "One hour, Madame."

Taken aback by his behavior, Mme. Blèdurt could only stare at the paneling inches from her nose. When she finally collected her wits, she shook her head indignantly and retired to a nearby armchair, where she spent the hour fanning herself with her handkerchief and repeating, "He must be a musician - the nerve!"

When the music room door opened and Erik emerged, what appeared to be a smile was playing around the exposed corner of his mouth. "Madame, I bid you enter," he said jovially.

He was as good as his word. Estelle de Jardin, who had played well but mechanically previously, now infused each note with a heightened sensitivity. Her pianissimo was as delicate and pure as paper-thin ice. Mme. Blèdurt barely breathed as she heard the child play, and was moved to applaud upon the closing of the piece.

"Monsieur, you are a treasure," she cried, imagining the aristocrats of Paris clamoring to have their musically inept children admitted to her school. "You simply must stay on as our maestro of music!"

Erik chuckled inwardly at her sudden change of heart; placing one hand on the edge of the piano, he leaned in close to Estelle’s ear. "What do you think, Mademoiselle de Jardin? Shall I stay and see you again, perhaps once a week?"

Estelle de Jardin had been under Mme. Blèdurt’s wing for nearly a year, and she had come to know her as a somber, purposeful child; and so the sudden burst of energy from the little musician was quite startling. "Oh, please, monsieur," she cried, jumping to her feet and clasping his other hand tightly. "I want to learn everything about the piano - please stay and teach me!"

The good corner of Erik’s mouth curved into a smile. "Madame," he addressed the schoolmistress, "I believe that, at this point, I have no choice but to accept your kind offer." He was, of course, heedless of how gravely he had just altered the course of his own fortune; he had not recognized the child, having paid little attention to her weeks before at the Opera.

Weeks slipped away as they tend to do. Estelle, delighted with her new musical tutor, began to exhibit improvements almost immediately; and Christine could scarce induce her young charge to speak one sentence that did not contain some exclaimed mention of the mysterious "Monsieur Rouen."

"I will say, Estelle," Christine smiled one evening over dinner, "that perhaps it is all worth your speaking of him constantly. Your playing seems perfected by magic."

"Oh, Christine," the young lady giggled. "You shouldn’t be so skeptical - after all, you were the one who used to tell me about the Angel of Music!"

An awkward sensation flooded Christine’s heart, which she tried to smother in her napkin. "Yes, dear, it seems you have found a veritable Angel in this M. Rouen." But her tone was flat, and Estelle, taking quiet stock of it, was careful not to talk of her beloved new teacher again that evening. She had hitherto not mentioned M. Rouen’s mask, fearing that it might alarm her guardian.

Christine herself tried to maintain a cheerful demeanor through the end of dinner, but excused herself to her room shortly thereafter. Her cheeks aching from forced smiles, she allowed solitude to coax tears from her tired eyes. She could hardly blame her dear Estelle for unwittingly inspiring sad memories of Erik, but neither could she prevent her own sorrow. Despite her many efforts in the weeks since their near meeting at the Opera, she had been unable to locate him; but neither had he come to her, and it gave her to know he did not want to see her. "All the better," she sighed beside her bedroom window, the moonlight spilling over her form painting her a sad angel. "What could I ever say to him, after Venice?"

Erik, quite to the contrary, found himself growing increasingly happier following his employment at Madame Blèdurt’s academy. He secured a modest flat not far from the school and settled into a quiet existence, even purchased furniture and issued Nadir an open invitation for chess and sherry. As for his working hours, he tired almost immediately of all the other students under Mme. Blèdurt’s roof; Estelle de Jardin alone held his attentions, his confidence in her potential whipping his old creative energies to fevered pitch. With her he would spend hours, while he would dismiss the other young ladies after a cursory twenty or thirty minutes; for him, the others were simply pale, ordinary daisies in comparison to Estelle’s fiery tiger-lily talent.

But musicality aside, Erik presently began to find himself endeared to young Estelle herself. The wide-eyed child seemed all at once younger and older than her fifteen years, and her solemn, dreamy expressions could lighten his mood even after the most dismal hours with his other plunking protégées. Her enthusiasm for the piano was, of course, refreshing and encouraging to him as a teacher; but her romantic disposition led her to be especially friendly towards him - she likely fancied him some wounded anti-hero from one of her beloved fairy stories. As foolish as the notion seemed to him, he found himself doting on her for it; and soon a gentle friendship began to develop between maestro and pupil.

This relationship, when it initially came to Mme. Blèdurt’s attention, did not bother her particularly; Estelle was clearly the most promising young musician in her charge and her improvement was a credit, not only to M. Rouen, but to herself. However, when she became aware that the two would often linger for hours in the school’s salon hammering away at the piano, she gradually became more and more irked. M. Rouen did not request a lofty salary, but for what she paid him he ought to at least divide his attentions equally amongst her pupils!

Finally she could contain her indignation no further; she stationed a maid in the hall outside the music room and, as soon as Erik emerged from one of his lengthy sessions with Estelle, had him summoned him to her office.

"Monsieur Rouen," she said, rising as he entered the room, "I have been meaning to speak to you about Estelle de Jardin."

"Ah, yes, a charming pupil!" he replied enthusiastically, seating himself in the chair opposite her desk. "Her potential is incredible, Madame - I really must thank you for the opportunity of teaching her."

" ... Yes," Madame responded, remaining on her feet. "But you see, Monsieur Rouen, Estelle is here to learn more than just music."

"Just music?" Erik repeated, dropping from his tone the assumed cordiality he always used when addressing Mme. Blèdurt. Since their first meeting he was always careful to charm the schoolmistress, but today there was something in her manner that he did not like and he could not bring himself to feign cordiality.

"I’m afraid so, sir," was Madame’s reply. "As much as I am pleased at Estelle’s progress at the piano, I am also concerned that it might be coming at the cost of the rest of her studies." Stony silence from Erik; she stumbled on, anxious to fill it. "And the other children, Monsieur - they could also benefit from your tutelage."

"The other children," Erik retorted, rising again, "have not an ounce of musical ability among them."

"But surely if you can make a prodigy improve, you can teach something to the others," she protested, understandably surprised - she had never before seen this side of him.

"I refuse to waste my time in such a fashion," he replied icily.

"Well then, we have reached an impasse, monsieur." Madame Blèdurt folded her arms before her and jerked her chin just as coldly. "I refuse to employ a maestro for the private use of one pupil."

Erik neatly sidestepped his chair and, placing his hands on its back, leaned in to make a soft and venomous reply. "Very well, Madame, then I shall make arrangements for private lessons directly with Estelle’s guardian. And as for the rest of your students ..." He trailed off, making only that careless gesture with his hand.

Mme. Blèdurt’s haughtily set jaw dropped wide open. "You don’t mean to resign?" She skirted the desk and paused a few mere feet from his awesome personage. "Please, Monsieur Rouen, I cannot lose you to another school. We can discuss a pay increase ..."

He waved away her words. "Rest assured, Madame, that I shall seek employment with none of your competitors. Money is not at issue here; talent is. And since Estelle is the only worthy student I have encountered under your roof, then I shall make her my protégée without imposing on you further." Turning on his heel, he quit the room; from the doorway he threw one last remark over his shoulder. "I shall advise your secretary of my mailing-address, Mme. Blèdurt, and expect my severance within the week."

In the hallway, Erik met once again with Estelle, who had run upstairs after the end of their lesson to one of the schoolrooms to retrieve her cloak and books. To say they met is, of course, merely a turn of phrase; in reality, the child nearly bowled Erik over as she came rumbling down the stairs. "M. Rouen," she gasped, breathless from all her scampering about; "escusez-moi, I am so dreadfully clumsy."

Erik was struck with an idea. "No, cheri, it’s quite all right. I am glad you are still here - I must speak with you."

"Must you?" The young lady’s face lit up at once; she was quite enamored with her maestro and the very thought of receiving his confidence was thrilling to her.

"Yes," he smiled, savoring the sweetness of his regard for the little girl. "But it not good news, Estelle; I am no longer to teach here."

"Oh, Monsieur!" Estelle cried, dropping all of her books into a heap on the floor. "That cannot be true - it would be too horrid!"

Chuckling under his breath, Erik stooped to collect the texts from the floorboards. Looking up into Estelle’s wide, bespectacled eyes, he replied solemnly, "I’m afraid it is true. But," he intoned, allowing his eyes to sparkle up at her, "I have a plot by which we may continue our lessons."

Her expression lightened at once, all her storm clouds dissipating with his words. "Have you?" she whispered fervently, reaching as if to accept the books he had picked up.

But instead, he rose and offered her his arm. "I have," he said, "and if you will come and have tea with me at my flat, I shall tell you all about it."

Had she been younger than her dignified fifteen years, Erik could tell that Estelle would have clapped her hands and twirled for happiness. As it was, her plump little cheeks turned a sweet shade of rose at her first-ever offer of a gentleman’s arm. Erik himself thrilled at the touch of her little hand on his elbow, and nearly forgot to collect his own cloak from a stand in the corner of the foyer.

Madame Blèdurt, having overheard and wondered to whom Erik was speaking in the hall, emerged just in time to see the two through the open front door. She stared incredulously as she watched him hand Estelle into a brougham and climb in after her. Although she had felt she was in the right when she reprimanded him, she could not help feeling a twinge - was it jealousy? - at seeing the obvious regard he held for the little girl. And though she prided herself in her private life for never having succumbed to any man’s charms, she did feel a rather strong sense of regret at the loss of the elegant and mysteriously magnetic M. Rouen.

Erik chided himself as he reached for the doorknob - how foolish that a man of his age should feel so nervous that his hand trembled! But the fact remained that he had never before invited anyone but Nadir into his flat; and that his visitor should be a young lady was all the more disconcerting to him. Keeping his objective in mind, however, he ushered Estelle inside and presently had a pleasant tea set out in the parlor, with a fire burning cheerily in the grate.

"Monsieur Rouen?" Estelle suddenly spoke up. "All of this is lovely - but you have barely said a word since we left the school! Won’t you tell me about your plan?"

Erik found himself suddenly embarrassed, and stared down into his teacup for a moment before answering. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle de Jardin," he replied frankly after his pause; "I’m afraid I’m a quiet man and not used to company."

Estelle placed her teacup and saucer on the table and impetuously placed her little gloved hand atop Erik’s, which lay on his knee. "I could feel that about you, Monsieur - but I’m so glad you asked me here, that we ..." But the child turned a sudden shade of pink, and trailed off.

Erik, entranced by the little miss and her dramatic recitation, cocked his head. "Go on," he prompted gently.

She twisted her hands in her lap, clearly embarrassed. "I’m sorry, Monsieur ... I always let my imagination run away with me. I did not mean to be so forward ..." She blinked her eyes behind her spectacles, and Erik thought he could perceive a glint of tears. " ... but I would like for us to be friends."

Erik rolled his head back and laughed. "My dear," he smiled, removing his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing at the tears of mirth that rolled down his good cheek, "yes, I do believe we already are friends. Now then," he chuckled, trying to even out his voice, "now then. May I pour you some more tea?"

Estelle raised her face and smiled faintly. "Will you tell me the plan?"

"Immediately thereafter," he laughed. So did she, and raised her teacup.

Erik’s "plan" was simply this: to continue as Estelle’s piano teacher. But since he had left Madame Blèdurt’s employ, this could only be accomplished in Estelle’s own home.

"I could come with you this very evening, and ask your guardian’s permission. What do you think?" he asked the little girl, whose grave reply gave him immeasurable internal smiles.

"I think that it could work," she said, "but I think perhaps I should speak to her about it first - you see ..." Estelle placed her teacup down again and, planting one elbow on her knee, leaned forward on her hand to confide in Erik. " ... she’s something like you, Monsieur - she’s quiet and, well, sad I suppose. Since my papa died ..." Her voice faltered. "It was hard for her."

"Hard for you too," he murmured, handing his handkerchief. "If we are to be friends, Estelle, you must call me ‘Erik.’"

With a small smile, Estelle both sniffled and nodded. "We never have company to the house now; I shall have to persuade her. Will you give me a few days to speak with her, and then come to see us?"

"Of course," Erik replied, "it sounds an ideal proposal. But now," he said lightly, hoping to change the mood, "you must allow me to share my music with you, as you have shared yours with me." He rose from his chair and, lifting his violin from its case, began to play. He played for the smile to return to her lips and the dreamy cast to her eyes, and when he felt certain that she was no longer sad, he bundled her into a hired carriage and escorted her home. She waved to him from the front door of the modest house, and he made note of the address for his return in a few days’ time.

Christine was puzzled, to say the very least, when Estelle told her how she had passed her afternoon.

"But why has he left your school?" she asked her young charge; but Estelle, having been so caught up in the drama and romance of tea with her mysterious tutor, had failed to get all the details Christine requested.

"He wanted to come and see you," Estelle replied, "but I wanted to talk to you first, to tell you ..." But she stammered, as if not knowing what to say.

"Tell me what?" Christine prompted, uneasy. The maternal instinct she had begun to develop since her guardianship of Estelle was tingling; she was unsure whether to give in to the worry that pricked at the edges of her consciousness, or to the sad sympathy she likewise felt coursing through her veins. She, too, had once been the protégée of a maestro from whom explanations were not always forthcoming; and she could see in Estelle’s eyes the beginnings of an unconditional devotion that would transcend the absence of answers.

Here she thought the similarity ended. But Estelle’s next words sent a trembling chill down her spine.

"He is ... not a normal man," Estelle was explaining carefully. "I suppose that, to someone who didn’t know him, he might even seem discomforting ..." She lifted her eyes imploringly to meet Christine’s. "But he is a wonderful man, Christine, and a wonderful teacher, and I know that you will see that if only you will meet with him."

Christine barely knew what to say. She was flooded with a hundred emotions she could hardly define, and it seemed that it was another voice that replied,

"Very well, Estelle. Bring your maestro here and we shall negotiate your piano lessons."

The usually somber child let loose one of the joyous outbursts that made Christine love her so; she flung her arms around her guardian and kissed her cheek impetuously. Through the embrace, Christine’s mind swam. And what will tomorrow bring, she wondered, when I must come face-to-face with this shadow of my Erik who has enchanted my Estelle?

Shortly after noon a few days later, Erik descended from a hired cab, smoothed his jacket, and approached the door of the modest home of his promising pupil. The plump housekeeper that answered his knock seemed to want to examine his curious appearance - a natural, human response that he had come to expect - but good breeding or manners prevented her. "Please come in, Monsieur - Mademoiselle has been expecting you."

Mademoiselle, and not Madame? he mused to himself. Interesting.

He was ushered through the foyer and down a hall to a paneled and carpeted study. "May I offer you anything, Monsieur, while you wait? Some tea, perhaps?" the housekeeper inquired.

"Thank you, no," he replied with a small bow and smile, hoping such faint gestures would effectively transmit his gratitude. Though he had grown accustomed to walking about in the world, he was still very rarely treated with kindness. The housekeeper, touched by his warmth, returned his smile and left him to wait for Estelle’s guardian.

"Mademoiselle," she called softly into the library a moment later, where Christine was whiling away the afternoon with a book; "Monsieur Rouen has just arrived and is waiting in the study."

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