The Violist

Part VI Box Five

Part VI Box Five

"Papa!" Juliette shouted as she ran down the corridors in search of the violinist. Her fatigue disappeared and was replaced with panicked adrenaline. She wanted to leave. She wanted to be free of not only the masked man, but all of Paris. She missed her quaint home in the middle of nowhere. She missed the smell of manure coming from the surrounding farms. The Opéra was not meant for her and she was prepared to abandon it completely. Turning the corner, she nearly crashed into her father from behind. "Papa, I need to speak with you."

He turned around to find his daughter gasping for breath, viola in hand. "Juliette, I am a little busy at the moment."

She had not even noticed Madame Giry standing there, posture straight and cane in hand. The woman raised her eyebrows when she saw the girl frantically pull at her father's sleeve.

"If you would please excuse us, Madame Giry. I must speak with my father." The girl tried to not sound as desperate as she truly was.

"Juliette, not now," Jacques scolded. "We were discussing the potential changes that may occur once the Comte's patronage begins. I believe his contribution would greatly benefit the Populaire. Would you not agree?"

The girl's eyes widened, not believing what she was hearing. Her mouth dropped open to begin speaking, yet no words were produced. A superficial smile spread across her lips in attempt to fix her gawking.

"Anyway," Jacques continued, confused by her daughter's sudden rude behavior. "I told Monsieur Reyer that I would meet him for breakfast. It was lovely to speak with you Madame. Juliette, I shall see you in the pit, yes? À bientôt."

Juliette, still silent, was now the one dumbfounded. Her father had never dismissed her in such a manner before. He was not one to be tardy, especially when meeting a colleague, but it could only have been her luck that he be in such a hurry when the situation was dire.

"Meg tells me you are doing well," the ballet instructor said, breaking the long silence. She watched the girl's expression turn to one of discomfort. "Juliette, are you truly alright?"

The girl's eyes brimmed with tears as she rubbed her injured wrist. She did not wish to trouble anyone. After all, this was her problem and nobody else's. Perhaps if she had not acted so foolishly around Monsieur Destler from the start, none of her troubles would exist. She should have never touched his piano, she should have never knocked over his bench and scratched his floor, and she should never have told him that she played the viola.

"Come, child," the woman said as she ushered the girl into the nearest, unoccupied room. The way she addressed Juliette as "child" was nothing like how Erik had used the word. There was no sign of degradation in her tone, but rather a protective concern.

The room they found themselves in was a derelict office that appeared to have been abandoned for years. They both seated themselves on some dusty, wooden chairs that creaked when sat upon.  Juliette wiped away the tears from her cheeks and sniffled, trying to keep her composure.

"Please, tell me what's happened."

"Monsieur Destler, he--" Juliette found the words difficult to produce.  "Oh, I cannot speak of such foul things!"

Madame Giry took the girl's hand in her own and gave it a comforting squeeze.  She allowed the girl time to think over what she wished to say.  Looking down at the girl's petite hands, she noticed the edge of the mark left on her thin wrist, the sleeve of her dress riding up her forearm.  "How has he harmed you, dear?" she asked calmly.  "The purple on your wrist, did he do this to you?"