~ Voltaire ~
The old man sips his espresso and winces. “Marcel! Marcel!” he calls from his writing desk.
His butler answers the summons at once. “What is the matter, Monsieur?”
Voltaire raises his mouth from his cup. “Marcel, I've not long to live. I came to Paris to die. But in the meantime, I compose plays. At this moment I am constructing a tragedy. So, why is there cream in my espresso?”
The butler frowns in confusion. “I don't understand, Monsieur. That is how you wanted it this morning, mid-morning, late morning, noon, early afternoon, mid-afternoon—”
“Was I composing a tragedy then, Marcel?” Voltaire interrupts, his voice reedy, but vigorous.
“N-No, Monsieur,” the butler stammers.
Voltaire sighs and places the cup down. “My dear good man, pardon me. My last butler spoiled me these last twenty years. You see, cream is far too sweet for morose composition. It reminds the brain of mother's milk, a natural chemical that brings on a mood of ease and contentment. Such a mood would hinder my efforts toward the delicate task in front of me. So, please, brew up a fresh cup of plain, black, bitter espresso that I might conjure up the proper elements of grief and remorse.”
“As you will, Monsieur,” the butler says as he takes up the cup and coaster. “I shan't be long.” Just as the butler is about to leave the study, there is a ring at the door.
“I will answer it, Marcel,” Voltaire tells him as he rises from his desk. “My drink is a matter more pressing. Go.”
As the butler leaves, Voltaire puts on his undercoat and his wig. With the brisk velocity of a cocksure youth, the eighty-four year old scribe makes his way down two elegant halls, a flight of carpeted stairs, and to his ornate front door. Opening the stately portal, Voltaire beholds a tall gentleman bowing low and gracefully.
“Monsieur Voltaire, I have come to pay a visit and my respects. I am - -”
“Cyrano De Bergerac!” Voltaire interrupts with a clap of joy. “That white plume in your hat, the humble yet noble cut of your clothes, and the nose that reflects the enormity of your intellect gives you away!”
Cyrano smiles. “You, too, have such a nose, oh master of masters!”
“Nay, nay! Whilst mine own proboscis is larger than most, it is largely due to age. Come in, dear man. I am honored to be visited by the Warrior Poet of Paris. I am on death's door, you know. From what I've heard, you've sent many a man through there. Do you wish me to carry any regards to them once I pass through?”
Cyrano gives his mustache a twist. “Had I any regard for them they'd still be living, Monsieur.”
“Ha, ha! Very good! Please, enter.”
The ancient philosopher leads his guest to a library, where stands two upholstered chairs. As the two men sit down, Voltaire asks, “Shall I have my butler fix you a cup of espresso?”
“Water will suit me fine,” Cyrano answers.
Voltaire leans forward in his seat, a sly grin on his face. “Are you sure? Espresso is the juice of life. It has preserved my vigor and mind for so long. Had the Greek myths contained stories of espresso in place of nectar, I might have found them more plausible.”
Cyrano crosses his arms and grins dashingly. “As to that, I was named for Hercules, and with that name came an apt vitality.”
“As you will,” Voltaire says, waving his hand. “What then shall we talk about? I would be most interested in your opinions on the current government.”
Cyrano laughs. “Oh, my dear Saint of Scribes, my opinions on that subject are several and various.
Voltaire leans back in comfort. “Indulge me.”
High above them on the third floor, a window is opened from the outside. Artfully, and with little sound, the seemingly awkward bulk of Quasimodo steals through and into a hallway. He turns to poke his ugly head outside, looking downward.
“Phantom,” he whispers to night clad darkness below. “Phantom, shall I help you up? Where are you?”
He feels an eerie presence behind him, and he turns to face it. His good eye widens as his fleshy lips quiver. “How did you get up here?” he asks the Phantom who now stands in the hallway with him.
But the Phantom only turns and makes a commanding gesture. “Come. The painting is this way.”
Quasimodo does not hear the words, but obeys. Through the winding halls they go until they come to a door.
“In here,” the Phantom says, pointing at the doorknob.
“H-Here?” the Hunchback asks as he reaches for the knob. He is nervous. The masked Phantom is making this all seem too easy. Quasimodo attempts to turn the knob, but to no avail. “It's locked.”
There is a loud gasp in the hall. The two men look over to see the butler not five feet from them. The startled servant jolts at the sight of them and drops a freshly brewed cup of espresso onto the floor.
“Zut alors!” the butler exclaims.
Before Quasimodo can react, the Phantom steps in front of him. Facing the shocked butler, the Phantom removes his volto mask. Quasimodo watches the butler grow pale and shudder before fainting to the floor. In one swift movement, the Phantom turns and covers his face once more.
“Break down the door.”
Quasimodo frowns. “I'm deaf, you know. I can't understand you with your mask on. But no time to talk! I should break this door down!”
The Phantom rolls his eyes and nods in approval. And with a mighty thud, the Hunchback rams his shoulder into the mahogany door.
THUD!
“What was that?” Voltaire asks from downstairs.
“I heard nothing,” Cyrano bluffs.
THUD!
The old scribe's eyebrows knit in concern. “What the devil? It came from upstairs!”
Cyrano arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
THUD!
“Quite sure!” Voltaire says, springing from his seat. He dashes over to a desk and grasps a fountain pen. “I may require your assistance, Cyrano. I suspect some evil is afoot.”
Cyrano rises hesitantly from the chair. “Of course,” he answers, masking his concern.
THUD! CRUNCH!
The two men make their way up the stairs. “I think it came from my gallery!” Voltaire says, leading the way.
Through the halls they speed until they come upon the prone form of the butler. “My espresso!” the old scribe cries in outrage, seeing the stain on the carpeted floor.
As they draw near they see the gallery door smashed and broken. Voltaire peeks into the doorway to see the squat, hobbling Hunchback removing the portrait of Louis, Dauphin of France painted by Claude Deruet from the wall.
“Thief!” Voltaire yells, pointing judiciously with his pen. “Swine-faced rogue!”
Quasimodo turns to see the infuriated features of France's greatest penman drawing near. Instinctively, he drops the painting. Voltaire presses a lever on his pen, his aim unerring. A stream of jet black ink spews forth, coating the surface of the Hunchback’s good eye. Quasimodo yelps in pain as he covers his face. Voltaire closes in with a series of ruthless, yet shallow, stabs to the Hunchback’s arms and shoulders. Quasimodo screams all the louder as he collapses to the floor. Cyrano De Bergerac has no choice now but to draw his sword.
“Voltaire! Mercy, please!” Cyrano shouts. “I will detain this foul villain. You must go summon the watch.”
Seeing his opponent brought low, Voltaire ceases his stabbing. Several locks of his wig have fallen loose, and the old, thin man breathes heavy. But his ancient eyes beam with grim satisfaction. “Very well, master Cyrano. Very well, and very good.”
“And bravo to you, Voltaire,” Cyrano says as he enters the gallery. “The pen is truly mightier than the sword.” He points the tip of his rapier at the Hunchback’s throat and sneaks Quasimodo a friendly wink.
Voltaire grins and pockets the bloody pen. “It is a shame I am at death's door, my friend. I would have enjoyed more adventurous dealings with the Great Cyrano! But, ho, I must be off to alert the watch!”
r /> Voltaire runs out, sped on by caffeine and civic duty. As he makes his way down the hall, a glass light fixture comes loose and falls, striking him atop the head. The fixture shatters and the old man collapses.
Hearing the crash, Cyrano and Quasimodo emerge from the gallery to see Voltaire sprawled out on the floor. Standing over the scribe is Erik, the Phantom of the Opera House.
“Did you just kill Voltaire?” Cyrano asks, raising his sword in sudden anger.
“He still lives,” the Phantom says calmly, regarding the unconscious old man. “His wig protected him.” The Phantom raises his eyes to his two allies. “Don't you have a key to find? Or must I do all the work?”
Cyrano's eyes narrow. He sheathes his blade and reenters the gallery. After less than a minute of searching, he finds an iron key in a hidden pocket on the portrait's reverse side. Addressing his two allies he improvises the following couplet:
“Behold the first fruit of our task,
A key for the Man in Iron Mask,
But may it also prove the key,
That will unlock this mystery.
Come, let's away!”
Chapter 6