Disclaimer: I don't own anything. (I'm sure that covers it.)

A/N: This fic is based mainly on the 2004 film, plot-wise (that very last scene at the cemetery got me thinking), but with healthy doses of Leroux throughout.Unfortunately, I have never read Susan Kay's book (and while ebay prices remain at 80 dollars and above, I never will).

Reviews are very welcome, as is constructive criticism. To any of you lovely people who decide to follow my little story, I should warn you that it builds slowly ... lots of background, lots of moments, lots of viewpoints, so if that's not your type of thing, I apologise in advance.

Alright, here goes. Some things may not make sense quite yet, but patience is the word. :)

CHAPTER ONE

Monsieur Henri Baccour – a round, red, rich man, thoroughly used to having his own way, simply because no other way had ever been necessary – had to admit he felt uneasy. The sensation, so foreign to his well-ordered life, had taken some moments to identify, but he had finally settled on the appropriate label. "Unease".

His reason dismissed the feeling as nonsense. Why should he be uneasy? As a giant in the steel and mining business, he had absolutely no cause whatsoever to be intimidated. By anyone. Especially not by this stranger, of whom he knew nothing. The odds were more than likely he could buy the man ten times over, if he so wished.

Nevertheless, Baccour found himself nervously smoothing his thin moustache. He cleared his throat. He ruffled his newspaper and attempted not to stare at his companion, seated in the opposite corner of the train compartment. However, try as the good Monsieur did, his eyes seemed to keep sliding over the advertisement for "Therapeutic Tonic", up and over the edge of the page, examining the man in what he hoped was a discreet manner.

The stranger had boarded the train at Paris, some three or four hours ago, before the sun had set. Henri had at first been glad at the prospect of company, for he was loquacious by nature and had been alone in the compartment since Rouen; however, this person – slim and tall (he would have towered above Baccour, had they both been standing) – had stalked into the room, removed his hooded cape, and seated himself in the extreme opposite corner, by the shaded window, without so much as a glance in his companion's direction. Neither had spoken in the intervening hours. The man appeared to find communication unnecessary, and had spent the time either reading, or staring at the small gap between the shade and the window (presumably at the dark countryside flying past outside). Henri himself was, unusually, at a loss for words. Every time he had concocted a pleasantly neutral conversation-starter, he had turned to the man only to find the sentence die on his lips before he could get the first word out: all he could do was stare, and then turn sheepishly back to his paper. The stranger produced no visible reaction to the awkward glances and curious looks, but Baccour had the distinct feeling that he knew he was being watched.

At any rate, from his furtive inspections, Henri could see that the clothes were good. Having a life-long love of well-tailored suits, Baccour could tell that all the pieces of the man's attire, including the large black cape which was draped neatly on the seat beside him, were of fine, expensive material. They fit him well. He had also with him a well-made travelling-case and trunk, as well as quality leather gloves and shoes. So … this unusual person appeared to be a gentleman, at least.

His bearing suggested the same – at the moment, he was seated in a languid yet elegant position; relaxed in the seat, his right elbow occupying the low windowsill as if it were an arm-rest. His left hand cradled a book, poised at reading angle. The volume, from its cover, appeared to be in a language Baccour could not identify - perhaps an Eastern tongue - and every few minutes, a gloved hand would rise and turn the page with infinite grace.

But it was the man's face that captured Baccour's attention – it seemed too incongruous. The side facing him showed a clean shaven cheek with a strong jaw, dark brow and dark slicked-back hair, perhaps with the faintest touch of grey at the temples, complimenting the aristocratic nose and a firmly set mouth. Baccour guessed that the man was in his early forties. His nationality was indeterminate, however: he was probably some type of European, but his slightly darker skin and exotic air suggested the possibility that he had other blood within him too. The eye, as it moved back and forth across the page in front of it, was startling in its intensity; even from this distance, Baccour could see that the iris was an unusual grey-green colour, punctuated by a magnetic, black pupil. Looking at it, even though its gaze was directed elsewhere, Henri was filled with an inexplicable chilliness.

The other half of the man's face was on the further side, facing the window shade – yet it was impossible to miss the main feature. It was concealed by plaster and bandages, from the hairline to the right side of the nose, and from the mouth to the jaw ... the radiant white of these trappings stood in stark contrast to his skin, dark hair and black attire.

Baccour could only guess that the stranger had suffered some great injury to his face, though he was at pains to imagine how a gentleman like as this would find himself in such a situation. Occasionally, you may see some poor person trussed up like this – factory accidents, and things of that sort, or diseases they did not have the money to cure – but certainly not someone like this. The only explanation he could find was that the man had been abroad … the colonies in Africa, perhaps, where things were dangerous, or else the East … and some violence had befallen him there. Perhaps he had been in the army.

Finally, curiosity and loneliness got the better of our dear Henri, and he summoned up the courage to talk to the man. He hoped a better acquaintance would rid him of the irrational and nagging unease he felt.

"So, Monsieur. I could not help but notice the book you are reading. Have you lately been in foreign parts?" He spoke and his words fell clumsily, they seemed to be muffled by the man's imposing presence.

Slowly, the sculpted head turned, and the two unnerving rested upon him, for the first time.

"No, not lately," the stranger answered. The voice floated out of his mouth like a warm gust of dusty summer air; it was soft, deep and vaguely comforting, though perhaps threaded through with a hint of contempt. Henri, momentarily stunned by the combined effect of the eyes and the voice – making him even more uncomfortable than before – said nothing for some minutes. The man returned to his book, since the statement had obviously been designed to close the discussion.

However, our Baccour was a persistent man, and had not opened the conversation only to let it fall by the wayside. When he had composed himself, he made another valiant attempt.

"So you come from Paris, Monsieur?"

After a moment, the man looked up. "Paris was my home for many years." Once again, the stranger's voice washed over Henri. It was a peculiar sensation … listening seemed to bring on an odd combination of relaxation and alertness.

"I see. Me, I come from Nice," he replied, swallowing hard. The stranger raised his visible eyebrow, almost in surprise, and the eyes were suddenly kindled with what Henri interpreted as interest. He continued, somewhat encouraged: "Yes, my family are there – my wife and the children – but find myself travelling a great deal on business … I'm in steel and mining, you know. Very promising industry. Yes … so I go to Paris and, well, everywhere, really. I am just now returning from Rouen. Oh, but it is a tiring trip!" He sighed. "You are headed South as well … where are you bound?"

"I am not sure – my plans at this moment are tentative and I do not know my final destination."

"Indeed? That sounds wonderful!" Henri chortled. "Sometimes I wish for my bachelor days when I too had that sort of freedom." He sighed and smiled, though it was clear he didn't really mean what he said. "Well Monsieur, if you find yourself at a loss for a destination, why don't you visit our fair city, Nice? It is truly charming, and there is no place more relaxing in all the world. When I come back from my long, weary travels, I am always glad to be returning to so delightful a home."

"If only all weary travellers could be as ... fortunate … as yourself, Monsieur. I shall keep your suggestion in mind, for I have not yet seen Nice."

Henri may have imagined it, but he could have sworn the man had started to say something other than 'fortunate' just then, though he didn't know what. However, Baccour was very pleased at having extracted more than a few words from the stranger, and found himself offering an invitation on impulse.

"Excellent. And if you do find yourself there without a guide, please call on my wife and I – we live on Rue Blanche." He said this with some pride, it was the best street in town. "We would be delighted to have you."

The stranger smiled slowly, dipping his head with poise. His eyes flashed something Henri could not quite interpret. "Thank you for your generous invitation, Monsieur. Forgive me, I don't believe I caught your name?"

"Ah, Baccour is my name." The fatter man rose as quickly as his ample stomach would allow. He stumbled across the compartment to shake the gloved hand of the stranger, who had extended it with no apparent intention of rising from his place. "I am Henri Baccour, pleased-to-know-you" he said, panting slightly as he half-bowed to reach the hand … the scene resembled nothing so much as a presentation at court. Finally, our uncomfortable subject heaved himself into the seat opposite the monarch, smoothing his lapel.

The dark man merely replaced his arm on the sill, fingers curved, their tips lightly touching the wood. "Ah. It is indeed a pleasure, Monsieur Baccour. My own name is Erik Angebeau," he said, smirking.

Baccour caught the smile and assumed it was in reference to the name. "Angebeau? As in …" He mimicked the beating of wings with a grin.

"Exactly." Monsieur Angebeau nodded with a short, harsh laugh. Unlike his speaking voice, it left an unpleasant ring in the air. "Erik will do."

"Very well, and you must call me Henri." Henri smiled, pleased with himself.

The conversation stalled, and Erik began once again to leaf through his book. He seems a very pleasant fellow, Baccour told himself. I was just being silly. Perhaps he is simply not talkative by nature. However, the truth was that Henri was only slightly less apprehensive than before: without the soothing voice, the man's look and expressions were as unnerving as ever. Secretly he hoped Erik would not avail himself of the invitation so rashly given – Baccour was a generous man who delighted in entertaining visitors, but he found himself wondering what kind of guest this Monsieur Angebeau would make.

"Ahem. So have you a profession, Erik? I thought you may perhaps be a military man."

Erik looked up slowly and deliberately, his lips were curved into a grim smile and his eyes flashed brightly. "And why would you think so, my good Henri?"

"Well," the poor man stammered. "Well you have the bearing of one. I thought …"

The interrupted with his soft, strong voice. "You thought I might have been injured in combat, correct?"

Henri could do no more than stare apologetically.

"Well, you are not far from the truth," Erik continued, breaking the eye contact and speaking rapidly. "I was in service once, a while ago, during which I acquired the … injury … you have no doubt noticed."

"Oh, I am truly sorry Monsieur. It must indeed have been a deep wound if it is yet to heal." Henri looked at him with all the compassion he could muster.

Erik did not return the man's gaze – instead, he pulling the shade aside a few centimetres and looked into the black window. He spoke softly. "Yes, it was a deep wound." He replaced the shade. "But the military is no longer my path. I now pursue … other things." In the man's eyes, Henri found a tacit warning against asking what "other things" meant.

"Oui, Monsieur, I quite understand. There is no peace in a military life."

In a final effort, Henri asked Erik about his book. The latter replied that it dealt with Far Eastern philosophy, and contained a chapter he had hoped to finish by the time he reached his destination. Accordingly, Baccour left him to his studies and they sat in silence until the train reached Lyon.

There they parted amiably, as Erik was to alight and Henri was to continue on this line.

"Au revoir, good Henri, and thank you once again – I shall see you in Nice, if I am able," Erik dipped his head with the same grace he executed any motion.

"I look forward to it," returned Henri, a smile clumsily plastered on his face.