Glade Lain
Georgie
A s I climbed the stairs the crashing of music surrounded me. The strains of the organ were interspersed with muttered curses and scratchings of quill to paper. Having made it past the first hurdle of the housekeeper at the door, I knew the most challenging task still lay in front of me. The beauty of this man's music was shrouded with a sheen of vagaries so extravagant that even his fellow countrymen were left aghast. Oh, not that any of them would speak of it to his face. The French would not dare to defile the reputation of one held in such esteem. Instead they tittered about it in their nightly salons, behind their masks of gentility. No, they wouldn't dare speak of his baser desires to his face. They would leave that task to me.
This man, Chauvet by name, composed music the world was enamored with. Could it be true his inner sanctuary was a place of debauchery and filth? Would one capable of creating such beauty also be capable of living in such a foul manner? Can a sane man concieve both the sublime and the wicked? It was my task to find the answers to these questions.
As my hand lifted to knock on his door, I noticed it was trembling...
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