It's hardly something you should worry yourself over.
Yes, I know that, but there's nothing wrong with it, is there?
No, nothing, aside from the fact that you're concerned about the man who ruined all your chances for happiness.
But he wants me to be happy.
He isn't doing an exactly splendid job, is he?
He tries; he wants what's best for me.
Ah, so kidnapping and torture are now considered good things for a young woman.
It isn't torture. He wants what I want, yet sometimes he's blinded by his own selfishness. He can't help himself; that's the way he's lived.
Rationalization was never one of your strongest suits, Christine.
It had now been three hours and forty-eight minutes. Christine knew this because of the clock that now rested on the mantelpiece. She had whined, complained, and irritated Erik so much over it that he went out in the middle of the night and returned with one, glaring at her as he wound it up.
Now, it was once again the middle of the night. It was unusual for him to suddenly disappear at this hour. He was usually gone only in the mornings. With mounting anxiety, Christine had taken to sitting in the front room, a shawl wrapped around her dressing gown, watching the clock tick away. When she told herself that it was only for herself that she was concerned (after all, if he never returned, how was she to leave this place?), she immediately felt sickened with her own attitude. Erik had seemed to wake up one morning a new person. He filled her days: singing, teaching, reading, telling stories, giving her things to keep her mind occupied. Christine clung to each activity desperately, throwing herself into each one and trying to give him something in return.
No matter what she said or thought, in the musty corners of her heart she was highly thankful. She had never told him that. However, his nighttime outing shouldn't perturb her; the young woman fiercely told herself that she should be in bed. It was silly of her to come out, anyway. All she had wanted was a glass of water and, perhaps, a word or two from Erik. Christine panicked slightly when she couldn't find him anywhere. Where could he be in the middle of the night?
Three hours and fifty-two minutes.
Christine blinked. What a silly girl! She was literally counting the seconds, waiting for him to return, and she decided to go back to bed and forget this whole asinine affair. Nothing budged; she remained mute on the couch, her feet tucked up underneath her for warmth, staring at the clock, whose hands seemed to be moving exceptionally slowly.
At four hours and twelve minutes, there was a creak from the door, and Erik walked in, sighing and pulling off his hat. He looked exhausted, but at the sight of Christine sitting on his couch, he started and blinked at her.
"Is everything quite all right?" he asked cordially.
She nodded silently, staring at him. For the first time, Erik felt uncomfortable with her gaze. Having nothing in his hands, he instead fiddled with his hat, running his fingers over the brim and looking right back at Christine.
"You were gone a long time," she said hollowly.
"Yes," the man agreed, still disconcerted. "I had...errands."
"What kind?"
Erik lifted an unseen eyebrow and said curtly, "Errands which do not concern young girls. Now, run off to bed, darling. It's late."
Christine sat still. "Where did you go?" The natural feelings in a bitter woman were springing to the forefront: where had he gone that she couldn't? Why wouldn't he tell her what he had been doing? Why did he look so uncomfortable? Why was he sending her to bed? Didn't he adore her? Shouldn't he want to talk with her, be with her, as much as possible?
Then again...she knew what he wanted. She kept him from her bed with more viciousness than she had ever done with anything before. Perhaps Erik had grown tired of her reluctance! Perhaps...perhaps his loneliness had driven him to desperation, and he had traveled to the lowest slums of Paris in search of company. Her cheeks turned fiery red at the thought...but not with embarrassment. Christine realized it was from harsh jealousy: Erik loved her, and only her! He would not pay some ragged harlot to replace her (at the thought of the price he would have had to pay, she gave a soft and wicked smirk).
The man had no idea what was going on in his wife's pretty head. She was positively glaring at him, and he hadn't the foggiest idea why. He had merely run some late-night errands and then took to haunting the upper floors. Time had slipped away from him. Besides, he didn't even imagine that Christine would notice. She would be tucked up in bed, asleep, with dreams so sweet that he could only envy. However, he was reluctant to tell her, for his errands were not of a...pleasant...nature (blackmailing and such was not something to be talked about in a casual conversation), and he had spooked the ballet tarts silly. The upper floors would not be permitted to forget about the Opera Ghost.
"Go to bed, Christine," he said frowningly; this was the longest time she had defied him, and her refusal irked him.
"First answer my question," she declared boldly, pulling her feet out and standing unsteadily; four hours of stiffly sitting did not go well with her legs, yet she stood rebelliously, facing a cold-blooded murderer with anger and bitterness mounting in her face. The two stood, each one positively lethal, eyeing the other with angry wariness.
Until, quite suddenly, Christine giggled.
Erik wondered if something in her mind had suddenly unhinged itself. She laughed so hard she doubled over. She laughed until tears came to her eyes. She laughed with such earnestness that she had to sit down. When the young woman finally composed herself, she breathed deeply and smiled.
"I think you're rubbing off on me," she chided lightly. "This was a ridiculous argument."
Erik merely blinked. His fists were still clenched, though he relaxed them forcefully; it took more than a few seconds to cool him when he was riled up. Christine sighed, pulled her dressing gown around herself tightly, and drifted off to bed without another word.
The man stood for many more minutes. He would never understand women.
Although it was hard to get the thought of Erik's late-night outing from her mind, Christine finally accepted the fact that she probably would never know where he went, and she instead focused on her married life. It was a poor excuse for one if anything.
Erik was still trying desperately to keep her entertained. He brought her newspapers a few times a week, and Christine devoured every section, first flipping to the social pages, each time a swarm of butterflies would gather in her stomach as she scanned the titles. She was looking for any de Chagny deaths, hoping to find lines in their obituaries such as, 'preceded in death by his brother,' or 'survived by his brothers and sister.' They were a well-known family, and it might be that there was a notice placed somewhere. It was a pitiful and unreliable method, yet she doubted Erik's confirmation of his deportation so thoroughly that she was not hesitant to flip over to the section. However, each day brought nothing, much to her disappointment and relief.
Erik could not describe his feelings; he was selfish and tyrannical over Christine, yet he only wanted what she wanted, and still he thought it best to simply let her be. It was all happening at once, and many times he had to escape from the house to drain his emotion. He took Christine on walks, although they were few, and she could hardly stand the fact.
It was then that one night Erik presented her with a gift. It was wrapped plainly in a little long rectangular box, and he handed it to her without a word. She vaguely wondered if he had wrapped it himself. Erik paced agitatedly, rubbing his ear and shooting glances at her. The familiar sensation of anxiety crept into her stomach, and she quickly unwrapped the present with trembling fingers. There was a box with a lid, lined with more paper, and in it was something to make her look at Erik with a quivering lip.