Chapter 44
Night and day only of him
I think and worry.
-Pique Dame, Act II
"What's that color?" Christine's dresser Pierrette exclaimed when Christine appeared at the Opéra the next day.
"Pardon?" Christine said.
"Never wear that shade of green again, kitten. You're a pretty girl, but none of us can defy nature, and she never meant for you to wear that color."
Christine sighed.
She seated herself at her dressing-table and began to put her hair into pin-curls, hoping for a peaceful interlude before the performance. But this wish was not to be granted.
"You scheming little foreign minx!" someone suddenly snarled from behind her. It was the voice of Marie Jammes, one of the dancers in the ballet company.
"I beg your pardon?" Christine turned round, surprised and bewildered. Marie had always been perfectly civil to her before. Never friendly – she only bestowed her friendship on powerful people who she thought could do something for her, and apparently she had not thought Christine's recent successes impressive enough to warrant her attention – but never actively unkind, either.
"You know what I am talking about," Marie said. Her wide-set blue eyes, normally large and round, were narrowed with anger. "You keep your hands off de Chagny."
"Tell him to keep his hands off me, then!" Christine said. Her mind whirled in bewilderment. Was there some new rumor about her?
Marie was bosom friends with Cecile Sorelli, Philippe de Chagny's maîtresse. Perhaps Philippe had told Cecile something and Cecile had told Marie.
But even so - didn't everyone know already that the Vicomte was after Christine? And why should Marie suddenly care so much?
Were Raoul and Marie a couple?
Christine fervently hoped so, that someone had finally taken Raoul off her hands, but she couldn't believe it. Even if his obsession with Christine had come to an end, which seemed too much to hope for, Marie was the kind of girl the Vicomte would think unvirtuous; she was well-known for her long succession of wealthy, well-connected lovers. A pretty young woman, she was very aware of her beauty and skilled at using it to her advantage.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" Marie snarled. "I know you've been carrying on with him."
"I have not!" Christine said. "But even if I were, why should you care-"
"-Why should I care?" she echoed in a scathing voice. "Is that how you're going to be about it?"
What on earth? Christine rubbed her head. "I don't know what you have heard, or what you are going on about, but I just wish he would leave me alone. Truly."
Marie snorted. "Well. At any rate, that dress ought to help. It's hideous on you, whore." And with a toss of her hair-ribbon, she disappeared.
"What on earth?" Christine said to no-one in particular. "Are she and the Vicomte…?"
Pierrette, thinking this question was aimed at her, shrugged. "Sorry about that, kitten," she said, shaking her head. "I'll lock the door."
No sooner had she done so, however, than there came another knock.
Christine sucked in her breath.
Pierrette repeated the ritual of looking out through the keyhole. "The Vicomte," she said.
"No," Christine said sharply. She thought about asking him whether he and Marie were romantically involved, but thought it inadvisable. He would think she was jealous. "I don't have time to speak with him-"
"What are you so angry at him for?" Pierrette asked. "Didn't he save you from death- or worse?"
"I suppose," Christine said, "but he also showed up at my dressing-room door with no invitation that night-"
"-At least he knocked at the door, instead of forcing his way in and hiding inside!"
"-That is not saying much!" Christine pointed out. "Besides, afterwards he spread the story all over Paris! Now everyone thinks I have been carrying on an affair with the Ghost!"
"I see." Pierrette went back to the door. "She's going over her music, Monsieur de Chagny," Christine heard her say.
"But-"
"-She has had a most trying few days," Pierrette said in a voice that said she was not to be trifled with.
At last Raoul sighed. "Very well."
Pierrette returned a few moments later with a large, expensive-looking bouquet. "He insisted-"
"-Oh, no, please, tell him I don't want- He'll think-"
"-He's already gone," Pierrette said. "He said he'll be back later."
Christine sighed.
Unlike many of the other performers, Christine did not like sitting around in the dressing-room in her underthings, and kept her clothes on until it was time for Pierrette to put her into her costume, no matter how hot the backstage area became. Today, however, she exchanged the green gown for a wrapper immediately.
She wanted to crumple the wretched thing up and shove it a drawer, but for Meg's sake she hung it up carefully, painstakingly smoothing out any possible wrinkles.
With that complete, she turned her attention to the business back to getting ready for the performance. She found, to her surprise, that she was rather shaken after her encounter with Marie. With her nerves so strained already after the past few days events, even relatively minor disturbances upset her.
She decided to focus her attention on her stage-makeup for the time being. The ritual always steadied her, helping her forget her own troubles for the moment and focus on the character instead.
First she reached for her scent-bottle. She always spritzed some on her chemise before a performance. It helped her remember to breathe when she was caught up in the excitement of a scene. She winced as the fragrance hit her. She had forgotten for a moment what was inside: the jasmine perfume Erik had bought her. She had never imagined something so beautiful could be so painful. Memories washed over her, tormenting her. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. She yearned for his kiss as she had never yearned for anything before.
Playing the vivacious Susanna was a challenge for Christine even on her best days, and today, she was miserable at it.
She was exhausted, and therefore, by extension, so was her voice. She certainly wasn't going to be doing any of the extra embellishments.
Not to mention, every word reminded her of the past few weeks.
The lecherous Count Almaviva could have been Firmin.
The Countess – perhaps the Countess was La Carlotta. Foolish, but sympathetic in her own way. Always being passed over for younger women.
And Raoul… Raoul would be poor little Cherubino. So overcome with adolescent hysteria and imaginary love that he could scarcely remember which way was up.
Figaro was Erik, of course. Clever, but vindictive and careless… far too confident in his own intelligence… willing to put other people in harm's way because of his jealousy.
The performance passed in a blur.
When she returned to backstage at the end of Act I, her dressing-room held a few scattered bouquets - far fewer than before the scandal with Raoul and the "intruder".
She scarcely registered any of them, anyway. She already knew the one offering she cared for – a red rose with a black ribbon round the stem – would be missing.
She could hear grumbling as patrons went by her dressing-room, heading to see their ballet-girl maîtresses.
"It's true what they say - she can't act… Scandinavians have no emotion…"
"Voice too small… Did you hear how it was breaking down at the end…?"
"Imagine not embellishing any of the cadenzas!"
"Should have just cast her as Barbarina; she hasn't got the stamina for a role like Susanna… Singers aren't half as good as they were in my day… Should have put La Carlotta in the lead…"
"…Well, at least Christine Daae's pretty. Otherwise one can't bring one's self to like the character, really." This, to Christine's fury, from a woman.
She sat there, fuming, for a moment, and then expended some of her rage by flinging a hairbrush across the room.
Pierrette grunted sympathetically. She had encountered all manner of divas in her time at the Opéra. Christine, even on her worst days, was by far the pleasantest leading lady she had ever worked for. Compared with the torment she had endured at the hands of the likes of La Carlotta, the occasional thrown hairbrush was so insignificant that it was not worth remaking upon.
And Christine's occasional bouts of unexplained tears, which others often remarked upon and which had seemed to increase these past two weeks or so, did not seem to Pierrette at all strange. It was a natural consequence of the strain of carrying a major production on your shoulders.
"Not everyone in the audience is a fool like that," she said gently.
Christine smiled sadly. "Thank you."
There was a pause.
"Not as many bouquets as usual," Christine said. "That is… I don't expect anyone to give me a bouquet, certainly… but there are less of them now, after the..." She trailed off, frowning.
"That'll blow over," Pierrette said confidently.
"What?"
"Well, people are angry with you because word got out that the Vicomte proposed to you."
"Is that really the reason?" Christine asked, perplexed.
"Oh, yes. No-one really cares whether you had some man in your dressing-room or not. Everyone does that. But marrying a Vicomte… non! All those aristocrats in the audience can't forgive you for aiming that high."
"I did not aim… never mind." Christine shook her head. "Yes, I hope that is true. Thank you."
"It is – you mark my words. The flowers will be back by your next role."
I don't think Firmin will let me have a next role, Christine thought.
"Funny, we haven't seen any of those queer red roses in awhile," Pierrette suddenly said. "The ones with the black ribbon."
"No," Christine said sadly.
"Did you ever find out who sent them?"
"No."
"That was a great mystery," Pierrette said. "Everyone was saying it was the Ghost."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. I suppose he's angry with you now that you turned him down," Pierrette said wryly.
Christine blinked back tears.
Mercifully, she was spared from having to think of a reply, for there came another knock at the door.
Pierrette peered out of the keyhole. "Hm. I've never seen him before. He's not dressed for going to the opera." She opened the door and there was a brief, muted conversation. Pierrette leaned back into the room. "He says he has a note for you."
"Thank you," Christine said.
A tall, thin, bespectacled man in a worn but neat suit appeared. He introduced himself in a Swiss accent as 'Jean Claudin, Monsieur Khan's secretary', and handed Christine a letter.
Christine's heart pounded, and she tore the note open with fumbling fingers.
I have a piece of news I think you will want to hear. If I might trouble you for a meeting this evening - The rooftop, after the performance, eleven-thirty?
M. I. Khan.
Christine had to stifle a cry. She hurriedly wrote a reply in the affirmative.
"Do you know what the news is that he is referring to?" she asked Monsieur Claudin.
"I regret not, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Khan is very private about his affairs." The secretary took her note and bowed out of the room again, leaving Christine almost hysterical with anxiety.
"Who was that?" Pierrette asked. "And who's Monsieur Khan? Queer name. Foreign. Do you suppose he's from the Orient?"
"Ah… an acquaintance of mine," Christine said, hoping this did not sound deliberately evasive.
Fortunately Pierrette was much too preoccupied with making sure her wardrobe was in order to inquire further.
She had just finished lacing Christine into her first costume for Act II when the door suddenly flung open so hard it slammed against the wall.
Cecile Sorelli, Philippe de Chagny's maîtresse, stood in the doorway, her tutued form silhouetted ominously by the gaslight from beyond.
Christine looked up, startled. "Pierrette, does my dressing-room still have a lock?"
Pierrette did not get the chance to reply.
"You ugly, diamond-scrunching little foreign slut!" Cecile roared.
Christine made an elaborate show of looking behind her.
"What?" Cecile barked.
"I'm sorry," Christine said. "I wasn't sure who you could be talking to."
Cecile was not clever enough to come up with a reply, but merely growled.
Christine turned to the mirror and continued touching up her maquillage. "There is no-one by that description here. I think you have the wrong dressing-room."
"Oh, we all know about you supposedly not being aware of people in your dressing-room!" Cecile snapped.
Christine winced. "Was there something you wanted?" she asked.
Pierrette edged out of the room. She hated Cecile.
Cecile, not replying, sauntered over to Christine's dressing-table. Suddenly her eyes fell on the green dress. She seemed to lose track of whatever she had originally been on the verge of talking about. "Is that your dress?" she said.
"It is in my dressing-room," Christine said.
"That color must be revolting on you," Cecile sneered. "You can't wear acid-green."
What does she want? Christine thought furiously. "I shall make a note of it. Thank you for your advice."
Cecile picked up the little crystal perfume bottle, sprayed some into the air and sniffed it. "Very nice!"
Christine snatched it away. It was precious to her. She hated having someone else touch it.
"Is it Molinard?" Cecile asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
"Jasmine doesn't come cheap," Cecile said. She herself reeked of patchouli. It was making Christine's eyes water.
"No," Christine agreed.
She felt uneasy – as though Cecile could somehow find out about Erik simply by looking at a bottle of perfume he had bought. She knew it was impossible, but she was beginning to grow paranoid.
"And who bought you this dress?" Cecile said. "It's hideous - that color must be revolting on you - but it's expensive. I can tell these things."
I have no doubt you can... "No-one bought it for me," Christine said, which was quite true.
"Ha! You can't afford it on your salary!"
"You don't know my salary-"
"-That's what you think! I know everything that goes on around here."
"Oh, then perhaps you are the Ghost!" Christine said, and was pleased to see that Cecile's eyes practically rolled up in her head with confusion.
"You are out of your mind!" she cried at last.
Pierrette stuck her head in the door.
"Yes?" Christine said, hoping that by some magic the intermission was over ten minutes early and she could escape this ridiculous conversation.
"The Vicomte," Pierrette said with an apologetic look.
"I don't want to see him!" Christine cried. "Please, tell him to go away!"
Pierrette duly disappeared again, and the Vicomte, mercifully, did not put in an appearance.
"Oh, I see; you've realized the Vicomte's never going to marry you, after your antics the other night, so now you've passed him up so you can go after the brother," Cecile snarled.
"The brother!" Christine exclaimed. "Why, of course!"
"What?" Cecile snapped.
"Oh- nothing – only, now I understand what Marie was going on about earlier when she said 'you've been carrying on with de Chagny' - she was talking about Philippe de Chagny, wasn't she?- she wouldn't have been talking about Raoul… she was asking me about it on your behalf… Somehow you two have got the idea in your heads that I am having an affair with the Comte-"
"-So we have!" Cecile agreed, at last picking up on the thread of the conversation again.
"Why?" Christine asked in bewilderment.
"Well, it's hardly surprising, is it? You do get around, dearie."
"Is that so?" Christine exclaimed irately.
"Yes," Cecile said. "There's the Vicomte, and the Ghost-"
"-The ghost does not exist - that man in my dressing-room was an intruder - and the Vicomte and I have never been a couple-"
"-And," Cecile went on, "Marcel Petain says you're very willing when the lights are out." This was one of the tenors in the opera chorus.
Christine felt a thrill of rage, and resolved, for the sake of the whole female sex, to push Marcel off the balcony if ever the opportunity arose. "How dare he? That is a lie! That pig! I would not touch him for a million francs."
Cecile didn't notice; she was too excited by her next piece of gossip. "And, I hear," she said with relish, "you're carrying on with that Persian." She made a gesture meant to ward off the evil eye.
Christine suddenly recalled how much she disliked Cecile. "He is a married man."
"That never stopped any of them."
"But it would stop me!" Christine said.
"I don't care what you do," she cried; "just keep your hands off the Comte!"
"Where did you get this idea that I am carrying on with him?" Christine practically screamed. Merciful Heaven, won't someone just tell me? "Whatever you may think of my virtue, you didn't just pull this story out of thin air."
"Maybe this will refresh your memory." Cecile pulled a note out of her sash with a flourish and held it out.
Christine read it with increasing bewilderment.
If you would permit me the honor of calling on you in your dressing-room during the second interlude.
P. de Chagny.
She squinted at it to make sure it really was a P and not an R. It was.
Philippe.
What on earth? Christine thought. And curse him for being stupid enough to ask Cecile's closest friend to deliver it!
She looked up. "Cecile, let me reassure you."
"What?"
"The Comte de Chagny has no interest for me whatsoever," Christine told her. "I don't know what inspired this note, but if he has taken a fancy to me – which I think exceedingly unlikely, by-the-way; he has made no secret of how he despises me – he will have to get used to disappointment. He is twenty years older than me and losing his hair. You are pretty enough to do far better, you know."
"Ha! Cecile snorted. "I can tell you are drooling with lust for him."
"Allow me to compliment you on your remarkably vivid imagination," Christine said.
"Hmph."
"And Cecile, a word of advice."
Cecile's hazel eyes blazed with anger. "Why should I want advice from you, you arrogant little-"
"-Take it or leave it, then," Christine said. "I don't care. Cecile, if you cannot trust Philippe, perhaps you would be better off without him. I don't think he is worth the trouble."
Cecile bounded toward her and shoved her face into Christine's.
Christine shrank back. Cecile had been known to physically attack her rivals. She was shorter and smaller than Christine, but made entirely of muscle; if she were to attack her, Christine did not like her chances.
She could, if necessary, use one of the jiujitsu maneuvers Erik had taught her, but if she broke the subscribers' favorite ballerina she would probably get into trouble.
"Just see that you keep your hands off him, you scrawny little Danish whore," Cecile snarled, "or I'll put glass in your face cream!" She sprang down off the dressing-table and stormed out of the room.
"Swedish," Christine muttered to no-one.
She rubbed her aching head.
Suddenly another voice exploded at her from just outside the door – the director's.
"Christine, that's your entrance music!"
It was the second interval. Pierrette had just finished bundling Christine into her next costume.
Christine was trying to take deep breaths; she still felt rather shaken after her encounter with Cecile.
There came another knock at her door.
"I don't believe it," Christine muttered.
"Monsieur de Chagny to see you, Christine," someone called, and there was a chorus of giggles that Christine knew must be coming from the younger members of the corps de ballet.
"You must be joking!" Christine snarled. "He has a lot of nerve!"
Pierrette peered out through the keyhole. "No, not the Vicomte – it's the brother," she said. She turned and looked at Christine with raised eyebrows.
"Oh," Christine said. "Yes… I had almost forgotten."
Pierrette gave her a look which said 'Well, this is interesting - wasn't he very angry at you for catching the eye of the younger brother? What can he be doing here now?'
Christine felt the same. What could he want with her?
"Let him come in," she said with a sigh, and then looked up to find he already had.
"Give us five minutes," he commanded.
Pierrette gave Christine another look, one that said 'I know he is insufferable, but try to humor him; he's important', and then obediently vanished.
"Will you sit down?" Christine asked the Comte when they had exchanged the usual greetings.
"Thank you, no," he said. "I cannot stay long."
There was an awkward pause.
His eyes fell on the green gown. "Whose dress is that?" he said in confusion.
Christine sighed. "Mine."
"I wouldn't have thought you could wear that color."
Frenchmen are unbearable! Christine thought. Has there ever been anyone so obsessed with clothes as they all are? And to think I am marrying one. Or at least… I hope he still wants to marry me… "Nor can I. I know that now."
"I see," he said.
Another pause. He seemed to be trying to get up the nerve to say something.
"Did you, ah, receive my note?" he asked.
"No. Marie Jammes gave it to Cecile," she said pointedly.
"Why?"
"Because she thought Cecile should know that you were trying to meet me in my dressing-room, of course!"
His eyes narrowed. "I did not think Marie would read it. That was most indiscreet of her."
"Nothing stays secret here," Christine said. You ought to know that by now.
"Ah," he said, a sound which offered no illumination.
"Cecile is very angry with me," she pressed. "She practically attacked me."
He shrugged. "She does this from time to time. She will have forgotten all about it in a day or two."
"She called me a Swedish whore," Christine said.
"I am sorry for that."
"Come to think of it, she called me a Danish whore, in fact. I think that offended me more," Christine said, a private joke almost to herself.
The Comte drew in a deep breath. "Mademoiselle, I will not dissemble," he said. "I am here for one reason alone: I wish to revisit the offer I made to you at the New Years' ball."
Christine looked at him in surprise. This was the last thing she had expected, after the way she had spoken to him on that strange, eventful evening. "Monsieur de Chagny," she said after a pause, "I can never become Raoul's maîtresse. It is impossible. My morals forbid it- and even if they did not-"
"-Perhaps we may come to an understanding," the Comte said.
Christine looked at him, intrigued. "Yes?"
"May I ask you a few questions?"
"Ah… Certainly."
"Am I not correct in thinking," he said, "that the man in your dressing-room was – forgive me – there at your invitation? If so, you need not fear I will give you away-"
"-Certainly not!" The lie came easier and easier, Christine realized with a stab of guilt. She could even manage to make her outrage sound convincing now. "He is a… a scoundrel and a criminal, whoever he is!"
"Very well," the Comte said. "Forgive me. Then… You do not have any… romantic attachments at present?"
"None at all," she said with an effort.
"Then… did you only reject Raoul's proposal because that man was threatening you?"
Christine thought. She must play her cards carefully. She must let the Comte think she still posed a threat. "I may still consider marrying Raoul. That man is gone now. Don't you think?"
"I am by no means certain we have seen the last of him. If you marry Raoul - or indeed carry on any kind of affair with him - I am certain he will come after the two of you," he said.
Ah, Christine thought. This explained his renewed eagerness to separate them. He had offered five thousand francs before. Perhaps he might be willing to offer more this time. Before, the threat had been to his family's reputation; now, the threat was to Raoul's life."Yes, I suppose that is true. But… The police will find him soon, surely?"
"I imagine not," he said. "There is no trace of him."
Christine had to conceal her elation. Bravo, Erik! "I see."
"Is that not enough to dissuade you from marrying Raoul?"
"I won't be coerced into changing my plans. And nor, I imagine, will he."
"But you will let yourself will be bribed into it?" he said.
"Monsieur de Chagny, I am on the verge of losing my place at the Opéra! I do not have the luxury of-"
He sighed. "-Very well, then. Here are my demands: You are never to speak to Raoul again, and I would like you to go far away-"
"-I see-"
"-That should finally persuade Raoul to get over this infatuation with you," he went on. "And it would also, I hope, draw this Ghost away from him."
"You want me to lure him elsewhere? That is not very gentlemanlike!" she said.
He sneered. A foreign chorus-girl dares to lecture me about honor? his expression said. "Do you have a better idea?"
"No," she admitted.
"Voilà. If it is any consolation, I may be able to offer you some assistance with finding a position elsewhere. I could speak with the board at any of the major opera houses, you know."
Of course he could, Christine thought wryly. And then, as she realized the full potential of this, suddenly hope rose in her heart. Why, this was perfect. "The Kunlinga Opera - Stockholm?"
"I am not sure that is wise," he said. "After all, that man was there."
"What?" She stared at him, a horrible suspicion growing inside her. "What man?"
"Who do you suppose?"
"The… the man who was in my dressing-room? Him?" she cried, struggling to keep her voice under control.
"None other," he said.
"Why… but… but…!" A thousand questions swarmed in Christine's mind. She tried to choose the most logical place to start, and found there was none; the whole thing was an impossible tangle. She selected one at random and jumped in. "But… How did you know of that…?"
"…Raoul told me," he said.
"Raoul was there, then?"
"Yes."
"Why?" she cried. "What happened?"
He told her, with frequent interruptions. ("But what was he doing there? – How did he know?- Why was-?") He did his best to continue without acknowledging these.
Only when she asked "How did Raoul know that man would be there?" did he break off the flow of his narrative to reply.
"A letter, apparently," he said.
"He sent Raoul a letter?" Christine cried. What on earth?
"No. It was for you."
"What?" Christine's heart began pounding wildly. "He wrote to me? What did he say?" And then, "But how did Raoul…?"
"I do not know what he said," the Comte replied. "It was not my letter, you see. However, Raoul has…" He stopped, looking uncharacteristically ashamed. "I am embarrassed to say he has been helping himself to your correspondence."
"What?" Christine roared. "What do you mean?"
His voice sounded like what, if he were not Philippe Georges-Marie Alexandre, Comte de Chagny, would have been a mumble.* "He stole your letters."
She let out an audible gasp. "Why- How dare he?-"
"-Be assured I put a stop to it as soon as I learned-"
"-How dare he?" she cried. "The very idea!- I have never been so- It is despicable!-"
"-I agree it was most inappropriate," he said. "I offer no justification. You were quite clear in your refusal of him, and I do not see why he continues to-"
"-It is more than inappropriate!" she cried. "It is reprehensible!- It is-"
"-And you would forgive Raoul for stealing your letters? Marry him after that?" the Comte said with a raised eyebrow.
"Well… Ah…" With difficulty Christine collected herself, wishing she had not spoken so frankly. "Er… I own I am angry, yes, but… he was… acting in my best interest," she said through clenched teeth. "He was… concerned for my well-being..." Inwardly, however, she added, He was concerned that I might be keeping secrets from him! That interfering scoundrel! "I am angry, but… I will forgive him…"
"I see. I thought Swedish women were said to be very independent," the Comte said.
"So we are," Christine said, "but… ah… if someone… made a- a passing mistake, in the heat of jealousy…" Suddenly she was no longer thinking of Raoul at all. "If a good man made a mistake, and it was done out of love, one… must be willing to make allowances, of course…" Especially if he then tried to write, and some scoundrel… Suddenly she had to blink back tears.
"Forgive me," the Comte said, sounding annoyed by her display of emotion. "I have upset you."
"No- no- not at all… It is simply… the whole situation is very… troubling."
"Quite so," he agreed coldly.
"What did Raoul read?" She panicked as she tried to recall whether she had written anything damning in any of her letters. No, she would not have. The only people who knew her secret were Mère and Meg, and they saw her every day; she never wrote to them. And she had not put in any orders for wedding-clothes or anything of the kind lately. That as a mercy, at least.
But what might Erik have written to her…? Oh, she prayed he had been careful!
"You have secrets?" the Comte said almost mockingly.
She felt a renewed thrill of irritation. "No more than anyone else, thank you – but I dislike people going through my correspondence without my knowledge!"
"Very well," he accepted this. "Well, you would have to ask Raoul. I did not inquire, you see."
"Oh… I see… thank you... yes." Christine flushed.
"There is no need to thank me for not prying into your personal matters, Mademoiselle," he said tartly. "All I know is, the Ghost, if that is who that man is, seemed to be under the impression that you would want to meet him in Stockholm."
Christine's heart sank. Oh, Erik… What must he have thought when he showed up and found the Vicomte waiting there instead of her? It is probably all lost! He shall never forgive me after this!
She looked up and found the Comte was staring at her, awaiting a reply. He was prying, she realized. He suspected something.
"Well, then, he is indeed a madman!" she managed.
"He certainly is," the Comte said coldly.
"And… he escaped?"
"Yes."
"And you do not know where he is now?" she asked.
"No."
Thank God! "That is… most disappointing!" she managed. "Isn't there any chance of finding him? Didn't Raoul tell the police in Stockholm?"
"Yes," he said. "But they do not have much to go on. And their behavior towards him was most unhelpful."
"Well, what about the police here, in Paris? In Chausée-D'Antin?"
"I believe they will be giving up the investigation soon," he said.
She drew herself up in her chair, feigning outrage. "Do you mean to tell me after all this time, after having my reputation torn to shreds, they still do not have any trace of him? And why am always the last to hear about these things?"
"I am sorry."
She nodded coldly. "I am most disappointed," she said. And indeed, this was true. Stockholm was the only city in Sweden with a decent opera company. And she could not move there now. It would make Raoul and the Comte suspicious, and she and Erik could not afford that at a time like this, or perhaps ever. Despair flooded through her. She had never come so close to being able to return home – and now that chance had been ripped away from her. She tried not to be angry with Erik for drawing them into this imbroglio. "Well, Stockholm is out of the question, clearly. Perhaps…" She scoured her mind for a city that was far enough away and had a good opera company. The most sensible thing to do would be to emigrate, to go as far away as possible. The United States or South America, perhaps – Erik already spoke Spanish and Portuguese, and she could see him taking to Rio or Buenos Aires or Ville de Mexique – but she could not bear the thought of being an ocean away from everyone she knew. Besides, she doubted whether even the Chagnys' influence extended that far. "Well, then, if Stockholm is out of the question... Copenhagen, perhaps?" she suggested. At least that was still Scandinavia. "Or Berlin?" She still mistrusted the Prussians after their astonishing cruelty to Paris during the war, but at least she knew German well enough, thanks to years of singing Gluck and Handel. She could manage there.
The Comte shook his head. "No. That is too close to France. If you do not put hundreds and hundreds of miles between you, he will not take the hint. I remember what young men are like at that age."
Christine found she had to stifle a cynical laugh. "That is true, I grant you. Ah… how about Warsaw? Or Budapest?" Warsaw, at least, was somewhat closer to home than Paris was… or then again, was it? She perused her mental map of Europe, but could not quite recall.
"St. Petersburg?" the Comte suggested.
Leave it to him to suggest something a whole continent away, she thought with a smile.
"I could probably arrange for you to get a place in the chorus at the Mariinsky," he went on. "And they speak French there."
"No. It is too cold."
"You wanted to go to Stockholm," he protested.
"That is warmer than Russia, I assure you. And I am told the food there is simply shocking. Borscht? No, I think not."
"Very well," the Comte sighed. "I daresay Budapest or Warsaw would do. I shall begin making inquiries directly."
I don't doubt you will, Christine thought wryly.
"My attorney has drawn up a preliminary contract-"
"-A contract?" Christine cried. These aristocrats are beyond belief!
"Yes," the Comte said, in a tone of voice that meant there is nothing peculiar about that, so say no more about it. "Meet me tomorrow at noon at this address." He held out a card.
Christine took it, scrutinizing the address.
She wanted to be sure she was not walking into a trap. After all, the Comte could save a good deal of money by simply having her kidnapped, hit over the head, and thrown in the Seine. She wasn't sure what the going rate was for murdering young sopranos, but some pessimistic impulse in her suspected it was much less than five thousand francs. The idea seemed unlikely, but in her brief time on this earth, she had already learned always to expect the worst of people.
The address appeared, at least, to be in a part of the city where law offices were to be found. (And well-removed from the river.)
But she would go and look for herself first, and perhaps bring Meg or Mère along, if she could persuade one of them.
"I shall need a day or two to find my own attorney, of course," she said. She felt more confident drawing him out now. If he was determined enough to do this to hire an attorney, then a brief delay wouldn't make him change his mind.
"Is that necessary?" he said impatiently.
"You need hardly think I am going to sign a contract without having someone look over it for me, Monsieur!"
The Comte winced, irritated. "Then shall I see you on… Wednesday? One o'clock? Will that give you sufficient time before rehearsal? Good. Bon soir."
"Ah- Monsieur?"
He stopped with a scowl. "Mademoiselle?"
"Would you be so kind as to take these flowers off my hands?" she said with a smile. She picked up Raoul's bouquet.
"Oh." He nodded, understanding. "Very well. I shall return them to the person who brought them."
"Or perhaps you ought to give them to Cecile," Christine said pointedly.
"Perhaps I shall, if Raoul will let me. Good evening, Mademoiselle." The Comte gave a stiff, formal bow, took up the flowers, and departed.
Christine sat back in her chair with a heavy sigh.
Five thousand francs, that was what the Comte had promised last time. Perhaps he might even be willing to offer more now.
She and Erik could live on that for some time. She wondered if this had been part of Erik's plan all along. If anyone could think so three-dimensionally, she thought, it was he.
But she could not be glad.
No sum of money in the world could be worth seeing him shot before her eyes. Seeing his bloodstain still on the carpet.
She saw him everywhere she looked. She was wild to know what had become of him.
And there were still two acts before she could speak with Khan and see if he had anything to tell her.
What had become of Erik?
End of Chapter 44. Thank you so much for reading!
*Note: In France, Marie is often used as a boys' middle name, to give them the protection of Saint Marie. Same with girls and the name Joseph. Philippe Georges-Marie is the Comte's name in the book. I added an extra name on to make him sound even snootier.