Enjoy!
Christine
Chapter 66
The Response
Erik was livid for days.
My father's opinion on de Chagny changed very quickly upon hearing what he did, but he at least hid his fury well. Erik, on the other hand.
The entire night and morning after the party, Erik's hands would randomly shake. He'd pull me in close and tell me how sorry he was that he went with the servant, left me vulnerable to Philippe. As I felt him breathing hard one night, past midnight, I clutched his fingers and told him that I was all right.
"Are you have a vision?" I asked him.
"No," he ground out. "Just supremely angry."
"Still?"
"I will be for a while." He looked at me. "I want to kill him."
"Don't do that. Then you'll be beheaded for taking his life, and I'll lose you."
"I'll come and visit you as a ghost."
"No, Erik. It'll drive me mad and I'll die too."
"And then I'll go and kill the comte's ghost. He'll be twice dead. Our ghosts can go live...die...exist happily ever after."
I moved in closer to him. "With a ghost baby?"
He went silent, like he'd nearly forgotten about the child growing inside me.
"You don't seem too upset by my want to kill Philippe," he whispered then.
"Because I know you won't. You're not a murderer."
He parted his lips, inhaled, and I knew he was about to protest - say, perhaps, that his hundreds of victims would say otherwise - but he closed his mouth and looked away. "I won't."
"I know."
"But I very much want to."
"I know."
The following morning, three days after the party, Philippe published an article in the paper - not Leroux's - that cleared up the entire "illustration misunderstanding". He wrote that he'd spoken to me at his most recent party, and I'd assured him that it was not meant to slander him. It was, instead, a character of my own creation, and was in no way meant to reflect any opinion I had of any nobility. I'd apologized to him.
But there was an undertone of condescension in his response to my drawing - he was insinuating, clearly, that I didn't understand that my actions would have consequences, that I was a silly, impulsive girl who dreamed up fictional people and drew them for fun. I was disconnected from the real world.
It only brought on another bout of anger from Erik, who told me, rather forcefully, "don't listen to a damn word this idiot writes". Then he stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door shut.
Alone with my father, he instead informed me that de Chagny could have been much crueler, much more vindictive with his influence. That I was incredibly lucky.
"This - what you did - does not just affect you. Be glad that we are not currently looking for other cities to move to after being embarrassed out of Paris. Do not do this again."
The morning after that, I awoke with a twinging pain in my stomach. My mind felt airy - I was faint. But I didn't want to collapse. I wanted to...to...
I put my hand out, looking for my husband, but he wasn't there. Not unusual - he often woke up early to make coffee.
"Erik!" I called. There was a level of desperation in my voice. Calling his name made the pain feel worse, made my head feel lighter.
He was at the door in seconds, staring at me with wide eyes. "What's wrong?"
"I don't feel well," I whispered. "I feel like..." I gagged, and groaned.
He knew what was coming. He'd experienced it a hundred times before. He went to the chamber pot under the bed - empty, thank God - and placed it on my lap. The moment I looked into it, like my body recognized what it was, I threw up the nonexistent contents of my stomach. Mostly acid, it hurt coming up. He sat on the pillow behind me, held my hair, and rubbed my back.
"I'd say," I breathed when my stomach offered me a break, "I am probably...definitely pregnant."
"I think so." His voice was emotionless.
A bit more came out, but the pain in my stomach was rapidly declining.
"Please be gentle on me, baby." I clutched my belly. "Please be nice to your mother."
He exhaled a silent chuckle.
Believing myself to be done, I pushed the pot gently away from me. Erik moved it to the floor - we'd deal with it later. Erik picked up the glass of water I still had left on my nightstand and handed it to me. I drank, leaning back into him, closing my eyes. I felt much better now.
He let go of my hair and instead wrapped his arms around me. His lips pressed to the top of my head. I sighed.
"Your father, I think, is right Christine. About the drawing."
I felt my shoulders drop. I knew he was right.
"We have a family to worry about. And you can't do anything to help in Paris if we are driven out of the city. At least...you planted a seed. If it takes and grows, good. But let's focus on what's inside for now before trying to fix what's outside."
"I know."
A stretch of silence.
"I want to be a good father, Christine," he said.
Not expecting him to say that, I opened my eyes. "You will be."
"Will I?" He spoke into my hair. "You yourself questioned if I will even love this child."
"And you said you will."
"But the fact that you questioned it-"
"I shouldn't have, my love."
"No." He shifted, arms growing tighter. I put my hands on his sleeves. "You were right to. I believe I need to...deal with matters before it's born."
I looked down at his hands, at the burn marks where his wrists were visible. "What sort of matters?"
"I need to confront my...ghosts. I need to go into my mind and confront them. Deal with them." Another kiss to my head. "I want you with me while I do it."
"I will be. Of course I will be."
"I love you."
"I love you too."