She's gone, now. And the rooms of my home are filled with the all too familiar silence that serves as a constant reminder of my fate-loneliness. I don't feel like composing right now, or playing the piano, I don't even have the desire to open my mouth and sing. I don't want to draw or read. Nothing. It seems, after having two precious weeks with Christine living in my underground home, that I can not go back to this solitude. I have tasted the sweetness of wine and can not return to the blandness of water. The truth is, I don't want to do anything but sit here in my armchair, staring at the floor and thinking about Christine.
I wonder what she is doing, now. Is she, perhaps resting, or practicing her scales? Is she writing in her leather-bound journal or talking with her giddy, little friend Meg Giry? I want to imagine her thinking of me, resting her head upon her soft, delicate hand, her eyes closed lightly, humming some sensuous vocal strain. It's the kind of image created by some love-starved boy, who will never get the girl he desires. And, I never will. I can picture her doing anything-it doesn't have to be her thinking on me-just not about that boy! But, I can't avoid it. In my mind, I see her laughing, her voice light, trickling over the small distance between them, his hand poised right above her face, ready to stroke her cheek. She'll let him. Even if he doesn't sing, if he knows nothing of music, she'll let him. He's handsome, non-threatening. No slight shivers pulse through her body when he kisses her hand or puts his guiding palm on the small of her back. Were I but to put my lips to her flesh . . . No, better not to think on that.
I step into her room and stare at the canopy bed. It is neatly made, the burgundy silk sheets uncreased, and pulled tight enough where I might skip a rock across them. My gaze is drawn to her pillow. I notice that the one on the right side of the bed still bears the faint, sweet impression of her tender head. I move to it, my palm flattened right above the feather-stuffed pillow, almost grazing. I don't touch it. What if I were to ruin that molding? It is the only impression of her I am to allow myself for the next two weeks. Somehow, I think that these next two weeks will be far longer than those previous.
I should be accustomed to this. Should not be terribly upset. But, I am! How can I not be? One would think, that after a lifetime of loneliness, I'd know how to handle Christine's absence. But, I don't. I just can't get away from the fact that it's so damned unfair! She should be here, she should be breathing right next to me, smiling at my quips or widening her eyes at some sleight of hand trick performed to amuse her, not toddling about with that bloody, simpering Vicomte! I straighten the stressed line of my back...I have been standing over her bed far longer than I realized...and turn to the one candle flickering on the mahoghany dresser in the far right corner of the room. If I just move a few paces and extinguish it, the darkness will cloud over and mask that faint trace of her salvaged on the downy pillow. I am reluctant, at first, but I can't stand here and let her torture me, her ghost wielding its unknown power to drill through the very core of my heart.
"Goodnight, Christine," I whisper, leaning into the dripping violet taper, the draft of my words slicing through the stubborn flame and closing the night on my missing love.
After I'd blown out her candle and left the room, closing the door in a silent sweep, I stole away to my piano. I didn't actually sit down and play, merely ran my hands over the keys, not enough pressure to emit a sound. I don't know why I did so. Maybe, it was because she'd played earlier this morning before leaving, and I wished to touch some vestige of her spirit left in my home. Sure, there were the belongings in her room. I'd already bid a sad goodnight to them. Perhaps, it was the fact that we were one in music, and the closest I could ever possibly be to her was in that glorious element. Done contemplating, hands running over the keys of the instrument, I made a decision. I couldn't waste away like this in her absence; I had to occupy myself, had to grow accustomed to the loneliness once again. I gathered up a large amount of money before locking the house up and heading into the disguising night.
I had no idea if any shops would still be open at this late hour, but I had to try. It would be futile to go about during the day. If any keeper even allowed me into their business, they would surely not take my requests seriously . . .that is, not without a little persuasion. Yes, this was the only logical time to acquire the goods I needed. I didn't quite know how I was going to do it, but I had to create an underground palace for Christine. True, my home was already luxurious and comfortable, but she'd had no real hesitancy in leaving this morning. I needed to create a place she would not be able to part with so easily. Some home she would truly consider her own. It was a foolish dream, I realize, but it was always better to have a slight bit of hope rather than waste away with miserable loneliness. I'd done that for the majority of my life; I wasn't about to let it be the end of it as well.
I walked down the Rue di Rivoli, catching a glimpse of La Madeleine from the corner of my eye, it's great Greek columns imposing onto the darkness. A great church, house of God. I hadn't been to one in a very long time. It wasn't that I didn't believe, I did. Although, I had more than enough reason to turn my back on religion. A few passing thoughts gathered in my mind. Would Christine marry her little Vicomte there? I huffed, quickening my pace. Surely, she would not be my wife.
I brought the brim down over my face, for fear that the street lanterns might shine across my mask. I really had no need for the faint lighting anyway. My eyes had long ago grown accustomed to the night. It was no secret that I found the peaceful, evening solitude to be quite superior to the glaring sun of the day, much more forgiving.
I had planned on stopping by the furniture store to purchase a new divan for Christine's room, and also a dining table to replace the one now decaying due to the moist underground air so full of mildew. I knew of one man who might still stay open should I arrive with my pockets full of money. Claude Fontaine had never been able to resist the smell of a crisp 50 franc note. I'd met the man one evening in a tavern many years ago. I'd been sitting in a distant corner, scrawling out building plans with a frantic hand stained with ink. A man approached, drunk and stinking of heavy smoke, his face oily from sweat and too much liquor. He wasn't a man of the streets. I could tell he was rather well off by the fine fabric of his unbuttoned jacket and his loose cravat, untied and hanging over his right shoulder. I'm not really certain why he approached me, but he slammed a stein of English ale in front of me, the rustle shaking the flame in the tiny lantern illuminating my plans.
"On me, " He said. "Even the quiet man in the corner needs a drink tonight." He laughed one of those full, intoxicated guffaws before pulling up a chair on the other side of my table. Had it been any other time, I might have threatened him. But, I'd just seen Christine Daae for the first time, and love was making me unreasonable. I was so desperate then to provide for her in any that I could, I slid twenty francs to his side of the table, and whispered quietly, "I need some assistance in acquiring a few items for my home. If you help me, I will make it worth your while, with five times as much as you see before you, now." I tapped my finger on the top coin. Claude was more than eager at my proposal. The man asked no questions when he aided me in purchasing my organ and furnishings. Men who receive large sums know to keep their mouths shut.
I'd come to learn the man owned his own furniture shop. His uses increased tenfold. I planned to visit his store at the present, but for some reason I didn't stop at his building. Instead, I crossed the street to the jewelers. God knows why, I did! Christine kept running through my thoughts and there was only one way to bring myself to some temporary peace.
I wonder what she is doing, now. Is she, perhaps resting, or practicing her scales? Is she writing in her leather-bound journal or talking with her giddy, little friend Meg Giry? I want to imagine her thinking of me, resting her head upon her soft, delicate hand, her eyes closed lightly, humming some sensuous vocal strain. It's the kind of image created by some love-starved boy, who will never get the girl he desires. And, I never will. I can picture her doing anything-it doesn't have to be her thinking on me-just not about that boy! But, I can't avoid it. In my mind, I see her laughing, her voice light, trickling over the small distance between them, his hand poised right above her face, ready to stroke her cheek. She'll let him. Even if he doesn't sing, if he knows nothing of music, she'll let him. He's handsome, non-threatening. No slight shivers pulse through her body when he kisses her hand or puts his guiding palm on the small of her back. Were I but to put my lips to her flesh . . . No, better not to think on that.
I step into her room and stare at the canopy bed. It is neatly made, the burgundy silk sheets uncreased, and pulled tight enough where I might skip a rock across them. My gaze is drawn to her pillow. I notice that the one on the right side of the bed still bears the faint, sweet impression of her tender head. I move to it, my palm flattened right above the feather-stuffed pillow, almost grazing. I don't touch it. What if I were to ruin that molding? It is the only impression of her I am to allow myself for the next two weeks. Somehow, I think that these next two weeks will be far longer than those previous.
I should be accustomed to this. Should not be terribly upset. But, I am! How can I not be? One would think, that after a lifetime of loneliness, I'd know how to handle Christine's absence. But, I don't. I just can't get away from the fact that it's so damned unfair! She should be here, she should be breathing right next to me, smiling at my quips or widening her eyes at some sleight of hand trick performed to amuse her, not toddling about with that bloody, simpering Vicomte! I straighten the stressed line of my back...I have been standing over her bed far longer than I realized...and turn to the one candle flickering on the mahoghany dresser in the far right corner of the room. If I just move a few paces and extinguish it, the darkness will cloud over and mask that faint trace of her salvaged on the downy pillow. I am reluctant, at first, but I can't stand here and let her torture me, her ghost wielding its unknown power to drill through the very core of my heart.
"Goodnight, Christine," I whisper, leaning into the dripping violet taper, the draft of my words slicing through the stubborn flame and closing the night on my missing love.
After I'd blown out her candle and left the room, closing the door in a silent sweep, I stole away to my piano. I didn't actually sit down and play, merely ran my hands over the keys, not enough pressure to emit a sound. I don't know why I did so. Maybe, it was because she'd played earlier this morning before leaving, and I wished to touch some vestige of her spirit left in my home. Sure, there were the belongings in her room. I'd already bid a sad goodnight to them. Perhaps, it was the fact that we were one in music, and the closest I could ever possibly be to her was in that glorious element. Done contemplating, hands running over the keys of the instrument, I made a decision. I couldn't waste away like this in her absence; I had to occupy myself, had to grow accustomed to the loneliness once again. I gathered up a large amount of money before locking the house up and heading into the disguising night.
I had no idea if any shops would still be open at this late hour, but I had to try. It would be futile to go about during the day. If any keeper even allowed me into their business, they would surely not take my requests seriously . . .that is, not without a little persuasion. Yes, this was the only logical time to acquire the goods I needed. I didn't quite know how I was going to do it, but I had to create an underground palace for Christine. True, my home was already luxurious and comfortable, but she'd had no real hesitancy in leaving this morning. I needed to create a place she would not be able to part with so easily. Some home she would truly consider her own. It was a foolish dream, I realize, but it was always better to have a slight bit of hope rather than waste away with miserable loneliness. I'd done that for the majority of my life; I wasn't about to let it be the end of it as well.
I walked down the Rue di Rivoli, catching a glimpse of La Madeleine from the corner of my eye, it's great Greek columns imposing onto the darkness. A great church, house of God. I hadn't been to one in a very long time. It wasn't that I didn't believe, I did. Although, I had more than enough reason to turn my back on religion. A few passing thoughts gathered in my mind. Would Christine marry her little Vicomte there? I huffed, quickening my pace. Surely, she would not be my wife.
I brought the brim down over my face, for fear that the street lanterns might shine across my mask. I really had no need for the faint lighting anyway. My eyes had long ago grown accustomed to the night. It was no secret that I found the peaceful, evening solitude to be quite superior to the glaring sun of the day, much more forgiving.
I had planned on stopping by the furniture store to purchase a new divan for Christine's room, and also a dining table to replace the one now decaying due to the moist underground air so full of mildew. I knew of one man who might still stay open should I arrive with my pockets full of money. Claude Fontaine had never been able to resist the smell of a crisp 50 franc note. I'd met the man one evening in a tavern many years ago. I'd been sitting in a distant corner, scrawling out building plans with a frantic hand stained with ink. A man approached, drunk and stinking of heavy smoke, his face oily from sweat and too much liquor. He wasn't a man of the streets. I could tell he was rather well off by the fine fabric of his unbuttoned jacket and his loose cravat, untied and hanging over his right shoulder. I'm not really certain why he approached me, but he slammed a stein of English ale in front of me, the rustle shaking the flame in the tiny lantern illuminating my plans.
"On me, " He said. "Even the quiet man in the corner needs a drink tonight." He laughed one of those full, intoxicated guffaws before pulling up a chair on the other side of my table. Had it been any other time, I might have threatened him. But, I'd just seen Christine Daae for the first time, and love was making me unreasonable. I was so desperate then to provide for her in any that I could, I slid twenty francs to his side of the table, and whispered quietly, "I need some assistance in acquiring a few items for my home. If you help me, I will make it worth your while, with five times as much as you see before you, now." I tapped my finger on the top coin. Claude was more than eager at my proposal. The man asked no questions when he aided me in purchasing my organ and furnishings. Men who receive large sums know to keep their mouths shut.
I'd come to learn the man owned his own furniture shop. His uses increased tenfold. I planned to visit his store at the present, but for some reason I didn't stop at his building. Instead, I crossed the street to the jewelers. God knows why, I did! Christine kept running through my thoughts and there was only one way to bring myself to some temporary peace.