"Then I have not said too much, Erik?" Christine reached out her little hand and blanketed my quivering palm with her own. My whole body inhaled every single sensation offered by her own, recognizing each nuance and texture of her skin. At the moment, my eyes focused on her hand, which had claimed my own, noting just how gloriously delicate and tiny those fingers were.
"No, you may confide in me always, Christine. If you like. . .I do not often have the pleasure of conversation."
"There is no one I would rather converse with than you, Maestro."
I was smiling, I think, not in a foppish grin of self-satisfaction. No, that new friend of mine-most likely soon to be a foe- hope, had exerted her influence on my mind and body. "And I you, my dear girl."
Straightening her layers of skirts, Christine arose from the bench and seemed to literally skip to her room. Without turning back to look at me- which was all the better considering my state of befuddlement- the child called to me, "I am going to change, and then dinner!"
Dinner! Had she meant the two of us? I rummaged my mind in an attempt to inventory all the available nourishment I still had stored in my lair. My supplies were running low, as I could not conjure anything but a few brown eggs, a loaf of crisp bread, and a store of wine and cognac. Not exactly the ideal repast for a sixteen-year old chorine. Christine did not need to change her attire for supper, did she? The violet gown I'd chosen for her had been quite stunning, if informal. Perfect for any time of day, or even an afternoon tea as ladies of her age so often enjoyed in England.
Ah, oblivious Erik! You old fool. I could only groan at myself. She wished for us to go out to dinner. Of course, it was a delicious idea. To walk down the boulevard with her sweet arm wrapped around the fold of my elbow, savoring the moonlight, and her company. But where could I take the girl? If such a fetching mademoiselle as Christine appeared at one of the famed restaurants of Montmartre with a very inconspicuously masked man beside her, there might be some scrutiny. Not that I minded. I simply did not wish to embarrass the girl on my account.
But, perhaps I should simply not worry and conduct myself in the manner of all men around the women they adore. I would smile and indulge her every whim, whether or not it met my agreement. Suck it up, Erik. You want to make her happy, don't you?
It was the only motivation I knew anymore. I could be her puppet, would willingly be. Thank God she did not yet realize that my strings were attached to her smiles, and the charming blushes of her face. It was dangerous to bestow the knowledge of your own vulnerability on any other person, no matter how deeply they might hold your trust, and your soul. But, even after my bloody years before I came to the Opera, filled with the slayings of hundreds of anonymous faces of agony, and a hatred for all that superficial men cherished, I had knowingly surrendered my being to this girl who could not yet master her own decisions. A girl who hid herself from every longing, frightened that if she were to give in to my attempts at seduction, she might learn that she was not such an innocent child. To reveal her sensual cravings would be a disgrace to her father's memory, I imagined. As dark as my soul, I could not bring myself to shatter her naive and beautiful illusions any more than I already had.
"I'm ready." Christine stood, breathtakingly elegant in a emerald gown of the finest velvet. The neckline of the dress was teasingly low, as I could clearly see the cleft between her breasts-that I would never touch- and the birdlike structure of her collarbones. Though the green velvet clung to her at the bodice, which was adorned with silk roses of the deepest crimson, the full skirts billowed out like a majestic pool of sea water. Her hair was loose, not captured in a matronly chignon as was the custom of propriety. But we did not adhere to social customs down in this lair, so why should Christine feel that she ought to anywhere else? I had lost the use of my wit and tact once again- such was the fate of a lovesick monster. My gaze drowned in the tempting siren that stood so demurely before me.
A mermaid for this underground grotto. . .
Her allure pulled me from my seat and called me to stand merely inches from her. Almost inaudibly, but still with enough intensity and depth for her ears to receive, I whispered, "You are a rose, Christine. A rose to put all others to shame."
Her cheeks blushed a vibrant pink on her ivory flesh, and she dipped her chin a little. I hope she would not continue talking to her slippers for the entire evening. "Thank you, Erik. You have exquisite taste. No one has ever spoiled me so." A faint giggle fled from between her lips and she shifted her eyes back to meet my face.
"You have worked extremely hard these months, Christine. It is only fair that you should be treated with a sign of appreciation for your efforts." In truth, I did not buy her a jewel or gown, not even a sachet as reward for her musical prowess. It was my damned heart that caused every single movement and thought process, that was once my own, to become an action of love for her.
"You are very welcome, child." No, she did not look a child tonight. She was a radiant, blooming woman on the peak of reaching maturity. Another hot blush on her cheeks. I relished her reaction to my compliment. I would correct my statement. Drawing on all the courage I could muster- for in her presence, I became the shy child finding refuge behind his mother's skirts-I added, "And where would the loveliest creature in all of France like to dine this evening?"
"I thought you would never ask?" Christine giggled, making me feel heady with joy.
I was not the one of us to offer an arm. Instead, in a simple gesture that was enormous to a man who had never even been held by his own mother, Christine Daae entangled her fingers with those of my right hand. The touch of her was surprisingly warm, considering the dank and drafty nature of my home. "Well, monsieur, I was rather thinking we ought to travel to Saint Chapelle. I have an idea, you see."
Now, it seemed, I was to be the one subject to surprises. If it had been any other breathing person other than she, I would not have let my guard down. Stubbornly, I would have continued to fight all cajoling to coax me to the outside world which abhorred me. Not so with Christine. Yet, one of the things I cherished most about her was her inability to willingly hurt another person. That sweet demeanor. She was not a typical chorus girl, learned in a dozen positions when it came to bedding the aristocracy. This dream who held my fingers, who might lead me to some hint of happiness, no matter how fleeting, was above the frivolity of the world above. I would follow her.
"And will you not tell your angel where we are to go?" I teased.
"No, it is my turn to surprise you, maestro." With that, we were on our way. To what? I could not begin to imagine.