In only a matter of half an hour, Christine and I were sitting comfortably in a hired brougham that would soon deliver us to the Bois de Boulange. She did not stare blankly outside the window this time, as we traveled the gas-lit streets of Paris. Instead, she launched into a cheerful conversation with me regarding various bits of gossip of the opera. Most of the items involved Carlotta or some ballet rat's tryst with a wealthy duke or baron of some sort.
"I could not have been more correct upon my first impression of you, Christine." My eyes momentarily darted to the thin gold band on her finger, then back to her face.
"How do you mean, Erik?"
"I mean, given these various account of your fellow chorus members, you are so very different from them. . .so pure and fragile." Why had I uttered such suggestive things? Still, my self-restraint was lost, and I lacked the skill to temper my words. "You are a rarity, Christine. Something untarnished in a pile of discarded rubble." My language was that of a naive fool, a novice in the arena of courtship. I cursed my loose tongue, but didn't cease its wagging. "You should be proud of your virtue, your talent, and your modesty, though you are blessed with great beauty of soul and body."
"Erik, you should not say such things. I will blush in embarrassment. Besides," She let out an awkward laugh, "there are many young girls who choose to behave just as I. . ."
"I apologize, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Christine." It was my own gaze that chose to escape from the other pair of eyes in the brougham. I did not find any comfort in the Parisian landscape. There was nowhere to run from the love I felt for her. For once in my repugnant life, I was surrendering with great eagerness to the only person who might ever capture my soul from its dark confines. "I only wish for you to know that I am so very proud of the fine young woman you have become. Your father, he would be pleased. . ."
"Papa," and at that moment, inexplicably, the child began to cry. "Do you really think he would be proud, Erik? I have lived these last few years without him believing he was looking down from heaven at his failure of a daughter."
I could not believe what I was hearing, and barely had time to respond before she clutched the lapels of my tailcoat and fervently pressed her moist face to my chest, raking with sobs. Struck by her desperation, her vulnerability, and the very nature of her trust in me, I lacked the power to say any words of comfort. For what had I ever known of the love between a parent and child? What had I ever known of love returned? So, I said nothing.
Instead, I sang to her as her little fingers curled into balls around my clothing, and stroked the endearingly disheveled curls of her precious head. Christine Daae, no father could love his child more than Gustav loved his little angel. His angel with a voice woven out of the finest thread of gold. . .