Her sobs had abated into a barely audible whimper by the time our brougham met the entrance to the Bois de Boulange. The shivers stemming from Christine's despair had all but ceased, yet, spent by tears, she did not relinquish her hold on me. Instead, her precious head relaxed upon my chest, her fingers falling to rest upon her lap. I could tell the girl was fighting her exhaustion, as her eyelids continued to slowly descend, and then, after a few seconds where they became feline slits of vision, Christine would, in a manner, catch herself fading and fight the battle to remain conscious.
"We've arrived." I gently gripped her shoulders and eased her into a sitting position. Christine's eyes jerked open fully, and she spun around to gain her bearings.
"The Bois?" she asked incredulously, perhaps feeling a bit disoriented from her ordeal.
"Yes, Christine. . .if you still wish to take a stroll this evening?" I awaited her answer with hopeful uncertainty, and made a move to open the brougham door.
She hesitated for a moment before straightening her mussed hair, and pulling her fine cloak more tightly about her shoulders, she replied, "Monsieur le Fantome, I believe a walk with my fiancé may be the cure for the evening storm."
Spoken like a true inhabitant of the opera, I mused. Her fiancé, if only it had lasted beyond a handful of precious evenings. But, there was that evening in the Bois when love decided I should be allowed its sweet caress. Nights in the company of my delicate goddess almost convinced me to make peace with the divine one. Had we shared perhaps even another fortnight of betrothal. But, it is a fool's practice to constantly question the ifs and whens of any relationship, to live upon the vestiges of perfect memories and bitter regrets.
She took my hand, invited my touch as if I were any other gentleman caller, and allowed me to assist her out of the coach. Christine did not release my fingers, as I had expected, but held tight to them as I informed our driver of the time I wished him to return for us. As our chauffeur departed, gently cracking the whip to signal the pair of fine horses under his care, Christine turned to me and smiled with genuine affection. "Erik, I must apologize for my behavior today. . .I should learn to control my emotions-"
"Shh, my little diva," I pressed a finger to her lips, and returned her smile. "An artist never apologizes for the outpourings of emotion. For as artists, to stifle our emotions is to stifle our very souls. To trap a bird in a cage. And not a gilded cage, at that. Is that what you would want, Christine?" I was playing with fire, and fully intent on being burned, or scorched in some fashion. A moth to a flame, transfixed by that which he loves, but knows will be his end. A perfect metaphor. For in loving we surrender ourselves and place our hearts at the mercy of the one we desire.
"No, I would not want that, Erik. I would never wish to be trapped, not even in a gilded cage." I hoped she had latched onto the implications of my words. The Vicomte de Chagny would surely offer a gilded cage of tempting imprisonment. "I would never trade my music, the music you have taught me, for all the glory in the world!"
"But, you shall have glory, Christine. On all the stages of the world. You need not trade one for another."
The expression which answered my grandiose statements was one of unparalleled delight and fascination. I had not made her any promises which I knew I could not fulfill. Though, as I look back, the same could not be said of her in regards to myself.