A sharp rapping upon the chamber door roused me from sleep- a rest which I had not embarked upon knowingly, falling asleep in the chaise lounge due to the previous day's exhaustion. My neck ached from the strange, haphazard manner in which I'd slept, and I made a little cry when startled by the sounding of the door.
I checked my appearance in the window glass, straightening the collar of my gown, and running my fingers through my mangled hair in an effort to tame it. Reluctantly, after the rapping continued, I stood and made my way to the door. Pressing my hand upon the knob, but not turning it, I found my voice and asked, "Who is it?"
The even tone of a male voice replied in an almost official manner,"A message arrived for you, madame."
I quickly gave into my curiosity and opened the door to find the maitre d'hotel standing straight as post, a slim white envelope in his outstretched hand. "Merci," I thanked him and started to close the door. As the maitre d'hotel began to pivot around on his heel and leave, I stammered back to him, "Monsieur, may I ask you who gave this letter to you?"
Though a quick glance at the elegant red script bearing my name as " Madame Christine de Chagny," I knew the origin of my message. At once, my heart fluttered in a wave of hope, and I wondered if Erik had delivered the missive himself.
The man turned back to me, and added, rather bluntly, "A Madame Giry, madame."
"Thank you."
"Will that be all, madame?"
"Yes, thank you." He turned and left, eager to return his work, errand completed. So, Madame Giry knew now that I was in Paris, and she was in contact with Erik. Perhaps, I should have contacted her before writing the Persian, Nadir Khan. But, why had my dear friend and teacher simply left the note for me and not requested a meeting? Why act in such an impersonal, hasty manner?
My second day in Paris was beginning as a stirring whirlwind. The loneliness and shame of the previous day began to erode as I fingered the envelope of fine paper bearing my married name. I pondered the feelings running through Erik as he wrote out those letters...Madame Christine de Chagny-his rival and his love joined. But, was I indulging myself in believing Erik loved me still?
Only perusing the letter would help me to find an answer to my growing agony. I withstood my desire to simply rip it open, but did not wish to destroy what could possibly be the beginning or the ending of my life with Erik. Using the tip of my fingernail, I lifted the familiar red wax seal with its ominous death's head. Oh, Erik, you have ridiculed yourself more than any other man.
My hands trembled with anticipation as unfolded the stiff leaves of paper, my eyes barely able to register that Erik had cared enough to write to me. After such a tumultuous reunion only a morning ago, I doubted whether he would give me one passing glance
Christine,
Or shall it be Vicomtesse de Chagny? Let me first offer my apologies for allowing my emotions to overwhelm my good judgement at our last meeting. If I have given you any grief, forgive me. However, Madame, my curiosity as to your true intentions for returning to Paris have caused me to pen this missive. If you truly wish to explain yourself to me, sans the dramatic show you made of affairs yesterday, I will be happy to oblige you. The Gate to the Rue Scribe, midnight, this evening. I have been a very patient man, do not ask me to be more so.
Respectfully,
Erik