Chapter 3: Reunions

On her second Sunday in Venice, Christine went to mass with a small basket over her arm. The day was sunny but cool, and she thought she might take the opportunity to explore the street markets.

Oddly enough, the fresh morning drew Erik out as well; upon discovering that his supply of tea was in a sad state, he donned his hat and cloak to see what remedy the open-air market might offer. He enjoyed to mingle with the crowds there - the noise of all those people, the chickens brought in for sale and the street performers - the smells of many local dishes rising from their stalls and meshing in the air - it excited him. Never mind the attention his mask attracted - none of that mattered now.

Christine emerged from mass and, removing her lace fichu, joined the crowd of matrons who shared her idea of finishing their mornings at the market. She strolled slowly amidst the bustling crowd, letting their swirling energy dizzy her senses. Making use of her halting Italian, she soon began to fill her basket with fresh pomegranates, pastries and trinkets from the various stalls. She was following the scent of baking bread when something else attracted her attention.

Before her by several yards, a tall man in a dark cloak stood out against the mostly homespun crowd. Christine could barely overlook the coincidence and, for a moment, allowed herself to entertain the notion that this form belonged to Erik.

From the shadow of a hidden alleyway, a small boy, perhaps six years old, jumped up and began to lag just behind the cloaked gentleman. Far back as she was, the child's plaintive tone drifted into Christine's hearing: though she could not make out words, it was clear the child was begging.

When the gentleman turned to drop a few coins into the urchin's outstretched palm, it was not his generosity that made her catch her breath. It was the brief glimpse of his white cheek - the flash of Erik's mask. Her basket and its contents went rolling unheeded into the gutter as she hurried towards him.

"Prego - signore ..." she panted once she was within his earshot.

Without turning, he answered in only faintly accented Italian, "I am not a wealthy man, child, and I have given all I can today." His footsteps continued to fall solidly on the cobblestones.

"I am not begging for your money, monsieur," Christine answered, slipping into French. She was scurrying after him, taking two steps to each of his; she gulped a huge breath in order to steady her voice. "... But rather for your recognition, and your hand in friendship."

That voice ... he would know it anywhere. But how ...?

Almost too quickly for Christine to react, he whirled to face her. She managed to sidestep and avoid crashing into him, for he had gone from breakneck speed to stock-still in only a moment. Now he stood staring down at her with eyes that softened for a moment. Her name, unspoken by him for so long, formed unbidden on his lips. But the curtain of surprise parted and his new and nebulous anger took the stage; he bit back his tender whisper and his eyes hardened again.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he murmured, teeth clenched.

"Erik," she gasped, even more surprised by his chilly greeting. "Why ... such formality?"

Although his posture seemed easy, he was anxious, uncomfortable and torn standing in the street with her. After the tumult he had been through he hardly knew how to react as she stood, mere inches from him, looking up into his face. Words came bleeding over his tongue: snippets of conversations he had imagined in the silence of his misery. But nothing could have prepared him for this moment, and now every beat of his heart pumped his veins full of the rushing urge to flee.

"I meant only respect," he finally replied, his eyes squinting faintly. "After all, our last parting ..." He was stumbling over words when a nearby church bell began to chime. "But pray, excuse me," he concluded, grateful that its tone had broken the awkward moment. Tugging his hat brim, he turned away.

She, however, stood rooted in her place, watching in disbelief as he gave her his shoulder. A wave of dismay washed over her and unearthed a thought she had tried to bury: perhaps he truly no longer cares for me! For now she saw how very possible this was, the memory of his empty subterranean house in Paris meshing with the hardness of his voice. She nearly choked on the hysteria that rose in her throat and, in a frantic moment, she clamped her small hand on his upper arm. It was fine and muscled, too big for her fingers to span; and the contact crackled like electricity in her mind.

He tipped his chin to look at her without turning back. His expression was angry, hurt, frightened and pleading all at once. She pulled her hand back quickly, embarrassed at the boldness of her gesture and not knowing quite what to say. "Please, Erik," she ventured tentatively. "I have ... missed you."

A hissing sound of indrawn breath, as if he were in pain. But his shoulders tipped, and he made a gesture that invited her to follow him.

"Come - we will find somewhere to talk ..."

*

As she walked alongside him through the bustling streets, his mind was teeming with conflicting thoughts. Part of him wanted to wait until she turned her face away - just for a moment, her gaze caught by some bauble in one of the market stalls - so he could vanish as he was so capable of doing. He could just slip away from her - it would be so easy. But as he watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye, he realized he was not really waiting for her to glance away. He was engraving her on his memory and trying vainly to contain his heart, which was melting despite all his efforts to stop it. He wanted more than anything to remain aloof and numb to her; he wanted to prove how angry he was and yet how seldom he thought of her. But tracing the line of her sweet cheek with his eye, he knew what a liar he was. He had been lying to himself in repeating that the part of his heart that loved her was gone, neatly amputated and bricked off with his own secret recipe for uncrumbleable mortar. This was a lie, for there was no single part of him that loved her: it was in every fiber of his being and even spilled into the air that surrounded him. He could sense it now, a pool of love swirling around him and reaching out its invisible arms towards her. Implementing all the strength of will he commanded, he reigned himself tightly: this would never do, to melt soundlessly back into her power. He was angry with her: for leaving him, and now for returning and shattering the flimsy illusion that he no longer cared for her. Why had she come? He knew she had married the Vicomte - he should forget his feelings and send her packing back to him.

Having bolstered his resolve, he was anxious to have done with this awkward meeting. He knew that he would have to remain closed to her, and he knew that that would pain him more than anything. But he must not surrender; he had done so five years ago and the rubble was not yet cleared away. Spotting an open-air café nearby, he chose a table near the street and swept a chair back for her to take.

As they had walked, Christine could hear nothing but the pounding of her own heart in the silence. She could not understand Erik's stony manner. Each time she heard him take a breath she waited for him to throw off this distant act and tell her how glad he was to see her; but he did not. Even as he pulled back a chair for her in the quaint café, his nod to her was wordless. Ridiculous - what would they do, sit across the wrought-iron table and stare at each other? She thrilled, though, at this last gesture of civility, a welcome hint that he might warm to her ...

As he pushed her chair in, he was careful not to touch her.

*

Although Erik had learned to converse among company fairly easily in his above-ground years, as he sat across from Christine he felt his strength wavering. He remained silent and tried to order his thoughts instead of rashly attempting to speak, and it was not until after their coffee had arrived that he was able to begin.

"So ... what brings you to Venice?" The words felt idiotic and meaningless in his mouth. Of course he wanted to know the answer, but - such banality! This will never, never do, he scolded himself - I must be eloquent, artful ... and unyielding.

She was relieved that he had spoken, for she did not know how to start. She had hitherto been sitting opposite him, peeping carefully at him over her cooling coffee, and simply taking in the feeling of his company. So strange, so familiar and comforting, the muted lines of the mask. Yes, she thought, I needed only to see him to know my answer: I ought to love him. And now that I've found him again, I can begin ...

But his question was direct, and she fumbled for an answer. "I ... my ... my life has changed so much in these few years, Erik."

"Has it." He modulated himself very carefully but inwardly was frantic to know why she was here, and more importantly who she was with. In the months following their last goodbye he had watched over her from a distance, attempted to soothe the pain of her loss by becoming once again her silent and invisible guardian. But soon he left off doing so; he knew he was only being foolish, torturing himself by hoping secretly that she might grow bored with the Vicomte and return to him. Besides, the publication of the marriage-banns had effected him more deeply than he had expected.

Since the pages of Le Figaro had imparted their cruel but inevitable news, he had tried to steel his heart to Christine's memory and let her pass from him as water from a garment hung in the sun. Yet despite the years and all his changes of venue, Erik knew he still loved her - but now his love was laced with anger and strangled by the scars of abandonment. He tried to prepare himself now for whatever further pain her story might cause, and wondered whether he could continue to hold up his indifferent façade.

She dipped her chin and paused a moment before speaking. She had known the time for explanations would soon arrive, but she had hoped it could have been delayed a little, perhaps until after he had whispered the first words of love into her ear. But his behavior was not what she had expected, and no excuse was available, so she began: "My ... marriage has dissolved." She paused but he did not speak, and she felt compelled to press onward. "I suppose I should not have hoped it would last - after all, Raoul is not the charming prince he seems and I am no longer the girl he knew." Another pause, and she sipped the strong coffee to give herself time to think. Why was he so silent? Perhaps if she broached Raoul's roughness he would soften ... "He was rather cruel to me towards the end," she whispered, allowing tears to well in the hopes of stirring his sympathy - for surely he must still love her, angry though he might be! "He made me suffer and I foolishly bore it until finally he turned me out of our home. He said he intended to seek a divorce, and I must admit I am not sorry about it. And that was two years ago."

For once he was glad of the mask; its aid in concealing his emotions was invaluable. She did not see the look of surprise that took possession of his face for a moment, nor the expression of mingled satisfaction and guilt that followed. Of course he had hoped that the marriage would not last, and though he hated the Vicomte with a black passion he had also hoped that Christine would be the one abandoned. In the darkest moments of his own grief he had raged for her to feel his loss, his humiliation, his crippling loneliness - a taste of her own cruelty was more than deserved, he thought. And now that he heard it had all happened according to his wish - the part of him that still smarted from her leaving wanted to cavort like a hellish imp. But the greater part, which was so brave in her absence but in her presence could not deny that he still loved, was aflame with wanting to throttle the Vicomte for whatever wrongs she had suffered at this hands, and with gnawing guilt that he had wished hurt on her.

He realized that she was watching him, awaiting some response. But how to respond: which side of his warring soul should be the victor? What to reveal in this first meeting, five years after she had left him and he had nearly died of a broken heart?

The image of himself mourning her in a cellar while she went to bed with the Vicomte supplied the answer. Coolly, he made no reply to her tale of woe and instead prompted, "And you come to Venice ...?"

"With the family who employs me," she answered, slightly put out that he offered no expression of sympathy. The pains she had endured - and he, of all people, she would have expected to extend consolation. "I have been forced to hire myself as a governess." That indignity would surely excite some compassion.

"I was unaware you had any talent for teaching." Other than on the subject of misery, he continued inwardly; his anger, having won the battle, was now bleeding into his reason. He ought to have curbed it, but it somehow made it easier for him to continue this ridiculous conversation.

She was unnerved by the benign nature of his reply. "I learn as I go," she managed, and brightened as she described Estelle. "My charge is a dear little thing. She has become the joy of my life, actually - she learns quickly, laughs often and never causes me any trouble."

"How fortunate for you ... a most convenient post."

There was no mistaking it now - his voice was flat and unyielding as a marble slab, and she knew not whether to be angry or to weep. Either he had not forgiven her for leaving with Raoul, or - oh, horror! - he had allowed love to sour into hate during their long separation. No, she protested inwardly, that cannot be! Erik was a passionate man with a deep soul, and hurt though he might he could never hate anyone he had once loved. She was indignant that he was punishing her now, but she would warm him; time was all she needed, she assured herself, to rekindle his affection. Perhaps, she thought, I even owe it to him ... my leaving and marrying Raoul must have wounded him deeply.

"And you, Erik?" She rendered her voice light, trying not to betray her discouragement. "What have you been doing with yourself these last few years?"

He fairly glared at her - here he was, straining with his feelings, and she was as flip and offhand as if she were at a garden party! Was this the woman he had loved so deeply that he had forgiven her the forceful removal of his mask? Yes, she was - she whose childish curiosity rivaled Luciana's in its selfishness, and whose likewise childish arrogance was perfectly certain he still loved her. What else could explain her persistence despite his chilly manner? She thought him simply pouting and indulged him, waiting for his front to drop and for him to bury his face in her skirts, professing undying love. He bristled - the grain of truth there goaded him.

"I have been travelling mostly, although recently I have settled here to do some contracting. But do tell me," he said, his tone growing harsher as he allowed his injury to speak for him, "how you ever managed to find a job of your own accord? I cannot imagine the Vicomte was good enough to help you replace him as your source of income."

It was her turn to bristle - there was no ignoring the deliberateness of his insult. "Necessity makes even the weakest able to fend for themselves," she retorted. "And with your having gone from Paris, what else was I to do?"

"My having gone from Paris," he echoed swiftly, his voice dropping. "You knew, then?"

His change in tone effected her, and she cast her gaze downward. "Yes."

"Since ..." The softness of his whisper encouraged her reply.

"Since nearly the moment Raoul turned me out," she said, hope of reconciliation creeping into her tone. "I returned to Paris thinking ..." But she caught his eyes, whose expression was hardening just as it had in the first moments he had beheld her. She squared her shoulders, taking this as a sign of more impending unpleasantness. "I went to the Opera, actually."

Whatever tenderness he had felt when she confessed the had tried to find him perished at the mention of the Vicomte. "Looking for employment?" His voice was gentle, but once again deliberately insulting.

"Looking for you," she spat out miserably, close to tears and unable to wave off his dig. She sought but failed to justify such intentional unkindness.

"Really." He felt cruel, but entitled.

She was trembling under his seemingly indifferent gaze. "Yes," she finally snapped, her indignity getting the better of her. "But you weren't there - you were as distant and unconcerned for me as you are now. And ..." She caught herself, immediately sorry for her words. But there was no retracting them; and she peered at him nervously, expecting one of his old outbursts.

But he was leaning easily against his chair, watching her carefully. "And?" he prompted, his long graceful fingers stirring mock-encouraging circles in the air. "Did you feel betrayed and disappointed that I had not remained in my tomb, the ever-constant corpse?" She bent her head but, inexorably, he spoke on. "You thought I ought to have been content wasting away in that cellar, waiting - forever waiting, Christine - for you to change your mind?" His hands completed their arc and came to rest in a steeple, fingers tip to tip against his lips. He felt calm and in control now, impartially dispensing structured sentences. He had planned that remark long ago, composed it as carefully as a phrase of music, in one of his imagined conversations with her; but he had never expected to actually have use of it. In those imaginations, which always seemed like fantastic unrealities, he was superior and indifferent and left her weeping in the realization that she had lost him out of her own self-centeredness. But the tears that spilled now were not the ones he'd anticipated: they were angry tears, falling from eyes that bored directly into his.

"How can you, Erik?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and ragged on the edges. "How can you speak to me this way when five years have passed and all I am is glad to see you?"

Abruptly and without ceremony, he rose from his chair. "Perhaps I am changed," he replied, dropping an amount of money excessive for two cups of coffee onto the table; "and rather dismayed at finding you are not." The wrought-iron chair scraped against the cobblestones as he shoved it in roughly. Stalking away, he took no notice of the pigeons he displaced with the stirring of his cloak. Christine turned sulkily from the image of him crossing the plaza, and by the time she too rose from the table he had disappeared from sight too quickly for her to note in which direction he had gone.

*

A few days passed in which Christine's face was iron. Even Estelle's little misadventures could not bring a smile to her face, although the darling little girl nearly wore herself out trying to please her governess. Where each evening she had been accustomed to sitting in the parlour with the family, Christine now took to her room; she would sit in her dressing gown with her hair around her shoulders until late at night, brooding. Madame de Jardin, as usual, paid no attention to anything "the governess" did; she never took notice of 'Anna Daaé' unless she was looking uncommonly pretty, and even then hardly spoke a word to her. Monsieur de Jardin, however, was keenly aware of the change in 'dear Anna' and strained to hide both his notice and his sympathy. After over a year of travel, and of closer proximity to the lovely young au pair than he had ever been afforded in Paris, he was finding his burgeoning affection for her harder and harder to conceal. A kiss might cheer her, he found himself musing; ...no, no, I must not think of it!

Finally Christine managed to break her melancholy among her employers; she became aware that her moodiness was upsetting Estelle and so deliberately lightened her heart for the child's sake. But each evening in the sanctuary of her room, she trod the floorboards in consternation. "What does he mean, I have not changed?" she whispered, wringing her hands absently. "Surely he must see that I have ... and what does he mean by making cruel remarks on purpose, and turning his back on me?" She wanted to seek him out, to force down his wall of coldness; but she wanted to punish him, too, to make him simmer in the possibility that he had driven her away forever. For three weeks she stubbornly remained angry; but in the end, her resolve crumbed into tears. "Perhaps he too will have softened by now," she murmured to herself one evening after dinner, as she donned her cloak to go in search of him.

Not knowing where to find him, she was forced to do a bit of detective work; but she did not find it difficult, having all the necessary tools for garnering information from young Italian students of architecture. Going to a churchyard where she had often seen a few young men sketching, she arranged herself on a low wall, drew back her hood and waited. Surely enough, a confident fellow soon tucked his sketchbook under his arm and grinned his way over to her.

"Good evening, lovely lady," he purred.

She batted her eyelashes, dipped her chin and replied, "Good evening, signor."

Pleased at her encouraging response, he spoke again. "What brings you here at this time of day, bella? It is late for mass."

She repressed a smile - his every word was oily with self-assurance. "I am a pious daughter of the Church," she murmured. "But I see you too love it, just in a different way ..." She indicated his sketchbook and he nodded, enthusiastic to discuss his favorite subject: himself.

"Oh, yes - I am a student of architecture, you see; and - "

"Are you?" she interrupted, clapping her palms together coyly. "Then perhaps you can help me. I am looking for an architect to build me a house ..."

The young man's attempted suave was nearly laughable. "I should build you a castle in the clouds, bella."

"Oh," Christine fluttered falsely; "no, please, you misunderstand. I have heard of a great architect recently coming here to Venice - a rather strange but fantastic genius. But perhaps you do not know of him?"

"Mmph," the boy huffed, "of course I know - it could only be Erik."

She started at the ease of her quest, and was intrigued by the weight given his name by this young man. "Is he that famous, then?"

"Famous? More infamous, I should say. His designs are perfect in every way - I have studied his structures, you see - and the money of Venice clamors for his service, but he keeps aloof and selective. His materials, his crew - even his patrons are subjected to the most peculiar standards! Would you believe that he has been here less than a year and has already turned down dozens of offers from some of the richest men in Italy?"

"Is he that particular about his work?" she pressed him, interested to find Erik as exacting a master architect as he was a maestro.

"Fanatical, if you ask my opinion - pure arrogance!" The young man seemed to be prodded onward by some personal vendetta; his words were laced with sarcasm. "He would rather reject commissions than waste his time or talent on someone he thinks unworthy. And as for apprentices - ha! He will have none of that!"

Her young suitor's bitter pronunciation of these last words finally gave Christine to understand his meaning. How lucky to have attracted such an informant! Placing a calming hand on his elbow, she leaned in close to him and whispered, "Can you tell me where to find this Erik?"

Shocked back to reality by the beauty's touch, he stammered, "He is currently engaged in a project on the northern fringe of the city ..." Catching himself, he smoothed his demeanor and placed his own hand atop hers. "But you waste your time, bella - you are better off with a builder who will not reject you."

He raised her fingers as if to kiss them, but nimbly she slipped out of his hold. "Oh, I am not afraid of that. He is only a man, after all - surely he can be persuaded!" Feeling sliightly guilty for having used the young man so meanly, she rewarded him with her most dazzling smile. "I thank you, signor." Then, turning on her heel, she hurried away.

So drunk was the young man on her charming smile, it was some moments until he realized his own stupidity. But when the reality of her escape struck him, he nearly put back his head to howl. Damn him - damn Erik for dismissing his application for apprenticeship, for the perfection of his designs and for that lovely's interest. God only knew what the mask concealed, but with that devil's luck he was probably divinely handsome beneath it. Cursing Erik for all the miseries of his young life, the boy returned to his boarding-house to sulk; he could sketch no more tonight.

*

Dusk was falling, and Christine had a way to go until she reached the site of Erik's current project. She hailed several carriages before finding a driver who knew both the place she meant, and how to reach it from the dock where her gondolier had left her. By the time the hired rig had dropped her at the roadside near the construction site, the moon had risen high enough to give pale light to her path. Lifting her skirt gingerly, she picked her way towards the beginnings of a building she could make out several hundred yards off the road. She did not know why she was so sure she would find him here at this hour, but as she neared the structure she could almost feel his presence crackling like electricity in the air. Finally she caught sight of him, her glance attracted by the sound of his voice.

He stood on a rough, half-completed wall, thrown in silhouette against the moon and his cloak fluttering like wings around him in the evening breeze. His voice, raised softly in wordless song, swirled down like a waterfall and flooded the empty maw at the center of the fragmentary building. This was how Christine remembered him, and she nearly wept to once again be in the company of the Erik she knew. The arms of his music wound around her as they always had - at last he embraced her as she wished he would, without anger, indignation or judgement. She found herself stretching out her mind in response to his voice, the old pattern repeating itself as if only moments, not years, had passed. She was climbing the scaffolding and reaching towards him almost without thinking, and unbidden by her her voice ventured timidly forth to mingle with his in a song of pain but hope for reconciliation.

He was understandably startled. He had come to the site after dark purposely for its solitude - he often worked through the night when he felt agitated, and only raised his voice in song when he thought himself utterly alone. The singing soothed him, helping him to forget the guilt and pain and aching vestiges of love that had tormented him since his meeting with Christine. As much as he had felt victorious sailing away from her on his wave of bitterness, in the empty weeks that ensued he had repented every angry syllable that had escaped his lips. It is best this way, he told himself, but the ache beneath his sternum could not be brought to understand that. He wanted to weep, but found his tears long dry - the years of grief had parched him and left only music to quench his pain's thirst. Now, his façade dropped in what he thought was solitude, he was powerless to rebuff her as she appeared suddenly at his side, reaching out with tears in her beautiful eyes and brushing his arm.

"Christine," he whispered, his anger drowning silently beneath the waves of love that washed over him.

"Erik," she answered, flooded with relief to hear his gentle tone once again. She had meant to say something lofty and meaningful, but all she could manage was a sob-strangled, "Please ..."

He surrendered control in that moment, and she fell into the arms he opened for her. The weight of her small body against his both knifed his heart and made it beat feverishly - he had so longed to hold her, but now that he did the costs bore heavily upon him. Would it all begin anew, the same old cycle of love and rejection, now that he had given up his fragile destiny into the once-so-careless hands of this darling mademoiselle?

Her words cemented his greatest fear. "Oh, Erik," she sighed from the circle of his arms. "Mon Ange ..."

His fingers were closing around her upper arms; he pulled her, gently but inexorably, away from him. "No," was his reply.

Stubbornly, she refused to acknowledge his rejection and tried to press herself back into his embrace; but his grip was unyielding. "Erik - " her voice was pouty, like a child's - "why won't you hold me?"

"I said no." His tone was even and resolute.

She stopped struggling and stared up at him, baffled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I have no intention of letting you fall into me as if nothing has happened." Short, clipped words - unrehearsed. He might have been proud of himself - but he was no longer fighting his battle with any kind of dedication. It was all too steeped in misery. "Too much has happened, Christine."

Her lip trembled. "Don't you love me, Erik?"

He let go of her, sighed, brought a hand to the good side of his forehead. Her simple language cut him to the quick, as it always had. "That is not the point."

"Yes, it is," she insisted, taking a step closer to him. "It is the point, because I know this anger you are punishing me with is not what you truly feel." He shook his head and moved as if to turn his back to her, but she was too agitated to allow it. Grabbing his coat sleeve, she pulled him back to face her. "And I can love you, Erik." He winced, tried to pull away. She gripped his sleeve tighter. "I've come to know it so very keenly since I've been apart from you. And I could have shown you then - I chose you - and you sent me away. This separation was not my fault."

His eyes shot open and he wrenched the cloth of his coat from between her fingers. "It is mine then, I suppose?" She took a breath and opened her mouth as if to protest, but he silenced her with a gesture. "No, don't bother," he retorted bitterly. "I see your point. I ought to have believed that you could learn to love me, instead of trusting what I saw with my own eyes. I should have kept you with me instead of letting you go with him who you obviously preferred!"

"Raoul was the wrong choice ..." she contradicted petulantly, stomping her foot.

He caught her chin in his hand, a loaded motion. "But you went with him." She blinked indignantly but said nothing. "You went with him - and that isn't all! You left Paris with him - you married him and lived with him as man and wife for three years! You can tell me I sent you away - perhaps I released you a bit too ... firmly. But you cannot tell me I forced you to make these choices - I did not. If I could have made you do anything it would have been to love me. I deserved that. I did not deserve to see you embrace the Vicomte before my very eyes, or to imagine you with him ... after your marriage." His voice had turned to acid; as if he had burned himself, he jerked his hand away and turned as if to go.

She too was growing frantic - frustration and embarrassment at his rejection stirred petty words in her throat. "You wanted me, Erik - when you imagined us, did you burn with jealousy? Would you not have given the world to be the one beside me? You would have - and you still would, even now!"

He whirled on her, his look dangerous. "You are a selfish girl, Christine. You had my heart once but threw it to the gutter - and now you would have back again, to shatter once more into a thousand pieces."

"But you can't deny that you still want me!" she cried, eyes wide and cheeks flushed at her own audacity, knowing somewhere inside that her words were shameless and cruel.

He looked into her face and saw all the beauty that still captivated him - and beneath it all of Luciana's willfulness, that childish blend of goading and love that had almost drawn him into the grave with her. He averted his eyes distastefully as he fully realized the mistake he had repeated in loving Christine - and yet he could not purge it from his soul, cut off the offending limb as the Bible so neatly instructs. "Not like this," he finally managed to choke out. "Not like the second violin in the absence of a better player. Not because the Vicomte has hurt you and left you alone, and not because I am ever your plaything to do with as you choose."

As suddenly as her anger had reared, the argument was over; she could no longer keep up her blustering front. "I don't understand, Erik ..." She came close to him again, placed her hand on his elbow. "How would you have it?"

His look was pained, and that pain was visible even around the mask. "I would have you make a decision, just once, with someone else's feelings at heart. Think of me, Christine." He faltered. "Think of how I watched you go - think of all the years I spent trying to put you from my mind - and think of me now, watching you cry because I finally refuse to be trifled with. Think of that - and perhaps you'll see how I would have it."

She dipped her chin in shame as his words opened a window for her: she had expected him to gladly fill the spot that Raoul had so willingly vacated. But when she raised her head to tell him she was sorry for her arrogance, he was gone.

*

As she stumbled back to the apartments the de Jardins had rented in Venice, Christine distracted her mind by comparing herself to Christ on His way to Calvary. Her awful moment of realization had not surrendered her unscarred. The shock of Erik's sudden departure, of his leaving her stranded to make her own way home in a strange city, had returned her thoughts to the moment; but the dreadful remnants of his words still hung in the air around her, poisoned every breath she drew and crept into every thought she entertained. She felt like a criminal, hating herself for her crimes, hating her accuser for sending her to the gallows.

She arrived at the de Jardin residence at an hour most indecent for a single woman of her age. Thankfully the gossiping little chamber-maid, Agatha, had not been brought along, for Christine knew she would never have been able to slip in unnoticed had it been for that little chit.

As it was, Monsieur de Jardin did hear her entrance, and peering around his bedroom door saw her drift like a sad spirit into her own room. He had known that she stayed up nights, pacing the floors of her chamber; he knew that she was often sleepless. But he had never known her to roam the out-of-doors. His mind clamored jealously to know what passion so occupied her heart as to torment her so violently. It has been worst since our arrival here, he reasoned. Tomorrow I shall make arrangements ... He had not cared much for the romance of Venice, since being unable to share it with the true object of his desire frustrated him; he resolved that they would leave it within the week. Then, cursing the fate that bound him to a frivolous and unloving bride, he returned to bed beside his wife.

*

The news that she would soon be leaving Venice drove Christine to further distraction. Convinced that one last conversation might mend the ruins of their friendship, she wracked her brain for some way to meet with Erik again. In the end, she could contrive nothing greater than to write him a tearful note, begging him to come and speak with her in the atrium of the de Jardin's rented home at a time when she knew the family would be absent. She did not budge from her street-ward window until the messenger returned from his construction site with a reply in hand.

He had toyed with the idea of rejecting her invitation, but the messenger's insistence coupled with the haste and fervor evident in Christine's handwriting gave Erik to know that her wish to see him was strong. There was no reason to go ... he felt empty inside, devoid of any hopes for any subsequent meetings with the child. But the thought of doing to her as she had done to him, of abandoning her when she seemed to be reaching out to him so desperately, was too cruel to feel truly just. As he donned his hat to depart for this strange appointment, he was a harp just moments after being played furiously: every string, every fiber of him was trembling with the violence of his recent emotions, and he had no idea what - if any - control he had over the pitches that would escape him in her presence. Each footstep on the pavement brought some new conviction. I shall forgive her - her reasons do not matter, it's enough that she wants me! No, I shall be angry - lovely as she is, I am not a secoond violin.

In the end he felt nothing: she kept him waiting in the arbor, and when she finally entered his back greeted her. As he whirled to look on her he expected the emptiness in him to flood with some emotion; he thought his heart would decide his course of action. But it told him nothing, and he felt nothing, and the words he spoke were resignation colored to the best of his ability by his signature dry sarcasm.

"Christine, I must say I am surprised at your tenacity. To what do I owe the pleasure of your insistence?"

She glanced downward, but her eyes would not well with tears; they were parched from days upon days of weeping. "Erik, please. In a few days I shall leave Venice."

"Is that why you've had me come: for 'Au Revoir'? How kind of you, child. I wish you a safe journey." There was an insidious turn to his voice, and it stung both his throat and Christine's ears.

She seated herself on one of the low stone benches that populated the atrium. Staring up at him incredulously, she replied, "Is this how you want us to part, then?"

He drew a breath - she sounded like a martyr, and it was insufferable. "I haven't your talent for touching farewells."

"And you won't ask me to stay." Misery and disbelief made her words heavy.

He did not have the energy to fashion another hurtful remark. Instead he made a dismissive gesture. "I had no intention of doing so. If you want to leave, I shan't stop you."

"And will I never see you again?"

"Perhaps ... perhaps not." He turned from her, giving her his profile and making sure she saw only the right side of his face.

The interview had long ago spiraled out of Christine's control. She had hoped that the news of her eminent departure might finally crack his stony manner, but he seemed wholly indifferent to her now. Something in her snapped, and she leapt from her seat to catch his elbow. Staring into his surprised eyes, she demanded feverishly, "Are you still a friend to me, Erik? Could I call on you if I needed you?"

He felt weak in removing her hand from his sleeve, but it was not because her grip was strong. It was disconcerting to see her so convicted, especially when he himself felt so irresolute; he responded lamely, "You won't need me. You are a woman of independent means: new acquaintances, a job ..."

It was her turn for a lame protest. "I dislike my job."

He regained his poise and waved her remark aside. "You do not. When you told me about the little girl ..." He faltered, remembering how lovely she had been in that moment, and how careless. "... I could see the love in your eyes. You love the child and you do not dislike your job."

She sat down again and crossed her arms. Perhaps a bit of jealousy will turn his head ... "I dislike the way her father looks at me."

He seemed unimpressed. "Then leave."

Her jaw nearly dropped at his indifference. "But where would I go?"

"Anywhere - anywhere you like," he replied with a shrug. "It seems to me you've learned to get along just fine."

"Without Raoul," she added with a significant inflection.

He stirred a careless circle in the air with one hand. "Without Raoul ... without Erik ... without anyone."

"But that isn't how I want it, Erik," she cried. "I don't want to be alone in the world, without anyone!"

"Christine ..." he sighed, "she who would be the governess ought not to be so childish." Her face contorted and he passed the same hand across the good side of his forehead. "You made your choice, my dear."

A moment passed in which they merely looked at each other. Finally Christine swallowed hard and whispered into her lap, "You talk as if it's all over, Erik."

He turned his shoulder to her and gripped his right elbow with his left hand. "It is over, Christine."

"No, it isn't," she suddenly insisted, reverting to her old stubbornness and jumping to her feet again, "not while you still love me!"

He did not turn to face her, but his voice was flat and empty. "It has to be over so I can stop loving you."

Another pause, and nearly a minute passed before Christine could muster a reply. Finally she choked out, "Is that what you want, Erik?"

The rigidity of his form suddenly crumbled; he shook his head meaninglessly and his shoulders trembled faintly. "Yes ... no .... I want this torment to stop!"

She moved to his side swiftly and placed her hand on his arm again. "Erik - I'm sorry I hurt you, " she ventured softly.

He turned towards her, slipping out of her hold and fixing her with a look that smoldered. "No, Christine; you're sorry I won't leap to take up the torch the Vicomte has dropped. You're sorry I won't give you your way."

She could barely hear her own voice. "You've turned so cruel, Erik."

For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her with that same burning expression. Finally he moved ... took a bold, deliberate step closer to her ... reached towards her face. His fingers paused only inches from her cheek. "But you haven't changed at all, my sweet and selfish Christine." His voice was low and rumbling, like thunder in the distance. He leaned in so close she could have kissed him ... "If I seem cruel it's because you keep forcing me to repeat my answer, and because my answer remains 'no'. It hurts me too, you know - so much so that if you come to me again I shall leave Venice until you have gone."

She bristled. "You're the one who's selfish! You won't even try."

The good corner of his mouth twitched and he seemed to chuckle wryly under his breath. "I selfish?" He turned his palm upward, his fingers pantomiming the motion of stroking her jaw. The gesture sparked the air around them and Christine caught her breath as he spoke deliberately on. "I loved you until my heart held nothing else but you ... and when you left I was empty." His fingers paused beneath her chin, and without touching her tipped her face up towards the waning afternoon light. "I am empty now, Christine. The Erik who loved you could survive your absence no better than a flower can the darkness."

All that remained of her control crumbled; her very foundations collapsed and she suddenly found that she did have tears left. "If he is gone, then there is no hope of happiness left for me," she wailed. Dropping to the bench again, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep stormily.

He was drawn towards her like a magnet. "Oh, Christine ..." he beseeched her softly, "please don't cry."

She lifted her tearstained face and whispered fiercely, "Please don't send me away."

Dropping to one knee before her, he looked for a moment as if he might relent; but when he spoke his response was tender but resolute. "If I don't, then I shall be the one crying," he murmured, his voice trembling. "I want done with tears."

Swiftly, she captured one of his hands in both of hers. Urgently she whispered, "I won't hurt you, Erik, I swear - I'll be so gentle ..."

He rose, extricated his fingers from hers and ran them distractedly across his face. "Christine ..." came his sighed reply, "I can't."

She burst into tears again. "You won't!"

"If that's how you must have it," he said sadly, realizing that nothing more could come of this conversation. Willing himself to end it, he tipped his hat and began to retreat towards the house. "I wish you well."

She paused in her weeping long enough to cry raggedly, "And happy, I suppose? How can that be, when even you don't care for me?"

With one hand on the frame of the French doors that led to safety, Erik turned and took what he knew could very well be his last look at his beloved. For a moment he simply stood, drinking in the sight of her to warm him through whatever cold times might come. Finally he stepped backwards over the threshold onto the tiled floor of the de Jardin's foyer. "All I can hope, Christine, is that you truly are still the fickle child I knew, and that this sorrow will be of short duration. Adieu."