Chapter 4: Loose Ends Further Tangled

How long she sat in the arbor Christine did not know; Erik's leaving had sealed her into a sorrowful reverie that made distracted tears drop down her face. Evening shadows were falling around her when she was jolted from her haze by the sound of approaching footsteps. She hurriedly wiped away her tears, fearing that her solitude might be about to be disturbed. The stride was too measured and heavy to be Estelle's.

Moments later, Monsieur de Jardin was passing through the foyer. The evening light falling in the atrium at the center of the villa and illuminating the flowing hair and sad face of an angelic mademoiselle caught his eye immediately, and he paused in his path, breathless. The governess was seated on one of the stone benches amongst the trees and flowerbeds, unconsciously giving him her profile. In that moment the nearly two years of turmoil he had suffered in trying to conceal his feelings for the beautiful Mademoiselle Daaé seemed to dissolve; his hand moved to open the French doors almost of its own volition, and he stepped from the house into a moonlit fairyland where his sleeping princess seemed to wait for his kiss to wake her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," he greeted her softly, having closed the door behind him.

"Monsieur de Jardin," she replied breathlessly, turning towards him and forcing her lips into a wan smile.

He returned the smile, but his eyes were difficult for Christine to read.. "You have chosen a splendid spot to enjoy the evening. The way the moonlight sifts through the trees is quite bewitching." He strolled slowly towards where she was seated, his gaze lifted towards the darkening sky.

"Yes," she answered softly, sorry he had mentioned the romance of the atmosphere. She had been trying to ignore it.

A moment passed in which neither of them spoke. Christine was too miserable to trust her voice, and Monsieur de Jardin was imploring himself silently not to fall to his knees at her feet. Finally he felt he had himself enough in hand to express friendly concern. And friendly concern might endear her to me ... "You seem sad, Mademoiselle Daaé. Does something trouble you?"

She was startled and dismayed at his question. "Oh, no, Monsieur," she stammered, trying to keep her voice even; "- I am just ..."

"Please," he said softly, drawing nearer and seating himself beside her, leaving what he felt was a comfortable distance between them. "You seem so alone, and I wish you could look on me as a friend."

"It's friends that trouble me ..." she choked, at last unable to contain herself. She burst into tears again and, mourning inwardly for having left her handkerchief in her bedchamber, wept into her hands.

"Oh, how cruel - we have separated you from all you love," Monsieur de Jardin professed. He was afraid to lay a comforting hand on her, fearing it might tremble with concealed emotion; he placed his palm on the bench between them. "I was afraid that such a long trip would make you homesick. Please forgive me."

"No - Monsieur, you are too kind -" she stammered, "no, it's not that. I have no one in Paris, no one anywhere ... not now."

He leaned closer to her without thinking. "Please, my dear - you're overwrought. Won't you tell me what has happened to upset you so?"

At any other moment Christine would have been uncomfortable at having him so close; but now she was too distracted in her misery to notice. It was the freshness of her pain that made her rise and wrap her left arm around her waist as she replied, "I met an old friend upon our arrival here."

Monsieur de Jardin rose too, and spread his hands in relief. "Well now, that sounds like cause for happiness, not tears! I was unaware you had acquaintances in Italy."

Her free hand drifted to her left shoulder, as if to embrace herself. It made her all the more bewitching to Monsieur de Jardin, and her sorrow-filled tone made him ache to replace her arms with his own. "So was I. We had not seen each other in five years - I did not know where he was."

Those final words caught in his ears. "He ..." he repeated softly.

She did not seem to notice his reaction, for she spoke distractedly on. "I was so happy to see him - he had been ..." She stammered, and gesticulated vaguely with her right hand; finally the words came. "... very important to me. But our reunion was so cold, and he did not warm on later meetings - and now he has said goodbye to me as thoough he will not see me again!" That same right hand flew to her forehead, and tried to conceal the flood of tears that had begun afresh.

"Oh, my dear!" Monsieur de Jardin cried, flying to her side and placing a trepidatious hand on her shoulder. "What kind of monster is this friend of yours?"

She whirled to face him, eyes wide. His hand remained dumbfoundedly outstretched, and she pressed it impetuously. "No, please - you mustn't call him that!"

Emboldened by her touch, he drew a breath, squared his shoulders and declared soundly, "Mademoiselle, any man who would not rejoice in your friendship does not deserve your tears."

"Thank you ..." His sudden warmth brought a foolish and maidenly blush to her cheek; she quickly made a half-turn and bowed her head in hopes of concealing it. Recalling all the uncomfortable moments in which she had felt his eyes on her, she hoped this reaction would give no false impressions.

As he watched Mademoiselle Daaé incline her dear chin and flush like a wallflower, Monsieur de Jardin could barely believe his luck. Can it be ... that she returns my affection? For a moment he struggled in silence, wondering what his next move should be; when she did not raise her gaze, he felt assured that she knew of and shyly requited all his unspoken tenderness. Slowly, he began on the path that would lead him to face her ...

Monsieur de Jardin was moving carefully towards her; Christine assumed he was about to offer his handkerchief. But suddenly, he flung his arms around her waist and hugged her to his chest impetuously.

"You dear, sweet, sad little darling!" he cried, leaning in as if to kiss her lips.

She pressed with both of her palms against his shirtfront. "Monsieur!"

"You are so beautiful, Mademoiselle ... Anna!" He pronounced the name as if to call her by it removed some great weight from his heart. "It pains me so to see you weep - when I know how happy I could make you!"

"Sir, you forget yourself!" she admonished, not believing her ears.

"I do not, dear Anna!" he professed with all the passion in his soul. "Two years I have struggled, tried to ignore the tender feelings you inspire in me ..."

"Monsieur de Jardin!" Christine insisted as firmly as she could, pushing on him with all her paltry strength. All she could accomplish was to distance herself from him by an arm's-length. "You are a married man and I am your daughter's governess. Let go of me at once."

He released her and took a step back, a sudden look of confusion creasing his face. "Forgive me ... I ... I had hoped you too felt a secret affection ..."

Free now of his arms, Christine ran a hand down the front of her bodice; she felt physically and mentally askew. She managed to keep her voice even as she replied, "I am grateful for my employment and for your kind attempt to console me, but further than that you must not believe."

His expression changed to one of shame. "Forgive me," he repeated, stammering; "forgive me."

"I am sorry too, Monsieur," she said cautiously. "But now if you will excuse me, I shall pack my things and be ready to leave in the morning." Turning towards the door, she began a retreat into the house.

"No - Mademoiselle Daaé - wait!" Her words twisted the knife the realization of his folly had plunged into his breast. Leave? He could not bear to hear it. Let alone that he would never see her dear face again - perhaps he had earned that with his foollishness - but to think that he had driven her, so helpless and so alone, into the wide world! The guilt was too great to bear! He must induce her to stay, by whatever costs necessary ... Stepping quickly around her, he prevented her exit. "You don't mean to go?"

She turned her cheek, unable to look him in the face. "I'm afraid I must, sir."

"But ... Mademoiselle ..." He raked his hand through his hair, clearly upset. Christine could tell he was struggling with his thoughts, and his face was contorted with mingled humiliation and guilt. Finally he burst out with, "You love Estelle?"

Christine was surprised by this unexpected change of subject. "Of course I do," she consented warily. "She is a good, sweet child."

"And I love her too - say what you like of her mother or of our poor methods of child-rearing, but you must admit - I love my daughter."

Creasing her forehead, Christine wondered to what these odd remarks tended. But she was forced to reply, "Yes, Monsieur, I will not deny it; you are a very attentive father."

"And you are an excellent governess." When Christine waved off the proffered compliment and began to move towards the foyer again, Monsieur de Jardin took a few stumbling steps backward and pressed his case further. "Mademoiselle, please, hear me! You said you loved my child - you would never wish her any pain?"

Christine fairly gaped at his question. "Of course not!"

"Nor I! But she would suffer if you left - she loves you, Mademoiselle, and if you left her heart would be broken."

Perhaps he was simply trying to win her over ... but his words rang to the depths of Christine's heart, and she cast her eyes downward. "I had not thought of that."

Seeing the iron fading from her expression, he felt inspired to press onward. "Do not break Estelle's heart, Mademoiselle; not because of a moment of indiscretion on my part."

Christine shook her head weakly against the power of this persuasion. "Monsieur, I cannot stay if there is to be ... uneasiness ... between us."

"Let me give you my word of honor, then - " To Christine's surprise, he dropped to one knee on the brown brick garden walk. "I swear to you it will never happen again. Please do not make me the cause of my daughter's tears - I could not bear it."

This plea from a well-dressed gentleman who knelt at her feet in the moonlight was nothing like the one she had hoped for tonight. She was beside herself for some reply. "Monsieur ..." she protested weakly.

He clasped his hands before him plaintively. "I beg you, Mademoiselle. Upon my word, I shall never address you again - I would take back my arrogant presumption, if it were within my power. But it is not, and all I can do is entreat you: allow me to do penance."

Silence fell and Christine's mind reeled with vain attempts to find some excuse for refusal. But none offered its services; she was quite alone in the world now that Erik had forsaken her, and to leave a well-paying, comfortable job ... The thought of Estelle weeping was her ultimate undoing. "Very well, Monsieur," she sighed finally; "but I shall hold you to the promise you have made."

"Thank you," he whispered from the shadows of the path, and as he rose to press her hand briefly she noted tears in his eyes. She forgave him in that instant, for she could tell his own embarrassment would be punishment enough for him. Nodding in acknowledgement, she continued towards the house.

As she stepped across the threshold, his voice once more gave her pause. "Mademoiselle - do you love him?" His question was sudden and surprising, and its frankness embarrassed her so she could make no immediate reply. Her silence made hope throb once more in Monsieur de Jardin's bosom, and he took a bold step closer to her. Mustering all the concern he could, he repeated his question: "Can you have given your heart to this man who has pushed you away?"

Placing one hand on the door frame, much as Erik had upon his own most horrible departure, she turned and met his eyes. The concern she read there seemed genuine, and she could not help but answer. "I don't know ... I feel angry - miserable - confused."

"He is wrong to have hurt you so," was his quick and tremulous reply.

"No, I believe I may deserve it," she continued, shaking her head. "He loved me all those years ago and I did him a terrible wrong ..."

Monsieur de Jardin's voice distracted her from the tears that had begun to form once more in her eyes. "He is mad not to forgive you, Mademoiselle." It was soft and tender again, aching with the sentiments that he feared to express.

"Thank you," she interjected, and slipped quickly back into the house in fear of the things that he left unsaid.

*

The swiftness of their departure from Venice brought plaintive protests from Madame de Jardin; but Monsieur insisted that their travels had gone on long enough and that business called him back again to Paris. Realizing that their funds must have been dwindling to a dangerous low, the selfish woman finally ceased her complaints; and upon their return to France she found her homecoming less odious than she had anticipated. There was nearly two years' worth of gossip to catch up on, and more than one confidante to bring up to speed on the delights of her European excursion.

Estelle too was glad to return to Paris; and Christine threw herself into the child's tutorials with a hurried conviction that reminded Monsieur de Jardin eerily of the zeal of a dying man. The urgency of the governess' feigned normalcy stung him. He alone knew that this façade was intended to conceal all the pain she had suffered in Venice, and he felt largely responsible for her discomfort. Again and again he replayed their exchange in his mind, and endlessly he wished he could turn back time and prevent the impositions he had made. Burn though he still did, the thought of having offended her in any way was hateful to him. In secret, he sought the advice of his priest; the father instructed him in a penance, but prayer did little to lift his shroud of guilt. Without mentioning it to his wife or discussing it with Mademoiselle Daaé, he raised the governess' salary a further five francs a week. Upon first noticing the addition, she had come knocking timidly on his study door.

"Monsieur de Jardin, you have made a mistake here," she said softly, opening her palm to reveal the superfluous money. "You have given me five francs more than I have earned ..."

Looking up from his account books, he regarded her solemnly. "No, please, take it - you have earned it twenty times over," his voice said. His eyes entreated, Please, forgive me.

She glanced away a moment, taking his meaning and casting for a reply. His stomach twisted, not knowing what to say should she refuse his gesture ... but she met his eyes again and whispered, "Thank you."

After the door closed behind her, he dropped his face into his hands and wept silent tears of relief; her eyes had said, I forgive you.

And she did. Gradually, she was able to overcome the feelings of discomfort she had harbored since their conversation in the Venetian arbor, and during their first few months back in Paris the two repaired their relationship: perhaps even more than repaired - for a quiet, careful friendship began to grow between them. She was grateful for the care he took to reform his behavior for her comfort, for she was never again in his company but that his eyes were deferentially cast to the floor; and he was grateful that she would even permit him to be in her company. A silent and mutual respect grew, and he took to sitting before the fire in the music room as Christine oversaw Estelle's practicing at the piano. The child had improved beyond Christine's ability to teach her now, and all she could do was choose pieces for Estelle to learn on her own through repeated practice. From time to time Monsieur de Jardin would glance up from his book and admire the tableau the two young women created; but he was careful to go on with his reading and not let Christine know that he had noticed her.

Winter yielded to spring and Estelle's tenth birthday passed. And thus a peace descended upon the de Jardin household.

It was not to last.

*

That Sunday mid-morning was dull and dreary; the rejuvenating rains of April, for all their life-restoring qualities, had made Christine feel rather dismal. There had been no sun for nearly a week now, and the dark clouds showed no signs of parting.

Monsieur de Jardin had felt it necessary, despite its being Sunday, to spend the day at his office. Whether it was due to legitimate business concerns, or rather because Madame de Jardin was becoming increasingly peevish as the rain dragged on - Christine did not know, though she was inclined to believe the latter. She herself was more fortunate than he, in that she could easily avoid her mistress' company if she wished. And today she did so by arranging herself comfortably on a soft leather couch in the library; having decided to stay in from mass because of the dreary weather and her own low spirits, she intended to spend her free day reading. Estelle never troubled her governess on Sundays, and would probably linger all day over her dolls and daydreams; and Christine had never known Madame de Jardin to come anywhere near the library. She would be quite undisturbed there.

The drumming of the raindrops on the windowpanes and the softness of the couch where she reclined soon coaxed Christine into a nap; the mantel clock showed almost two o'clock when she awoke. But it was not the chiming of the clock that woke her; it was the muffled sound of Madame de Jardin's giggle from within the library - and the responding rumbling of a male voice that was not Monsieur's.

The couch where Christine reclined was placed facing the fireplace and so its high back concealed her form from their view; she was safe for now. But she had no wish to witness whatever intrigue was taking place in the library - and yet she had no means of escape. There would be no way to slip past them, for their voices seemed to be coming from one of the window-seats nearest the door. As she panicked for some plan, the man spoke.

"My dear Babette," he said in a tone almost laughably suave. "This cannot be wise."

"Oh, darling, please - no talk of wisdom! Won't you kiss me?" Christine's stomach lurched as her mistress' true colors were unfurled.

He laughed, and the sound of it stopped Christine's breath; she knew that laugh. But how, and from where ...? "You little goose - what of your husband?" he whispered.

"He isn't here," she giggled; and then her voice was stopped by what Christine could only assume was an adulterous embrace. Her blood boiled - to think that, for all the shrill accusaations she had made against Monsieur de Jardin in a voice loud enough for all the servants to hear, Madame was the one whose fidelity should have been in question.

But suddenly, every muscle in her body froze; she could sense he had risen and was pacing across the carpet towards her hiding-place. "Darling - where are you going?" pouted the brazen Madame de Jardin.

"Discretion, my dear!" he chuckled. "I am only going to draw the drapes ..."

Christine's couch was only a few steps from the window whose curtains stood open. There was no possibility that he would not see her ... Instinctively she screwed her eyes closed, and pressed a hand to each ear as if to somehow shield herself from the impending disaster. She sent a feverish prayer heavenward; dearest Holy Virgin, let him be distracted by her enough not to notice ...

Her prayer went unanswered, but his words echoed its sentiment. "God in Heaven," he breathed, his feet rooted to the carpet and his fingers seemingly frozen to the draperies; "Christine!"

There was no mistaking it now - til the end of her days she would recognize that pronunciation of her name. Her eyes flew open and she greeted him as calmly as she could manage under the circumstances. "Raoul."

Madame de Jardin flew suddenly to his side. "Darling? Who is there?" She peered over the back of the couch as Christine sprang to her feet to face them. "You!" Madame became quickly incensed and her face went from a ghostly white to a most unflattering shade of red; she looked uncommonly like a pig as she shrieked, "How dare you! How long have you been hiding there?" Without waiting for a response, she whirled on Raoul. "What did you call her? How do you know her?"

Raoul took a step back from the trembling clenched fists of his paramour. "Please, Babette - I ... I ..." Unable to stammer out a reply, he too whirled on Christine. "What on earth are you are doing here?!"

"Your presence is perplexing to me as well," she replied coolly, surprised that even though this was her first glimpse of him since their final argument, she felt absolutely nothing for him. She crossed her arms. "I, at least, have some right to be here."

"Christine, I demand to know ..." he was raging.

Madame de Jardin, who had stood in shocked silence watching the exchange, suddenly seized Raoul by the lapels and fairly shook him. "How do you know my governess?!?"

"Your governess?!?" Christine had never seen Raoul so beside himself, and she might have laughed if the situation had been any less dire. His eyes darted back and forth between Christine and his mistress. "But - how is that possible?"

"Why?!" shrieked Madame de Jardin. "Who is she to you?"

"She is my wife," Raoul bellowed, seizing his mistresses hands and flinging them from his jacket.

For a moment Christine was certain Madame was going to faint. Her face went completely white and she stood perfectly still, allowing her hands to drop ineffectually to her sides. But after a terrible moment in which Raoul and Christine watched her very carefully, she gathered herself together and spoke.

"I don't know how you managed to impose yourself upon us," she said, balling her fingers slowly into fists that trembled, "but I have always known that there was something false about you." One index finger emerged from Madame's fist and wavered close to Christine's nose. "You ... are a snake," she said deliberately; "and you have slithered your way into my family - my daughter shows you far more affection than she ought, and my husband never takes his eyes off you. Don't think I haven't noticed! And now," she suddenly cried, gesticulating wildly towards the stunned Vicomte, "now this! I am sure you think yourselves quite clever! What was the intent - to shoulder me out of my own family?"

"Babette!" Raoul cried, taking her sheepishly by the arm. "You don't understand - we are estranged ..." Madame de Jardin seemed to calm at his words, but the look she fixed him with was icy. "I swear to you ..." he stammered; "I have not seen her in years ..."

Without a word to him, she turned away from Raoul to address Christine again; this time, however, an ugly smirk played at her lips. "Very well then - it seems your loss has been my fortune. Is that why you have tried to seduce my rich husband: because you had lost your own? I should have seen you for what you are, you brazen, money-hunting hussy! I should never have allowed you into my house - but that, at least, is a mistake I can remedy." Raising the dainty nose she was so proud of, Madame de Jardin purred in a haughty tone, "You will pack your things and be gone ... within one hour."

"Oh, Babette - you have that wrong, I'm afraid."

Every face in the room was suddenly turned towards the doorway, where Monsieur de Jardin leaned almost casually against the jamb. "It is you, my dear, who will be leaving this house; and I dare say you haven't got a moment to lose. It will be falling dark soon."

"Gerome!" the dishonest woman wheedled, flying towards him with all the sweetness she could muster. "Please, my dear, this is all so dreadfully muddled - won't you sit down, and have a cup of tea? We can talk about this in the morning ..."

"No, Babette," her husband responded calmly. Christine was taken aback by his level manner, considering the scene upon which he had stumbled. "There is nothing I care to discuss with you; I want you to simply pack your trunks, and go." He made a deliberate nod towards Raoul, who cleared his throat and shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Perhaps you would be so good as to take her off my hands, monsieur. It seems you have already begun the job, so I shan't deter you from your present course." Raoul's mouth gulped like a fish's, but no sound emerged. Monsieur de Jardin turned scornfully from the Vicomte and made as if to leave the room.

"But Gerome!" Madame de Jardin cried, grasping his arm to prevent his exit. The calmness in his tone was disconcerting to her, and she cast for some way to turn his head. "What about the governess - did you not hear? This man is her husband ... she has imposed herself unfairly on us! She is a liar!"

"Dear Babette," he replied in a low tone that was foreign to him. Christine had never heard him sound so menacing. He shrugged off her hand and, turning, touched one finger to her chin. "What ever would you know about lies?"

The gesture took Christine's breath away. Her vision seemed to flicker and in her mind, the de Jardins were replaced by two other forms. She was another woman who had been so careless with the heart of a man who adored her; he was simply a man whose unshakeable devotion to his fickle beloved had finally been shaken by the deepest of betrayals. Tears welled in Christine's eyes and she clapped a hand to her lips to escape the sob that threatened to rend her.

Raoul's distracted eyes caught the sight of his still-beautiful estranged wife, and the emotion he could see her struggling with touched his heart. How empty these last three years must have been for her! To think how she must have missed him! What she must have suffered in being reduced to a common domestic! As unfortunate as the circumstances of this reunion had been, he was glad that seeking the divorce had slipped his mind. How sweet it would be to gather her to himself again, to reclaim what he ought never to have relinquished ... "Christine," he murmured, moving towards her.

He unfurled his arms and Christine understood the fear of an animal about to be entangled in a net. Turning swiftly on her heel, she fled the library; Raoul's voice, calling after her, echoed down the hallway and mingled with the de Jardins', which were now raised in bitter argument.

"Of course you'll forgive her," Madame was shrilling; "her who you've wanted ever since she set foot inside this house ..."

*

Christine had fled to her room and locked the door behind her. Raoul, who had pursued her down the corridor from the library to the foyer, had lost sight of her as she quickly mounted the stairs that led to the second floor. Reluctant to intrude into that area of the house, he paused for a moment with his hand on the banister. He was still gazing into the dimness at the top of the staircase when Babette came storming into the foyer. "What did you mean by leaving me in there alone with him?" she demanded furiously.

"It is hardly my place ..." he began sheepishly.

"Yes, yes, it is not your place to stand by me as my husband shouts at me like a scullery-maid. And I suppose it is your place to chase that slut of a governess while you should be defending my honor!" She swept a thick fur coat around her shoulders and hurriedly pinned a veiled hat to her hair. "Come, we must go," she said, picking up the umbrella that Raoul had left leaning in the vestibule and gesturing for him to don his jacket. "That is, of course, unless you intend to allow Gerome to toss me into the street."

"Of course not, my dear," Raoul whimpered as he shrugged into his coat. Then, tentatively, he began: "Babette, please allow me to explain about Christine ..."

She dismissed the subject with a wave of a kid-gloved hand. "You will explain all about that, Raoul dear; but all in good time. Hurry, I can't stand to be in the same house with them a moment longer."

*

After he was sure they had exited into the rain, Monsieur de Jardin opened the door to the library and slowly made his way down the hallway and into the foyer. He could still detect Babette's perfume on the air, and the puddle that Raoul's umbrella had left on the vestibule floor was undiminished. How strange, that after nearly fifteen years of marriage his wife should so suddenly just not be there.

He paced the foyer for a time, mulling over the bizarre turn of events; but his thoughts kept returning to Anna ... no, he had heard his wife's lover call her "Christine" ... Mademoiselle Daaé. After her hasty exit from the library, he had heard a door slam at the top of the stairs; he knew she must be shuttered in her room, pacing the carpets as he was, tearful and beside herself.

Each time his absentminded steps brought him to the foot of the staircase, he considered climbing it, going to her and comforting her. And there would be comfort for him there, too; she alone could sympathize with his own tumult, she alone could hope to soothe it. How strange that their respective unhappy marriages should bring them so close together ... and could cement their newborn friendship with a deeply established understanding. But would she want my company now? he wondered. Finally, remembering the expression her face had worn as she quitted the library, he determined to go to her; he could not stand to be alone, or to think of her alone, in the midst of so much pain.

His knock and a timid, "Mademoiselle Daaé?" admitted him to her room. She pulled the door back slowly, and upon meeting his eyes she drew back into the chamber and turned her back to him in shame.

"I am so sorry, Monsieur - I shall go at once ..." Over her shoulder he could see that she had been packing her things.

He moved to the bed and gently closed the trunk lid. "Why do you always offer this as a solution to any uncomfortable situation?" he replied with a wry smile. He was almost proud of himself - to express humor at a moment like this! "Anna ... no, I suppose it ought to be, 'Christine' ... you must not leave this house. I shall need you more than ever, now my wife is gone from it."

His kindness left her speechless. She had been certain that the discovery of her years-long deception would spell the end of her employment. The depth of her gratitude yawned within her; she whirled and clasped her hands before her, whispering, "You must forgive me for lying to you, Monsieur ..."

"No, no, please - I understand the position you were in. You must be calm - be assured my anger is reserved strictly for my wife. Not one ounce of it rests with you." He placed a carefully neutral hand on her shoulder.

The reassuring touch undid her and she whirled to sob into his shirtfront. In that moment she did not about what impression she might give; her entire world had collapsed and the need to fall against some strong hero overpowered the weak will that had held off tears this long.

Meanwhile, Gerome de Jardin's mind reeled. Babette had infuriated him but her unfaithfulness did not particularly surprise him. Their marriage had been crumbling over the past few years and it had only been a matter of time until something set in motion the final collapse. The shock here lay in the bizarre connection to the governess - the lovely young woman who now sobbed in his arms. As much as he was angry at the discovery of his wife's affair, he could not help that this anger was suddenly eclipsed by the weight of the beauty's head against his chest. How well she had mothered his darling child ... how keenly he now felt the cause of her constant sorrow, the abandonment by a fickle rich boy who had tired of her ... how long her sad eyes had made him ache to hold her, and now she felt pliant in his arms ...

"My lovely Anna," he found himself whispering. "... No, Christine ... yes, you are even more lovely as Christine ..."

There was a time when Christine would have avoided an exchange like this one at all costs; but now she felt hollow and devoid of even the energy to protest. She was neither Anna nor Christine, and his kisses left her cold.

*

Christine woke from her listless sleep the next morning to the sound of yesterday's rain still pounding on the roof. Moving like a woman in a trance, she arranged herself before her vanity and stared deeply into the mirror.

The circles beneath her eyes had their origin in fatigue but had been enhanced by tears. Between the strange emotions that accompanied her even stranger reunion with Raoul, and the guilt and shame she felt recalling Gerome's embrace, she had had much to weep over. The latter had occupied her mind most during her long night, and how to extricate herself from the mess she had created was her greatest concern. She did not - could not - requite Gerome's affections. Her heart belonged wholly elsewhere ... and yet had succumbed to his kisses, an action that he had likely interpreted as an acceptance of his regard. His fingers had lingered on her cheek as he left her last night, and his eyes had betrayed... more than Christine could guess at. She ought to have told him then, but she could not bring herself; she had felt weak with pain and sorrow, and was unable to muster the voice to protest.

But now, as she sat before her mirror slowly pulling a brush through her hair, she realized that she must confess her feelings to Gerome. She could never face herself each morning before this mirror, a very symbol of her Erik-haunted past, with the knowledge that she had repeated her mistake a second time.

She loved Erik. Rich, handsome and kind as Gerome was, if Erik would not have her she would end her life a spinster.

Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, Gerome tapped faintly on her bedroom door.

Shrugging quickly into a dressing-gown, Christine opened to his knock. He too was in his robe, though he seemed to be much more well-rested than she.

"Good morning, Christine," he whispered, a soft smile broadening his face. "I am still drunk on the feeling of this new name for you, my dear ... it is quite intoxicating."

"Gerome," she greeted him softly, her eyes downcast.

"I did not wake you?" he asked, concern and apology in his voice.

"No, no, of course not," she protested, stammering. Then, stepping aside, she opened the door wider. "Please, come in."

He did, and waited until she had seated herself at her vanity to pull an armchair near the dressing-table. "You look as though you have not slept."

"I have had much on my mind," she replied softly, again unable to meet his eyes.

She reached for her brush, but he placed his hand upon hers and took it from her fingers. "I am so sorry, Christine," he said earnestly. "You should never be made to suffer ..."

"But what about you?" she interjected, willing herself to turn and face him. "Surely you have more reason to suffer than I ... I am only shaken ..."

Gerome bowed his head a moment. "It is strange," he replied softly, "but I am somehow unsurprised. Not at the connection with you, of course - but with Babette's behavior. I feel almoost ... as if I should have seen it coming. It has been some time since she and I ..." He faltered for a moment, then continued, "There has been little love in our marriage the past few years. It has been hardly more than a business arrangement since even before you came to us."

"Gerome," Christine sighed, genuinely sorry for the pain she could hear in his tone, "how terrible."

"But it matters little," he replied, throwing off his somber air and taking one of her hands into both of his. Then, catching her eyes and looking deeply into them, he began to speak. "This morning, Christine, I must tell Estelle where her mother has gone." Christine closed her eyes and nodded assent; but when she opened them again she found him still looking at her.

"Gerome?" she ventured tentatively.

He bowed his head again. "Christine, I am trying to work up the nerve to say something to you ..." A panicked sensation flooded her heart, but before Christine could respond he lifted his face and continued. "When I speak to Estelle this morning I would like to have you beside me ... and I would like to tell her that you will be her new mother, you who have always loved her and whom I have always loved."

Christine inclined her chin at his words, and her eyes flooded with tears. She had feared she might have deceived him by accepting his caresses the night before, but had never fathomed how deep the deception.

He was watching her reaction with a stricken expression. "Please, Christine, I know that you are shaken from all that happened yesterday, but please know that I will be so good to you - I will cherish you forever, as you deserve, my beautiful, fragile darling ..."

"Gerome, please don't," Christine cried, the words ripping from her throat in an anguished sob. She pulled her hand from his and buried her face in her palms, weeping stormily.

He was silenced by her outburst. "Christine - please speak to me," he implored her in a whisper.

"I cannot -" she gasped between her sobs, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Gerome ... I have been so terrible and selfish ... I would never wish you pain ..." She dropped her hands into her lap and faced him with tears coursing down her cheeks. "But I cannot give you what you are asking for, Gerome - I love Estelle and I have a deep regard for you, but I cannot be your wife."

He averted his eyes from hers in embarrassment. "Then ... you do not love me."

Her lips trembled with the depth of her misery. "You are a wonderful man, Gerome, and you have done so much for me that not to love you is ungrateful ... but my heart belongs to someone else."

"Your husband?" His voice was unsteady.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "My marriage to Raoul was a horror for me - he was cruel and oppressive and I was almost glad when he put me out of our home. No, Gerome - I told you something of it in Venice ..."

A painful moment passed, but finally he nodded silently. "Your nameless friend," he responded, "the one who had been ... very important to you."

"His name is Erik," Christine said in a low tone, "and I have loved him as long as I can remember. Since my childhood I have waited for him - and he was kind, gentle, offered me all I could have ever wanted. But six years ago I made a horrible mistake - I allowed myself to be seduced by wealth and power, and I abandoned the man whose heart was always mine for a man whose heart I could never possess. It took me three years of marriage to learn my mistake; and when we met in Venice I thought I had been granted a reprieve. But because I left him once, all those years ago ..." Her throat tightened, and she choked on the words. " ... so Erik left me in Venice, with no hope that I shall ever see him again."

"Christine," Gerome implored, suddenly taking her hand again, "do you think that I did not love Babette? I assure you that I did. We are both abandoned, you and I. But you could mend my broken heart ..." His fingers brushed her cheek, wiped away a tear and a loose lock of hair. "... And I know that I could soothe yours ..."

Christine closed her eyes and her heart to his caress. "I am sorry, Gerome. I must tell you 'no.'"

His hand dropped away, and he broke his contact with her fingers. "You would deny yourself the possibility of happiness with ... someone else ... all for this one man?"

"If I cannot be his living bride, I would rather be a widow to his memory," she replied, her voice firm through her tears. "I am sorry for my behavior last night, Gerome. I should have told you then."

"No, no," he stammered, "I am sorry. You were emotional ... I should not have taken advantage of you." Rising, he continued, "And I should not impose myself upon you now." Christine rose too and made as if to protest, but he put up his hand an offered a wan half-smile. "I know that you are going to propose to take your leave - you always seem to think that is the best solution to uncomfortable situations. But please know that I wish you would remain for Estelle's sake. My pride will mend, and when it does I also wish that we might be friends. I would not cast aside the regard of anyone who loves as deeply as yourself."

Christine felt relief washing over her. "Thank you, Gerome," she sighed, drying her tears on the handkerchief he took from the pocket of his robe and offered to her. "I do not wish to lose your friendship."

He nodded and retreated towards the door. "I am sorry, Christine. I have been forceful - please forgive me."

"I do," she replied, overcome with his sincerity and the desire to mend the cautious trust that had existed between them, "and I hope you will forgive me. I was cruel to keep the truth from you, and last night ..."

At the door, he broke into a smile that was self-depreciating. "That requires no apology, Christine. You heard no protests from me."

Christine smiled in spite of herself and moved towards him, placed her palm on his arm. "You are a good man, Gerome, and I do care for you."

He sobered and shook his head. "I know." Fixing her with a resigned gaze, "I will recover - my greatest injury is feeling like an ass."

"Don't feel that way," she reassured him softly. "I am equally to blame."

"Don't discourage me, Christine," he smiled again. "I go through life a spoiled man; there is little that the world denies me. To feel foolish for a while will build my character. But excuse me, I have imposed myself on you long enough." With that he slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. As his footsteps faded down the corridor, Christine pressed her forehead to the door, hoping resolution would be swift in coming.

*

It was. The vague discomfort that lingered briefly between Gerome and Christine dissipated, and within a year they were able to laugh about the entire affair together. As time passed and their friendship resolidified, Christine was able to confess to Gerome the full details of her relationship with Erik. Turning his teacup in his hand, Gerome chuckled over the fact that Babette had had the first premonition of all that was to transpire beneath the de Jardin roof; after all, she among them had been the first to speak the name of Christine Daaé.

Estelle took her mother's departure remarkably well. Being the perceptive, intelligent child that she was, it had not escaped her that her mother was a fickle and hypocritical woman; she had overheard a few arguments between her parents that had long ago shattered her illusions of a fairy-tale family. Christine's continued employment as her governess made the change easier to bear for the child, and Babette's lack of attempt to visit her daughter made her less upset about the breakup of her parents' marriage.

Within eighteen months the divorce was achieved, and Christine received notice shortly thereafter that her own union with Raoul had been dissolved. The letter that accompanied the documents she received from his lawyer was perfunctory, but she speculated that Babette had had something to do with the jogging of this long-overdue legal matter. In the library one winter evening, Christine and Gerome tippled champagne in celebration of their freedom.

That was to be their last carefree moment; the ensuing six months turned Christine and Estelle's path through the vale of tears with the sudden onset of Gerome's illness. A consumptive fever brought him quickly to his knees, and a mere month after he first took sick the doctors were already shaking their heads.

Christine and Estelle were at his bedside his last morning; but shortly before the end he sent his daughter from the sickroom. "I cannot have her watch me die," he whispered weakly.

"You mustn't say that, Gerome," Christine whispered through her tears, giving his frail hand a gentle squeeze. "You're going to get well."

It seemed a hardship for him to smile. "Dear Christine," he chuckled softly, "still such an innocent. Sometimes I wonder whether Estelle isn't your governess."

Christine smiled. "I must admit that I need her, perhaps more than she needs me now she is grown so big."

"Then it seems appropriate that you shall remain together after I am gone," he replied.

"Gerome, no ..."

"Please, Christine, we must talk of it. My time is growing close and we cannot delay it any longer."

Silently, Christine nodded her assent.

"You know that last week my lawyer came to speak with me ... I have left instructions in my will that Estelle remain with you. You are to be her guardian." His breathing became labored as his voice became more and more convicted. "Babette must not be allowed to claim her, Christine."

"She is her mother," Christine said quietly.

"She is no mother to my child - she has not seen her these two years." A fit of coughing overtook his words; when it subsided his voice seemed weaker. "You do know that she married Raoul, don't you?"

Christine nodded faintly. She had heard the marriage whispered of, but hearing it from Gerome's lips was the final proof she required to lend it credibility.

"I will not have that pair raise my daughter, Christine. You love her as well as any mother loved any child, and she has flourished under your care. Please promise me you will take care of her after I am gone."

Bravely, Christine choked back a sob. "I will, Gerome; I promise."

He smiled and fell silent, for the conversation had exhausted him. Soon he fell into a shallow sleep, which deepened gradually until he never woke again.

*

Although she felt petty and selfish for it, Christine worried over how she should dress in the weeks following Gerome's funeral. She did not want to give any false impressions to the nosy neighbors who had entertained themselves speculating about her "real" position in the de Jardin home by wearing full mourning; but it felt disrespectful to Gerome, for whom she had cared deeply, to wear her bright colors. There had been times when he would go with her to the dress-maker's on the pretext of ordering a frock for Estelle, when what he really intended was to influence Christine in the ordering of her own clothes. He always insisted she choose the finest materials, the richest hues, and was quick to offer up his own money when she pled the high price. He had spoilt her so ...

On the issue of morning clothes, she compromised by restricting herself to dark shades; but even opening her closet in the morning brought tears to her eyes.

Her choice of dress, however conservative, still caught the attention of Jean-Claude Retinue, Gerome's lawyer, who came to call some three weeks after the service. The deep mahogany of her gown complemented her pale complexion strikingly, and for a moment he forgot that she was probably wan with weeping. Gerome had been his friend but he had only ever guessed about the attraction he had felt for the governess; but her sudden beauty made Jean-Claude catch his breath and finally understand Gerome's silence. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought from his mind by forcibly recalling his own wife at home.

"Mademoiselle, please allow me to express my deepest condolences. I too was close to Gerome and I know how you must still be grieving."

"Thank you, Monsieur - and my sympathy to you as well." Christine fingered the lace handkerchief she had taken from her waist upon seeing Monsieur Retinue, knowing his visit must have something to do with Gerome. Although the weeks had brought her increasing composure, she feared he had come to discuss the will.

Her suspicions were confirmed when he asked her to come into the study and placed his briefcase atop Gerome's now-clutterless desk. Christine took her place quietly across from him, her face sadly downcast and her handkerchief pressed to her lips. But she was not to retain that attitude long - Jean-Claude's first words brought her leaping to her feet.

"That cannot be!" she cried. "There must be some mistake!"

"Mademoiselle, please," he responded, obviously taken aback by her reaction. "I assure you there is not. You were at home the last time I came to see Gerome; surely you must have known we were drawing up papers having to do with the distribution of his estate."

Christine began to pace the study distractedly. "I suppose ... I suppose I did, but ... never this! What was he thinking?"

"As far as I can tell you, he was thinking that he wanted his daughter provided for," the portly lawyer replied. Watching Christine's distraction, he added softly, "And he cared for you a great deal, I believe."

She lowered herself weakly back into her chair. "Is this how he shows me? By burdening me with all his money?"

"It is hardly a burden, Mademoiselle. These days there is little more important. If you are concerned with its management, I could undertake it for you - as a favor, of course, I could not dream of charging you ..."

Christine was beginning to cry. "I don't want his money."

"But his daughter will - to clothe her, feed her, bring her out into society. Make no use of it yourself if it is distasteful to you." He rose and circled the desk, sat on the edge nearer to her. "Please, my dear, do not work yourself up so. You've been through enough."

"I don't want his money," Christine wept openly. "I wish he were still here ..."

Jean-Claude rose uncomfortably. "I can see I can do nothing by continuing to trespass on your grief, Mademoiselle. Excuse me ... I shall see myself out ..."

Christine remained in her seat in the study long after he had gone, crying quietly into her palms. "Gerome," she whispered to his ghost, a habit she was rapidly developing; "all of your money. You always were too generous."

*

Days later, Babette de Chagny threw down the newspaper her new husband had sheepishly laid down before her. "All his money, indeed! When it should be mine!"

"My dear ..." Raoul stammered, all at once shocked at his wife's concern for finances and yet nearly afraid to chastise her. "... the child as well ..."

"Oh, yes, and my child." Babette's snappish tone nearly made it sound like an afterthought. "Something must be done about this."

*

The letter that Babette sent to Christine still lay on the desk in the study the day that Babette came storming through the door, all the while shouting at the servant who tried to prevent her.

"Don't speak to me like that, you horrid old crone," she cried, obviously addressing the kind elderly housekeeper Christine had hired upon the discovery of her new source of income. The former de Jardin servants, little Agatha included, had moved on to other pursuits after Babette quit the house. Gerome had only employed them for her sake, and he hated to live in the feigned opulence his wife had insisted upon since she was no longer there to insist.

Christine sighed from the desk chair, where she had taken to seating herself when she was reading the newspaper and missing Gerome. She had known that the news of the will's contents would not be long in reaching his former wife, and had expected some communication from the dreadful woman. She had not expected, or perhaps she had rather hoped against, a personal visit from the former Madame de Jardin. Luck did not seem to be with her.

"S'il vous plaît, Madame," the housekeeper panted to Christine, having beaten Babette to the study by a few hurried steps, "I could not prevent her from coming into the house ... I have never seen her before ..."

"Of course not," Babette shrieked, close on the flustered housekeeper's heels. "You would never have gained employment in this house while I was its mistress. I demand to see her! YOU!" Her finely gloved hand transformed to an accusatory claw the moment she entered the study and came face to face with Christine; she lifted her dainty nose and gesticulated wildly with her pointed index finger. "I ought to have known you would try something like this!"

"Laura, you may leave us," Christine said softly to the housekeeper, who seemed more than willing to be away from this unpleasant visitor. When the study door was closed, Christine turned her attention back to Babette. She did not rise as she greeted her with a cool, "Madame de Chagny."

"Don't you take that tone with me, you little chit!" cried Babette. "Don't think I don't know that you burn with jealousy over the fact that I have got your husband! And don't think I don't see through your little ruse - I know what has happened here!"

"I hope you have not brought Raoul with you," Christine replied softly, "for though I have no wish to see him, it would be very rude of me to keep him standing in the foyer. As for you, I will thank you to keep your voice down. I do not want Estelle to know that you are here."

"Oh, Estelle, mon ange - how could you?" Babette now began to wave her handkerchief about, as if that alone could testify to her mother's grief. "How could you separate me from my darling child?"

"Your darling child," Christine replied evenly, "has seen nothing of you since you left this house two years ago. You have no love for her, and I will not allow you to bring her into this. You are here about the money, are you not?"

Babette sniffed and drew herself up to her full height, indignant. "I want to know exactly how it is that you managed to connive your way into the affections and the pocketbook of such a good man as Gerome ..."

Christine interrupted her in a voice so cold that Babette was sure she felt a draft. "Yes, Gerome was a good man - good enough to want his daughter always provided for, and to leave her to the care of someone who loved her. That is why the money was bestowed as it was, Madame - and you shall never see a penny of it. So you see, your visit today is simply a waste of my time - and yours."

Taken completely aback by Christine's words, Babette allowed her mouth to drop open for a moment. Then, remembering herself, she clenched her jaw and adjusted her fur. "I hope you realize that you shall be hearing from my lawyer."

"Then I look forward to his letter. No doubt it will be just as entertaining as yours." With that, Christine tossed Babette's missive to the floor in front of the desk. It hit the carpet and tumbled lightly towards the indignant divorcee's feet. While the petty woman stared with wide eyes, Christine turned away from her. "Get out of this house," she said softly, "and do so quickly and quietly, before Estelle comes downstairs. I am the mistress here now, and it will be my pleasure to call the gendarmes if necessary."

Babette did not need any further urging. She stomped out of the house where once, a wave of her fickle hand would have brought her whatever her heart desired. Now it was all she could do to muster the dignity to leave it, her nose still high in the air.

Christine herself remained in the study for several minutes with her palms resting lightly on the polished mahogany desktop, thinking of someone very much other than Gerome. "Heaven help me," she whispered to herself. "I believe it is still happening ... his spirit in my voice ..."