Erik smiled as he read his letter.
"Well, my dear; it seems that Meg Giry put the Vicomte in his place." Christine DaaƩ poked her head out from the room she was bathing in.
"Oh? How is that?"
"She had an encounter. Apparently, she told him that she wasn't 'Little Meg' anymore and...rendered him speechless," he said delicately.
"Good. Raoul is quite overbearing. Erik, she sounds so...passionate lately. What do you write to that girl in your letters?"
"Well, I think she believes in her skill now. I try to let her know that we both do. It's amazing what a little faith in someone can accomplish. And a handsome young pianist..."
"What?!" rang out as Christine returned to drying her hair.
"Oh, just Pierre," Erik said, nonchalantly.
"Pierre? Erik, who's Pierre?!" Erik chuckled to himself
"I'll tell you tonight, darling, after Il travitore, but if you don't get dressed right now, we won't get a box at La Scala. Hurry, please."
"Okay, okay." About fifteen minutes later, Christine emerged in a low-cut, red dress that hugged her slim figure in a very flattering way. Erik looked at his wife and marveled at how lucky she made him feel.
"Shall we, my darling?" he asked, rising from his chair and offering his arm to escort her out the door. She took it and they smiled at each other as they left the tiny bed and breakfast in lovely Milan. Erik helped Christine step into the carriage and then followed her.
"I love you, Erik."
"And I love you, mon ange."
