CHAPTER EIGHT

(In which our heroine makes promises she does not intend to keep)

Mme. Valerius scolded me that evening. Why did I frown so, she wanted to know. Did I want wrinkles before my time? She shook her head over the foolishness of girls today, and picked up my right hand in hers: how could I be frowning when I wore that? What pretty words had I allowed to turn my head? She winked as she said it, but that did not lessen my blush. Fortunately, she took that for answer enough, and patted me on the cheek, and assured me she wouldn't persist after my secrets: she too had been young once.

I blushed even more. She had met Raoul, and surely thought it his. I could not explain otherwise without giving her the explanation I had once written out for her, and adding to it more details that would hardly reflect to my credit. So, like a craven, I kept silent.

Raoul himself never mentioned the ring again. He did not need to, after all: he had achieved at least part of his desire. Only part: I would not meet him outside the Opera -- let this take place under Erik's gaze, I told myself defiantly. He would see I had nothing to hide.

"An expedition to the North Pole," Christine said thoughtfully. "It sounds…thrilling."

"It sounds cold," Raoul corrected her (which had, in fact, been her first thought, but she had bit her tongue on it). "Phillipe swears he'll buy out all the wool in Paris if it will protect me from the northern chill."

"Mmm." The last time she'd seen Phillipe de Chagny, only a few days ago, he'd given her a glare cold as the aforementioned north, and stalked off the other direction as if she were a particularly repulsive insect he didn't care to take the time to step on. She doubted that Raoul would care to hear that trifling detail. "Since it's to make your reputation, I shouldn't complain so much if I were you."

"But you are not I," Raoul said, smiling at her fondly. He hesitated a moment, and pushed himself to his feet, smile fading. "And my reputation may be made sooner than I should like."

"Indeed? Do you have some plans for bold derring-do, saving the life of your commander--"

"The departure has been moved up. I leave in three weeks, a month at most."

"…a month." Four weeks. Only four weeks left of this equivocating dance, praying that Raoul would not force her to make a choice, praying that Erik would not demand his granted right of courtship, not yet. A month of somehow preventing Raoul from asking for an explanation she did not know how to give him.

"No more," Raoul agreed, misunderstanding her. He leaned forward, eyes intent on her face. "Please, Christine -- I go, perhaps, to my death. Will you not at least promise to wait for me?"

"I cannot." Too stark. Christine looked away from Raoul, looked down, to catch herself twisting Erik's ring around her finger. She angrily jerked her hands apart. She'd made no promises to Erik. "We cannot marry, Raoul. You know it as well as I do."

"And why not?"

"Because you are the Vicomte de Chagny, heir to the Comte de Chagny, who neither likes nor approves of me -- and I am an Opera singer with no family, no connections, nothing except my face and voice to recommend me, and little enough that would prove!"

"There are ways--"

"Raoul."

Silence, but Raoul glowered at her still. He loved her, Christine reminded herself sharply. He loved her, and she…well, she was fond of him. I loved you once. Yes, and nothing ever came of it. I cannot make you promises, and you will be satisfied with nothing less! If she could not even give him a proper explanation -- but wait. A month, he'd said. "We have a month," she said slowly.

"Perhaps no more than three weeks," Raoul said, sounding rather sulky and not at all like a grown man. "Christine--"

"Three weeks or four, I don't care. Raoul, listen." Promise me you will not ask why I do this, or what I seek to accomplish. No -- he must not think of Erik. "For four weeks, we can be…" Be what? Not his mistress, not his wife, and he'd already proven doggedly resistant to accepting simple friendship. "We can be secretly engaged."

"And then wed at the end?"

"No, I told you, we can never marry." Hadn't Raoul courted her, once, not very long ago? Sent her pretty posies and said sweet things? That was when he believed he competed for my heart with nothing more significant than my devotion to my career, she reminded herself bleakly, when even I thought I had nothing to hide. She leaned forward and took both Raoul's hands in hers, lowering her voice to a coaxing murmur. "But we can have a secret betrothal, just for this month, until you leave. Nobody else will know. No one else needs to know. Nobody can disapprove, that way. Nobody will be hurt." Especially not Erik. Just three weeks, keeping Raoul occupied with this game. Perhaps four. Erik had said he would be busy, composing.

But not for how long. There is no Angel of Music to carry your prayers to God, Christine: have you chosen to throw dice with Fate instead?

If her smile faltered at that thought, Raoul did not notice. His face lit up, and he fell to one knee, kissing the backs of both her hands. "Christine -- my dearest Mademoiselle Daae, I have the honor to ask for your hand in betrothal."

"You already have both my hands," Christine pointed out, smile returning. "I can scarcely refuse."

Raoul rose to his feet again. He still had not let go of her hands. "Fairest of all women, you fill my heart with joy."

"Oh, hush. You'll turn my head with such flattery."

"You should hear nothing but such praises all day, my dearest mademoiselle."

Perhaps this would not be a disaster after all. When Raoul set his mind to it, he could be so very sweet.

It lasted a week.

I wrote Raoul notes full of extravagant protestations, and received even more extravagant vows from him in return. He swept me into a dance down a deserted corridor, our self-provided music rent with breathless laughter. We told each other a thousand fairy tales, and became the hero and heroine of all of them. I could not but remember my girlhood love of such a courtly, charming, handsome gentleman.

But all the pretty stories and shy glances could not fill the looming silence. Raoul paid me many a fine compliment, but always on my hair or my dress or my way of walking, never on my voice or my singing -- this despite the fact that I left him each evening to perform Marguerite on the stage. I, in turn, recalled aloud my father's tales and legends, but only in patchwork fragments that never glanced at the Angel of Music. Neither of us spoke of any future more distant than the next hour or the following day.

I did not, then, think of any similarity to my time with Erik. But I thought of Erik as little as possible. He might have reminded me what I did not wish to know: that love may not be played like a children's game, not unless you are prepared to lose.

He was not standing outside the rehearsal hall, tapping his hat against his thigh impatiently. Nor was he in her dressing room, pacing back and forth as if impatient to be moving. Christine frowned down at her table for a moment. Raoul had hardly left her company since he had agreed to their betrothal, unless duty or other such necessity called one of them away. If he were not waiting for her, where might he be?

She found him down a hallway and around a corner, sitting in the same small room in which they had promised each other their month's company. He glanced up as she entered the room, and rose to his feet. "Mademoiselle."

"Raoul," Christine said, now twice as confused. Propriety, after a week of 'my dearest Christine'? "I didn't see you after rehearsal, so I came looking for you. Are you well?"

"Yes. Yes, I am well. I thought…that perhaps we should be less obvious." This delivered to the floor somewhere between them rather than to Christine.

Less obvious? They'd been so careful, at Christine's own behest, that even Meg only watched her with curious eyes and didn't accuse her of holding secrets. She walked over and took his hands in both hers. "Did your brother--"

"No, Phillipe doesn't know." This was unlikely to be true, but Christine did not care to contradict Raoul, so he continued, all in a rush. "It was -- a gentleman all in pale purple came up to me, while you were in rehearsal, and said he was rather envious, because I'd captured you before he'd had his chance. And winked at me."

The Gentleman in Lavender! Christine hadn't thought him so observant. Or I am far less subtle than I thought. "Ah," was all she said aloud, then, carefully light-hearted, "Well, I do not regret missing the opportunity to have a rather mediocre poem dedicated to my honor." She hesitated, trying to study Raoul's downturned face. "You did not take offense, surely?"

"At what?" He did look up now, color high. "At a compliment for something I have not actually done?"

Oh, no. No. What madness possessed him now? He did not think to -- "We are betrothed," Christine said, the words coming out far more uncertain than she meant them. You were satisfied, do not press for more, let this be what it is!

"A secret engagement that you won't let become anything more!" Raoul said furiously, shattering her hopes before they were properly formed. "Christine, I cannot do this any more."

"Raoul --" She could hardly breathe, now.

"I won't go to the North Pole. Not until things are settled."

"Raoul, you've promised." She must breathe. The root of all projection was in your breathing. This strangled voice would not persuade anyone.

"No." He let go of her hands, and met her eyes properly for the first time that afternoon. "I shall not leave Paris, not like this with my tail tucked between my legs."

Then you shall not stay in it with my company! But terror and fury still clogged her throat, so all she could successfully manage was a hoarse, gutteral, "Out."

Raoul bowed and left.

I had not expected it.

I sit and stare at those four words, and feel my face burn with old mortification. I should have expected it. Raoul had never been satisfied with half-measures, never settled for less than his own way. He'd listened to me little enough when I told him to go away and leave me be, back when I was still the virginal devotee of the Angel of Music and had not yet glimpsed the darkness of the lowest cellars of the Opera; now, with reason to hope he might win me entirely, and perhaps some continuing curiosity about the soi-disant 'Angel of Music', he would not give up for anything less than a bullet to his heart.

These are the reflections of a much later time, of course. Then, I could only sit and stare at my closed door, fighting back unreasonable tears. My plans threatened to shred apart in my hands, and I did not know how to mend them. I wrote a hasty note to the managers, pleading illness, and went home in my turn…back to the boarding-house apartment I shared with Mme. Valerius.

"Sacre Dieu, my child, you're so pale! Is something wrong? Has tonight's performance been canceled? Heaven forfend that the Phantom--"

"No, Mama," Christine said wearily. "There's been no disaster. I felt tired and ill, and asked for a night off to rest." Her stomach clenched on the lie. It wasn't far from the truth, she reassured herself, and Madame Valerius would never ask why she felt ill. But that did not make her feel better.

Madame Valerius reached up and cupped Christine's face in both her hands, looking her over with a small frown of concentration. "Ill -- well, I should think so," she said sternly. "I might have known. Look at you, you're pale as a corpse!"

Your hand is as chill as a corpse! Meg's voice, half laughing and half worried, echoed in Christine's memory. She forced a smile. "Not so ill as that. I do want to rest by myself for a while, Mama. If anyone should call for me, please don't let them in."

Madame Valerius tched her tongue, but released Christine with a final pat to her cheeks. "Of course not. You want your rest." She turned to go, then hesitated. "No one? Not even your Monsieur de Chagny?" She glanced down at Christine's hand, forehead wrinkled in a silent question. "Or -- well, monsieur asked after you when you were with the Angel--"

"Yes, he mentioned." Surely Raoul wouldn't come here, would he? He would ask questions, and dare her to turn him away this time. That would force still more explanations, explanations she had little stomach to give, no matter what letters she had written on a masquerade night. "Not even the Vicomte," she said after a moment's pause to firm her nerve. "He must understand. If he comes, tell him -- tell him I have gone away, whatever you must to convince him to go away again."

"Yes, dear. I'll go fix you some hot chocolate, then." With a firm nod, as if to herself, Madame Valerius vanished into the next room.

Christine retreated to her own room. Hot chocolate, and enough peace and quiet to think. It would have to be enough.

Hot chocolate I had, in plenty -- a lead singer commanded rather more in the way of salary than a chorus girl, so I could afford such small luxuries, and Mme. Valerius with me. Peace and quiet I had too, for the truth about the next day and a half is this: I spent them alone, doing nothing.

Raoul, I believe, thought me back in the arms of my soi-disant 'Angel'. I did not dare think what Erik might know of my movements. I could not continue as I was going, but spent the hours pummeling my brain and coming out with no better solution. I liked Raoul well enough, but to marry him? To defy his brother and all Parisian high society for his sake? To give up my music?

What about Erik? Suppose Raoul did find out the truth about Erik; what would happen then? Violence, even death. I truly had stepped into an opera, I told myself bitterly; I had best find a way to step out again, or we should all end in ruin. But no great revelations came to me, though I lay in bed for hours and stared at my ceiling (and traced an eagle, a rabbit, and a large cat in the cracks of its plaster, should you care to know).

So I returned to the Opera once more. As Erik had told me, it would hardly be prudent for the diva to allow her audience to forget.

"Your upper register must be stronger, Christine. Have you been neglecting your practice?"

"No, Angel, I go to rehearsal --" She caught herself before she could finish the familiar defense. There was no Angel of Music, after all. "Erik?"

"Christine."

"Have you, er, been waiting long?" He must be standing behind her tall mirror. At least she didn't see him anywhere within her dressing room, where he might have taken a seat. And been seen by your dresser and perhaps a curious ballet rat or two!

"No."

At least he was not lecturing her about the necessity of rehearsal. Christine caught herself reaching for a curl to twist around her finger, and clasped her hands firmly in her lap. Say something, she told herself. She had been able to talk to him for hours on end, during the weeks they had spent alone beyond the lake. But her head felt stuffed full of equal parts Faust and the charming nonsense she chattered at Raoul. Had chattered. "Have you…does your Don Juan progress well?"

"Well enough. Has de Chagny treated you well?"

Her face burned, as if a hot fist had clenched at her heart. Well enough, she wanted to say, or please, you must understand, but the words would not emerge. It was not meant for you to watch! As if he had not seen so much else of her, heart and body and soul together…

A sibulant sigh whispered from behind the mirror. "You need not fear me, Christine. As long as you wear my ring and keep your promise, you and yours are safe within these walls."

We are safe. In her lap, Christine closed her left hand around the fingers of her right, fiddling with the ring. It turned so easily on her finger, as if it would slip off with a gesture. But she was wearing it. She could do anything, talk to anyone. She could tell Raoul the whole history, as she'd meant to do so often. If she wanted to.

…why was Erik behind the mirror? Why did he not come in? No one was here except herself, and she wanted to meet his eyes. This was no mean gift he gave, and a 'thank you' through a mirror was poor repayment indeed. She wanted to see Erik, wanted with an abrupt, childish intensity that startled her. She opened her mouth to admit to some small part of this, to at least attempt to thank him, but the words would not come.

"Your scales, Christine." Erik spoke with the gently commanding tones of her teacher.

Christine took a deep breath, sat up, and began the scales.

I threw myself into the role of Marguerite that night. Safety lay in those soaring notes; all the passion in the world, contained and controlled within the boundaries of my voice. For that brief while, I could forget my sore confusion, and believe an answer to my predicament existed that would not lead to death, despair and destruction.

I sorely needed that safe harbor. Every moment I was on stage, I felt the prickling along the nape of one's neck that means one is being watched -- closely observed, most particularly. Even in front of an audience where one expects all eyes to be upon on, it's an unexpected, and uncomfortable, sensation.

Did I know who watched me? Not for certain. But every time I glanced at the de Chagny box, Raoul's eyes were fixed on the chandelier, on the floor, anywhere but on the stage. I did not look at Box Five at all.

She curtsied once more, eyes lowered, then slipped back through the curtain a stagehand held open for her. The roar of the crowd rang in her ears, or perhaps that was simply her ears ringing. At least this time she kept her feet and didn't require someone's help merely to reach her dressing room.

…all Paris at your feet…

I have given you my soul, and exhausted myself.

No! Think only of here and now, she told herself fiercely. One step after another. Dressing room, change, and then home. Perhaps she could persuade Mama Valerius to make her another cup of hot chocolate.

She reached the wings, only to find herself --

"Mademoiselle!"

"Mademoiselle Daae! Another --"

"--sheerest artistry, mademoiselle!"

-- surrounded and besieged. Christine fixed a smile to her face, and wished she dared simply push her way through the crowd like a cross child. She managed some slow movement forward, but now that she had been noticed, there was no escape.

"We are all astounded --"

"Please, mademoiselle, accept this tribute--" A piece of paper pressed into her hands. Mary mother of saints, that was the Gentleman in Lavender! Not deterred by Raoul after all, it seemed.

"--honor of such beauty--" A bouquet of flowers, still tied together with its flower-shop bow, was thrust into her arms, such that she must take it or be impaled upon the blooms.

"--voice, mademoiselle, as if you spoke with the angels of heaven!"

Christine kept her smile, and occasionally said, "Thank you," whenever someone paused for breath. She was making little headway against the press of her admirers, and her skin still prickled as if someone particularly watched her. She glanced around, making every effort so it might seem thoughtless and casual, and saw the Persian, off at the edge of the sea of people. It explained the prickling of her skin, but did not greatly aid her otherwise: her stomach twisted sourly on the notion that he might be watching her because of Erik.

"Christine!"

Raoul! Aloud she said, "Monsieur le vicomte," and could not help but smile more truly for a moment.

"Mademoiselle Daae."

Her smile froze again. "Monsieur le comte." She hadn't seen Phillipe, standing in his brother's shadow. "It is a pleasure."

"As you say."

Raoul glared at his brother, then took Christine's arm as if they had not argued the last time they spoke. "Christine, please --"

"I know." They must talk. But not here, and how they were to attain even the relative privacy of her dressing room Christine could not imagine, not in this press. She craned her neck to peer down the hall that led there.

"Allow me," Raoul said, as if she had spoken. He tightened his grip on her arm, then began to push forward. "Here, now -- excuse me, monsieur -- pardon, madame -- my apologies, monsieur --"

Christine permitted herself to be towed along, smiling graciously where she could and ignoring the hissing whispers already beginning in their wake, until they reached her dressing room. Her dresser sat dozing outside the door. With a glance, Christine kept Raoul silent as she opened the door.

Once inside, Raoul let her go, and stepped back a pace, folding both hands behind him. "Chris -- Mademoiselle Daae. I beg that you will forgive me for what I said two days ago. I spoke in bad temper, and -- I didn't mean it, please, Christine, I u will /u go to the North Pole --"

"Yes, of course," Christine said, leaning back against the door. The quiet here did not help her as much as she'd hoped; her knees still felt weak, and she could not catch her breath. Worse, she still felt that horrible certainty of being watched. "Of course I forgive you, Raoul." The Persian could not see in here, nor could Phillipe de Chagny. Which meant…

"Christine?" Raoul did not step forward again, she saw when she opened her eyes again, but his hands had tightened on themselves as if he were holding himself back from doing so. "I know…I know that I forfeited the right to ask you what happened these past two days, but if this…'Angel' did something--"

"No!" Oh, that would be the stuff of opera indeed, for Raoul to protect her from something that hadn't occurred! "No, he did nothing." Not then. Not ever. Not even when invited. Ah, God, she must not think that, not when Erik might be here and listening to every word. "Raoul, we shouldn't -- we must --"

"I must go," Raoul said, completing her sentence before she could. He held out his hand, and kissed hers when offered it, but hesitated at the door. "Will I see you again?"

"Tomorrow," Christine said, as reassuringly as she might with her head still aspin. "I sang --" She sighed and closed the door behind him. I didn't sing for you, Raoul. I sang for him, if I sang for anyone.

She sat down at her dressing table, and looked up at the reflection of her long mirror. "Erik?"

No answer. Her skin prickled.

Even more quietly, "Mon ange?"

No answer. The door opened abruptly, and her dresser bustled in. "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," she said. "It wasn't until the gentleman left that I realized…well, then, up with you!"

Christine rose to her feet and allowed the woman to help her off with her costume. If she noticed the tears on Christine's face, she did not speak of them.