Homecoming

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

Chapter 8

             "I should have known," Nadir said softly when Erik's tidal wave of a tale was done.  "I thought of Mademoiselle Daae when I saw her …"

            Erik waved aside Nadir's remark.  "It doesn't matter," he said bitterly; but Nadir noticed that he modulated his tone carefully, and seemed to keep one eye upon the door behind which Elaine lay asleep.  "I don't fault you, Nadir, or even myself; no one but she should bear the blame of it.  It is all her doing."

            Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Nadir considered the story Erik had told him.  "Perhaps she is to be somewhat pitied," he ventured.  "Perhaps she came as soon as she was able … it is some distance, you know …"

             "Yes, and I'm sure that Madame le Vicomtesse could not afford to speed the journey," Erik retorted caustically.

             "What reason have you to doubt her poverty?" Nadir inquired, one eyebrow arching.  "She told you she had nothing."

             "What reason have you to believe her?" he snapped.  "I myself don't doubt her ability to spin a pretty story."

            Nadir bowed his head a moment, sorry for what he had been unable to communicate to his friend sooner.  "I know at least the basis for her claim to be true," he said finally.

            Erik fixed him with a look that reminded Nadir of an opium addict's: it was a greedy look, one of desperation, of concurrent love and loathing for the thing for which the body clamored and yet which brought only slow and painful death. 

             "Tell me what you know," he said finally.

            Nadir sighed and repeated what he had read in the newspapers months ago.  "I don't usually read the society columns – you know they are full of nothing but tripe – but it was the obituaries that led me there."  Carefully, he related what he had been able to glean from between the lines of the articles: the Vicomte's philandering, drunkenness and death, and Christine's subsequent poverty.  "They made mention of a child, now that I recall it," he confessed; "but her name was not printed, and it had not occurred to me that Elaine might be that child – until tonight."

            Erik said nothing, and Nadir spoke again to fill the anxious silence.  "She was attempting to reconstruct a career in England, I believe.  News of her successes there did reach Paris, and were given brief treatment in our papers as well."  Still Erik made no reply, nor even met Nadir's gaze.  The Daroga cleared his throat.  "I am sorry I did not tell you sooner, Erik, but I thought it for the best … You did not seem inclined to speak of her."

             "No," he finally replied, flatly.  "I was not."  Rising from his chair, he began to pace the room; his expression was distracted.  "I must confess some degree of guilty satisfaction … to hear that de Chagny led her a merry life …"

             "Are you still so angry?" Nadir asked gently.  "Or do you speak from your injury, rather than your true feelings?"

             "I did not ask for your analysis," Erik snapped.  "Even if I had, whatever cursory knowledge you possess of psychology can hardly be sharp enough to dissect me."

             "I know little of that science," was Nadir's cool reply, "but I flatter myself with the belief that I understand you well.  This is more than simply disbelieving her story.  What wounds you so?"

            The Daroga's retort seemed to effect him, for he sighed and shook off the mantle of anger in which he had wrapped himself.  "She is so different," he said.  "Her voice, her eyes have changed, and to hear her speak of Elaine, one would think that she had finally learned what it is to live for what is present, and to love that which is hers …"  He passed a distracted hand across his forehead.  "But the same suspicion, the same judgment in her voice tonight – I can't stop it reverberating in my ears."

             "Think of how it must have been for her –" Nadir said, almost beseechingly – "to hear from across hundreds of miles that her child had been lost in the bowels of the Opera.  Surely you must see how a mother's worst fear might have driven her true knowledge of you from her mind."  He paused and peered at Erik, trying to gauge the effect of his words.  "And have you not done the same, in the darkness since she went away?  In your hurt, have you not taught yourself to fault her alone for what happened, when you know that you were both to blame?"

            Erik said nothing, continuing his pacing; but he paused near the pile of things he had brought with him, and drew from a portfolio a sketchbook.  As he flipped its pages, Nadir saw the drawings shift in subject: while the beginning pages were dominated by copies of Christine's face, these gave way quite suddenly to likenesses of Elaine.  "She accused me of stealing her child," he said.  His voice was low, but its edge was hard.

            "She was panicked," Nadir countered carefully, "and standing in the very room where you had once forced upon her an impossible choice.  Can you not forgive her a mistake, and ask her to forgive your own?"

            "Apologies," Erik spat, shutting the sketchbook sharply, "what good can they do?  I know the worth of her apology, Nadir – she offered it to me tonight, a pale and sickly thing without an ounce of real sincerity.  It doesn't matter – I know her true feelings.  Defend her if you will; it makes no difference, for I could see the truth in her eyes, feel it in her manner.  For all that has changed for her, I alone have not; she still thinks I am a monster, an abhorrent creature with blind urges to hurt and destroy ..."

            "Erik,"  Nadir sighed.  "Your only blindness is to your own heart. I know you love her still.  And I believe there may be some chance for reconciliation – if you can bring yourself to overcome your injured pride."

            "Rubbish," Erik snapped, resuming his pacing.  "I refuse to go on groveling at her feet; I have pled with her enough for her love, when I thought it still might be within my reach.  I will suffer for it no longer.  The time for reconciliation is past."

            The Daroga had begun to reach the end of his patience; sleep was tugging at the corners of his eyes, and he knew it would still be hours before he would be permitted rest.  "As you like," he said resignedly, rising from his chair; "I shan't keep you from your stubbornness and self-pity.  But I agreed to help you return Elaine to her family, and I refuse to keep Mademoiselle Daae from her daughter one moment longer."

            Erik never moved from where he stood brooding at the darkened window while Nadir collected Elaine; she complained drowsily when he lifted her from her small cot, but was asleep again against his shoulder before he stepped back across the threshold into the parlor.

            "Do you want to say goodbye?" he asked Erik gruffly as Darius handed him an umbrella.  A steady drizzle had begun to fall outside.

            Erik watched, stone-faced, as the drops trailed like tears across the windowpane.  "It may be better if I don't," he said.  His voice sounded taut. 

            "Erik," he rebuked him softly.  "The child cares for you as well."

            Again he fixed the Daroga with those burning eyes; then, as quickly as if he believed he might change his mind before the thing was done, he moved swiftly towards the sleeping Elaine.

            Nadir averted his eyes, knowing Erik would not want to be seen weeping.  "Adieu, mon cheri," he heard him whisper fiercely to the child, and he saw the corners of her mouth curl into a smile; but she never woke, even when Erik trailed his graceful fingers across her bedraggled ringlets.

            It was hours before Christine could speak; she had burst across the Giry's doorstep in tears, and as soon as the former ballet mistress had offered her an armchair by the fire she had thrown herself into it and begun to sob stormily.  Long after Meg returned home, she continued to weep and would not be consoled.

            "What happened?" Meg hissed to her mother as they both leaned over the fire to check the progress of the water in the teakettle.

            "She has told me nothing," Madame Giry replied; "do you not know?"

            "I left her for the performance … I returned to a hasty note …"

            Presently Christine's hysteria passed, but though she numbly accepted the proffered cup of tea she mutely shook her head at the Girys' questions.  She was pained, pained to her very heart, and she ached as though she had been punched full of holes.  Whether it was her continued separation from Elaine or Erik's chilly words that hurt her more she could not say; the memory of each brought a fresh flow of tears.  That Erik could have been so kind to her child, and that she could have insulted him so! – for she knew now that she had been wrong, most horribly wrong, to accuse him as she had.  She knew more of him than that …

            And yet, where was her daughter!  For he had said he would bring her, and he had not; the minutes drew by painfully and still Elaine did not reappear. 

Over and over the Girys pressed her for an explanation, but when she opened her lips no words would form on them; nor could she eat the dinner they placed before her, although she had not eaten since that morning and her stomach gnawed with hunger.       She shook her head in silence; she could not eat, nor even bear to draw breath, was she so aggrieved.

            Slowly the hour grew late, and though Madame Giry assumed her most maternal tone Christine could not be bullied into bed.  "I am tired," she confessed hoarsely, "but I cannot sleep …"

            "Please, Christine," Meg beseeched her, kneeling at her friend's elbow, "won't you please tell us what has happened?"

            Again she shook her head, and tears prickled at the corners of her eyes; but a sudden knocking at the door jarred them all.  Christine, a moment ago so catatonic, was on her feet in half a moment; Erik's name formed on her lips, but she bit it back, and her eyes bored desperately into Madame Giry's grim little black-clad form as it drew the door ajar.

             "It is late for visitors, Monsieur," she said cautiously to the shadowy figure that greeted her.

             "My sincerest apologies, Madame," replied the Daroga of Mazanderan, stepping closer that the firelight spilling through the door might illuminate his precious cargo; "but I did not think my errand should have been delayed."

             "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Madame Giry, and pulled the door wide at once to admit the Persian; Meg flew to his side to relieve him of the valise he carried, and Christine, though hear heart twisted cruelly to discover that Erik had not come himself, still nearly overpowered him in her frenzy to hold her child.  Weakened, she could not support Elaine's weight; she sank to the floor with the child cradled in her arms.

             "Elaine, Elaine!" she wept into her tousled hair, caring nothing for the visitor who turned his face away in discomfiture at the extremity of her emotion.

             "Mama?" queried the child, opening her drowsy eyes.

             "Mon couer, my darling," Christine cried, clasping Elaine to her breast and rocking her furiously.  "I have missed you so …"

             "I missed you too, Mama," Elaine murmured in a tone of mingled sleepiness and confusion; "but … where is Monsieur Erik?"

            Where the small house had come suddenly alive at Elaine's sudden reappearance, these words shocked it again into silence.  In Madame Giry's face there was a glimmer of comprehension, but Meg's begged for an answer; and though she turned to Christine, she stubbornly refused to meet Meg's eyes.  A slight gesture, an almost imperceptible motion of the Persian's gloved fingers, asked her to be patient. 

            He had no intentions of scurrying away, for when he had taken Elaine into his arms he had assumed another burden as well; he felt charged, as if by Fate itself, to make what amends could be made from the ruins that lay between his friend and his estranged beloved.  He would remain, and offer explanations if that was what they craved, but most importantly offer counsel to Mademoiselle Daae; and he would not abandon that aim unless they forced him bodily from the house.

            Madame Giry nodded silently, thanking him for his tacit promise that explanations were forthcoming.  All eyes then returned to mother and daughter, still huddled on the floor.  Christine opened and closed her mouth, searching for an answer to Elaine's question; after a silent moment, the Daroga knelt at her side and touched the little girl's sleeve.

             "He has had me bring you home to your mother," he told her gently; and with a firm glance tried to mentally shake the floundering Mademoiselle Daae.  Show me the strength he said you now possess, he commanded her in his thoughts; prove to me that I do this for the sake of some future!

            The sternness in his gaze struck Christine like an intangible hand across her cheek; drawing a deep breath she finally broke through the surface of her hysteria.  Turning her eyes back to her daughter's, she smiled faintly.  "He heard how lost I was without you, my darling, and sent you back to me.  We are at the Giry's, see?"

            Elaine's wide eyes wandered over her mother's shoulder to rest upon the Girys, who drew closer to the fire in greeting.  "Hello," Elaine said, blinking.  "But where is Erik?"

             "He is not here, child," Nadir broke in gently.

            "Why not?" Elaine persisted.  "Why isn't he here?"

             "You're home, Elaine," Christine choked out, ashamed to feel jealousy stirring in her heart.  How long since she had seen her daughter – and she asked only for Erik!  "You're home, and I'm here …"

             "But I want Erik!" she cried, tears threatening in her voice as she struggled to free herself from Christine's oppressive embrace.  "He didn't even say goodbye…"  The child's eyes suddenly went wide, and they darted from Meg to her mother and then to Christine.  "Is it the same as why he can't go outside?" she demanded.  "Is it because you don't want him here?"

             "Elaine, what are you saying?" Nadir asked; but Christine had regained her strength, and she drew herself up, pulling her daughter with her.

             "If you please, Monsieur …" she began; but Elaine interrupted her.

             "He told me!" she cried; "he told me people don't like his company, and that he can't go where they can see him!  But you're wrong not to want him – he's good, and kind, and he took care of me when I was hurt …"  Here Elaine burst into tears and tried to take a step; but her leg could not yet support her weight, and she cried out in pain as she stumbled forward.

            Christine caught her and lifted her again to press her to her breast.  "I'm sorry, mon coeur," she whispered fervently into her ear.  "But it's late, and you must go to bed."  Grimly, she looked to Meg and Madame Giry; the little ballerina hurried to her own room and held the door aside for Christine, then closed it behind them.

            Once the sound of Elaine's sobbing was muffled by the closed door, Madame Giry sprang from the place on the carpet where she had been rooted throughout the recent scene, and offered the Daroga a chair.  "May I bring you anything, Monsieur?" she asked softly, moving towards the fire.  "Some tea – or something stronger?"

             "I thank you, no," he replied, although he accepted the chair gratefully.  "I must confess – I have already taken spirits this evening.  It has been quite an eventful one."

"Please, Monsieur," Meg begged him, hurrying from the bedroom door to a footstool near the hearth; "won't you tell us what has happened?  Christine … she was overwrought, she could tell us nothing …"

            The Persian heaved a weary sigh.  "I beg you will excuse me, Mademoiselle; I don't know that it is my place to tell you anything.  I have only heard the story second-hand – Mademoiselle Daae is better equipped to explain than I."

             "We shall wait for her," Madame Giry said, emerging from the shadows with bread and a bowl of warm broth.  "I beg you to take some refreshment, Monsieur; you look quite worn out."  Gratefully Nadir accepted the food, and the three sat staring dolefully into the fire, waiting for Christine to reemerge. 

            When the creaking of the hinges finally heralded her return, she seemed to move almost reluctantly into the midst of their vigilant tableau.  Christine knew the moment for explanation had finally arrived; a thousand emotions churned within her, as though she had swallowed the sea.  Elaine had not consented to be kissed goodnight, and had angrily thrust something into her mother's hand – the golden locket that had been a special gift from mother to child.  She felt battered, and at the edge of the hearthrug her feet became heavy, and she could not seem to urge herself into their circle.

Madame Giry rose, and all present recalled her days as the forbidding ballet mistress as she broke the silence. 

            "Speak, child.  Throw some light upon this dark puzzle, if you can."