Chapter 20 - It Comes To This Moment
Hard, white moonlight laced down through the trees in the Bois. The Vicomte de Chagny walked alone, following a favorite path he and his young bride had often strolled.
How many days had she been gone? Strange that he was already losing count of them. Yet it was not even a week.
Where was she now? Where had she gone when she left the Opera House?
He stood at the junction of two lanes now, uncertain which way to turn in the darkness.
"Christine, where are you?"
A woman's voice answered him from the shadows behind.
Christine wound her arms around Erik's neck and shoulders. She heard her own voice whispering his name over and over.
Was she falling, dragging him down with her? Or was he pushing her down, sinking onto the bed with her?
As he deftly unfasted the mother-of-pearl buttons of the slik gown, she closed her eyes...suddenly remembering the way his fingers so deftly and tenderly moved across the ivory keys of the pipe organ...in those moments before the rage, before her mistake.
"Erik, Erik...please...make love to me...now."
"My name is not Christine," the voice answered and Raoul slowly turned to see who had spoken to him.
She was a beautiful woman, so different from his lovely Christine.
Her hair and voice were both as soft and rich as honey. He noticed that her dress was blue, deepened to a inky hue by the night.
"Good evening, Monsieur," she said, resting her ungloved hand on his arm.
She smiled at him. Her eyes were tired, but her lips seemed so kindly.
"Who is this Christine you were calling for? Is someone lost?"
Raoul stared down at her hand. She wore no rings, no wedding band. Her hand was so light against the dark fabric of his coat.
"Christine is my wife," he said, trying not to think of the note she had left him.
Those vows were a lie. When I spoke them...I betrayed all of us. I betrayed you with a false promise, I betrayed my poor Angel, and I betrayed myself. Forgive me, Raoul, I was never truly your wife...forgive me...
In that small, dusty room, Erik found himself suddenly so aware of the sounds around him.
The hiss of that one candle, the whisper of Christine's silk gown against his own clothes, the subtle creak of the bed beneath them, his own heartbeat, her voice pleading with him...pleading for him.
He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her hair tumbled reckless across the shabby pillow, the bodice of her gown half opened.
So it comes to this...every moment of anger, of hate, of loneliness...it comes to this moment.
The woman did not move, her hand remained on Raoul's arm. Nor did her smile fade.
"Ah, then you must be the Vicomte de Chagny."
Now her hand slid along his arm until her hand lay against his. She moved closer to him and he could smell her perfume. It was cheap, but intoxicating.
"My poor boy," she said with a low laugh.
Christine reached up and took Erik's face in her hands. One palm rested against his warm cheek, the other other against the cool smooth mask.
