6. In the De Chagny House (II)

After Mathilde had gone, the smile disappeared from Raoul's face and he crawled into an armchair. The sun came slanting in through the window and he watched specks of dust dance in the golden shaft. Experimentally, he let a puff of air escape his lips. The flecks spun tumultuously, following the strong, violent currents of his breath. He lowered his head and let his chin rest on his chest.

What he wouldn't give to know. Know, once and for all what went on her mind. He loved her so much … why wasn't it enough? He was sure that this was not quite normal in a marriage – or at least, his idea of marriage.

When all was well, he and Christine were so happy. There was so much laughter in the house; they were always laughing, at anything and everything. And when they were quiet … when he wrapped his arms around her small frame, savouring her softness, her pliancy … she would look into his eyes and he could feel her reading his soul, plunging into him. But those eyes – they were like a trick mirror, for they only worked one way. When he looked into the darkness of her, the gold-flecked brown of her irises, he only found himself tangled up, confused.

He didn't like her spells. Those times when she seemed to drift off and belong to another world altogether, one that he couldn't access. He wasn't sure he didn't prefer the outright weeping of her early days to this strangeness … at least the crying he had understood, at least then he had been able to do something to soothe her and make her happy. She had always clung to him, desperately, as the tears fell out of her – although he of course didn't like to see her cry, the sensation had been pleasant.

That sort of thing hadn't happened for years, now. She rarely wept … she just disappeared into herself for a while, and then returned, as if nothing had happened. Although when she became herself again she seemed the same as she ever was, sweet and loving and playful, the spells disturbed him.

Once, in the early on, he had asked her what she thought about while in one of her spells.

"I don't know, Raoul. Really I don't." She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her fingers.

He sat on the armrest of her chair. "But how can that be, dearest? You sat there from morning to night today. Surely something must have crossed your mind." He spoke soothingly, as one does to a puzzled child, stretching an arm across her shoulders and nuzzling her chestnut curls with his lips.

"I've just been feeling so very tired lately," she breathed, with a frustrated groan. "But I will try very hard to think. There must be things in my mind, mustn't there? When I sit like that. I think there are some things. Well, maybe. But they're all …confused."

"Well tell me about them, my love. Perhaps we can work them out together." He toyed with her slim fingers.

"I don't know …It's difficult. I can't quite recall …" She trailed off, and there was a pause.

"Do you …think about …him?" Raoul said it lightly, and continued to watch his fingers as he entwined them with hers.

Her body stiffened, a delicate frost appearing to creep over her from her toes to her head. She turned to look him in the face, at the blue eyes that wouldn't meet hers. She narrowed her gaze, the lashes almost coming together over glinting hazel eyes. Her full lips twisted – ever so slowly – into an almost sour curve.

Her voice was soft and low. "Think about who, Raoul?"

He didn't reply.

"Do tell me, dearest, to whom are you referring?" She almost hissed the words.

He finally looked up and regarded her from beneath his brows "You know who I'm talking about, Christine."

"Then say his name."

"What?"

"Say his name."

"Oh for God's sake," her husband cried as he rose and paced restlessly about the room, "the thing doesn't even have a name, only titles! The Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. That madman. That's who I'm talking about. There, are you satisfied?" He rested against the mantle, exhaling loudly.

"You needn't spit the words out with so much contempt, Raoul." The colour rose in her face and her eyes burned. "He could have killed you down there, you know. But he let us go." Her usually sweet voice came out like twisted wire.

Raoul uttered a sarcastic, disbelieving laugh and slapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh! Of course! I'd quite forgotten. After murdering two people, attempting to kill me, destroying the Opera House and kidnapping you, he – in his great generosity – decided to let us go! And only, I might add, after you were forced to kiss the creature. Where are my manners? Tell me, do you think it is too late to send a thank-you note?" Christine stood angrily and strode into the adjoining room. Raoul followed. "Or what about a fruit basket, my dear? Do you think he would like that?"

She turned around to face him. "Stop it." There was a warning in her voice, and hard lines around her mouth. "Who are you to mock him so cruelly? We cannot begin to imagine his suffering. It's not our place to…"

"I see. So it's 'judge not lest ye be judged', is it?" Raoul held his palms up and shook his head with a defeated air. "Very well."

There was a pause, then Christine began to speak in a measured voice . "You know, not everything in the world is his fault. You cannot keep blaming him when things go badly with me, and us…"

"I do not …"

"Yes you do, Raoul." She spoke softly, with conviction. "I see it in your eyes. Whenever there is a coolness between us, whenever I am tired or irritable or unreasonable – even when I feel a little ill and you decide to call the doctor – I can see it. Anger and suspicion. Suspicion … that he has done something to me, that somehow he is still trying to harm us."

Raoul looked at her silently for a moment before whispering: "And would I not be right?" His voice was thick, as the question caught on a sob in his throat.

She regarded him for a long minute, then floated back across the room with a look of compassion, taking his hand in both her own. Her eyes met his squarely. "No. No you wouldn't be right, dearest." She tilted her head. "You must understand that the defects are mine … all mine. Defects in my character – my impatience, my selfishness – and in my body, which is not as strong as I would wish. Don't make excuses for me. Don't make him a scapegoat for my failings – he has his own burdens, and should not be made to shoulder the weight of mine too."

"Oh Christine," Raoul gripped her in a tight embrace. "I love you. You know that … all of you …no matter what. But … I don't know why I dwell on it so …"

Gently, she pulled herself away and stood before him. " Let's end this. You asked if I thought about him while I was sitting by the window today. The truth is I don't know. My mind is sometimes confused. I'm not sure, perhaps I did, perhaps not. But if I did, my thoughts on him would not have been the bitter … poisonous … ones you seem to possess. All I remember is a poor, unfortunate man and my heart has no room for anything but pity. Raoul" – she looked at him pleadingly, her hand to his cheek – " we are free, we are safe and we are together. And we are happy. Isn't that enough? He is just a memory, he has no power over me."

He was as still as stone for some minutes, staring at her with large, moist eyes, his lips parted. Then in one large motion, Raoul encircled her rigid body in an awkward hug. "Oh, forgive me, darling," he murmured into her neck. She whispered something and stroked his hair soothingly as they stood together, lightly rocking to and fro. But when he began to kiss her, she drew away softly and looked at his handsome, penitent face. In her eyes there was an odd expression of confusion.

"Uh …I'm sorry dearest, I'm just feeling a little faint …" she left the room and walked slowly towards the staircase, her hand to her forehead again.

"Oh of course!" A look of deep concern came to Raoul's face as he helped her up the stairs. "I'm a brute …straining your nerves like that. I am so sorry."

She patted his arm reassuringly as he led her to her dressing room.

That scene had occurred some two or three years ago, and they had never spoken openly of it since. He had to admit there had been truth in what she said – he was blaming the Phantom for things, things which probably had nothing to do with him. Though he still worried about it. It was just that occasionally, there would be something in the way she spoke, or her look, that he didn't understand, but that immediately made his mind fly back to that shadow under the Opera House. But it was only his imagination, he knew that now.

That vile, murderous creature. Somehow, she pitied him. That was a woman, for you … all compassion, no perspective … it would be a blessing to be able to think like that. It was something he loved about Christine, but Raoul himself could summon no such charitable feelings towards the villain. He recognised the illogicality of it all – the ghost was gone, dead, probably, and everything that had happened was in the past. Christine was the sensible one. Her purity, her goodness, her compassion, had healed her of the wounds the Phantom had caused. On the other hand, Raoul's own, infinitely inferior and more vengeful spirit made the memories fester, and that's where the suspicion came from. He couldn't help it. It may be crazy, but some part of him still blamed the madman for the flaws in their marriage, to some degree.

And Christine, the darling, liked to blame herself … which was, of course, ridiculous.

But there was one person whom no-one had yet blamed, though perhaps they should have. Himself. It was true that sometimes he didn't understand her, maybe it was his own fault. Perhaps he was doing something wrong? He didn't know what, but it preyed upon him sometimes. Terribly. What was he doing? What could he do? He had tried to speak to Christine about it a couple of times, but she always insisted that nothing was his fault. Maybe this was true, or maybe she just didn't recognise it, whatever it was.

With a sigh, Raoul roused himself from his thoughts and went back to the desk. He had better finish packing the books … knowing Mathilde, she would be back in an hour on the dot.

A/N: Okay, two things to remember before judging Christine's characterisation. (1) Only flashbacks, so far, (2) We've only seen her through the eyes of others, we haven't gotten inside her head yet. This is deliberate. Same goes for next chapter. Alright then - have at it! What do you think?