The next day, Gracie overslept. When she stepped into the living room, she noticed Françoise had not opened the counterpanes. She crossed the darkened room with sure steps, product of years of memorising where the furniture was. She opened one of the windows and put a hand on the counterpane to push it open.
"Please, tot, don't," Papa's pleading voice came from his chair.
She turned around with a small gasp.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"I thought you were still sleeping," she replied, coming close to him.
She leant over the back of his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. Immediately, one of his hands covered hers.
"The coalman was kind enough to wake me up early this morning."
He sounded exhausted. Gracie shook her head ruefully. Papa had always been a light sleeper, easily disturbed by the sounds of the neighbourhood. She put her other hand on his shoulder and started massaging them over his light summer jacket, sensing how the tense muscles slowly relaxed. He sighed in quiet contentment.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I'm all right, except for the pounding in my head."
He must be suffering from a terrible hangover to admit he was in pain. Gracie realised he hadn't had anything to eat since the day before.
"Have you already had breakfast? Would you like some toast?"
She felt him wince in discomfort.
"No, I'm fine. Françoise has already taken care of me."
"Did you eat?" She asked suspiciously.
"I can't eat, tot. Not now," his voice was sharp. After a beat he continued in a milder tone. "But I had a glass of orange juice. I'm fine."
He took her hands and joined them between his.
"You haven't had breakfast yet. Go," he urged her while tugging her hands so she went round the armchair. Then he released them.
"But. . ."
"Go, Gracie. I'll be fine," he breathed tiredly.
She nodded, and made her way towards the kitchen. Perhaps it would be better to visit Uncle Nadir this afternoon. If she stayed in the apartment, she wouldn't be able to stop mothering him and he would soon get angry. Better to leave him in the quiet care of Françoise, who seemed to instinctively perceive his needs without hovering over him.
Erik woke up with a start. He was still sitting in his armchair. He must have dozed off for a while. The last thing he remembered was Gracie on her way to Nadir's. That had been early in the afternoon, and now a single ray of golden light, slipping through a crack between the counterpanes, was warming his ankles. Erik stretched the taut muscles of his neck and slowly stood up. The unbearable pounding in his head had now reduced to a dull throbbing. It had been ages since he'd had that much to drink and he had discovered his tolerance towards alcohol had greatly reduced with the years. He stretched and opened one of the windows. Carefully shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun, he opened one of the counterpanes and let the veil curtains fall. Perhaps he should order supper from one of Gracie's favourite restaurants. How about roasted chicken from one of the Brasseries? Gracie loved roasted chicken and both she and Françoise needed a reprieve after his deplorable conduct the day before.
A sudden knock at the door made him jump back instinctively. Who could it be? It was too soon for Gracie to come back, and Louis was out of town for the summer. Françoise came down the hall and cast him a questioning look. Erik nodded and tried not to wince at the pain in his head. He massaged his uncovered temple slowly, as he heard Françoise unbolt the door, and ask, with a harsh voice, what the visitor wanted.
"I've come to see Monsieur Erik Devaux," said a crystal clear voice that Erik knew only too well.
He was falling, as if earth had opened underneath his feet.
From far away, he heard Françoise's usual response, then a louder protest, the sounds of struggling, Françoise's shouts and suddenly, there on the threshold to the foyer, stood Christine. He stared at her, frozen, as a deer waiting for the final kill.
Her hair was dishevelled. Strands of it had escaped her chignon and framed her pale, drawn face. There were small wrinkles on the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her shawl had fallen from her shoulders and hung from the crook of her left arm, sweeping the floor. The hem of her dress was covered in dust.
She had never been more beautiful.
She stared back at him, wide eyed, and then she suddenly covered her mouth with her hand.
"Erik," she said raggedly. "Oh, Erik!"
And then, as if she was a puppet whose strings had been cut, she crumpled down to the floor, sobbing.
Françoise took her by the arm and attempted to make her stand up.
"Mademoiselle, you cannot stay here," she said.
Christine didn't react. She kept sobbing hysterically, her eyes now downcast, swaying slightly back and forth. Erik stood painfully still, unable to move an inch, a myriad of anguished thoughts spinning in his head. Françoise tugged Christine's arm more forcefully, and that triggered it. Erik raised a commanding hand, stopping her.
"Stop, Françoise. It's all right. Close the door. I'll take care of her."
Instinctively, he hurried forward to pick her up, but stopped a mere yard from her. He hesitated, reached out and stopped again, overwhelmed by fear. No, he would not touch her. He would not watch her recoil at his touch. He opened his mouth to speak, but for his life, he couldn't come upon any words. He cleared his throat hoping she would stop crying, but she kept on whimpering softly.
With a forlorn sigh, Erik crouched in front of her, took his handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her. She didn't look at him. She was still concentrated on herself, as she let her pain out. . . But what for? Try as he might, Erik could simply not comprehend the cause for her outburst. What on earth had brought her here? Why was she crying? Why?
A new bout of pain exploded in Erik's head. The consequences of his drinking combined with the tension and heartache made him wince. He took a hand to his uncovered temple and rubbed it, while he closed his eyes tightly.
"Erik?"
His whispered name made him shudder. It had never sounded so sweet. Yet, he knew the douceur he thought he heard in her voice was but an illusion. He had always been prone to grand delusions when it came to Christine Daaé.
He breathed in, braced himself and opened his eyes. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn there was concern etched on her face.
"Here, take it," he said offering his handkerchief to her again.
He carefully avoided the touch of her fingers when she finally accepted. He came to his feet.
"Come on, it is much more comfortable to sit on a chair."
He didn't offer to help her stand. He would not touch her.
Christine looked at him for a moment, wide-eyed, and then two tears slid down her cheeks. Erik stared down at her, hands clenched in fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms, trying, desperately, to keep his composure, the dignity he had painstakingly rebuilt during all these years. The headache was gripping his skull with an iron grasp, threatening to turn into a full-blown migraine. It wouldn't be long before he would start seeing small bright spots. He had to sit down. He nodded, gesturing for her to sit on the couch.
"Come on, Christine," he urged her.
It was the first time he pronounced her name, and he was startled to hear how commonplace it sounded.
She took in a deep breath, swallowed, regaining her composure. She stood up and followed him, sitting on the couch. Erik sat on his armchair.
They sat still for a while, regarding each other. Christine dried her tears with his handkerchief. It seemed to him she held it to her mouth and inhaled his scent for a little while. He shook his head. All these years and he still read every meaningless gesture of hers as a sign of acceptance. He should know better. His head knew better, but his blind stubborn heart still held on to chimaeras. He cupped his chin with his hand.
"Why have you come?" he breathed.
"I was told. . ." she began. "Your daughter said you'd had a stroke some years ago and yesterday. . . yesterday there was news you were ill, and I thought. . ."
She faltered.
"I thought you. . . I couldn't bear the thought of loosing you again, Erik."
Erik stared at her bewildered, unable to believe his own ears. No, she hadn't said that. He was hallucinating. It was the beginning of the migraine. The room had effectively gone darker, and the sparkling lights were already dancing at the periphery of his vision. Erik closed his eyes and tried to breathe. After a while, he heard her voice again.
"Erik? Are you feeling well?"
A hand landed on his forearm, and he shrank back with a shudder. He opened his eyes. Christine was standing by the armchair. He hadn't heard her steps, the rustling of her skirts. He blinked.
"Yes. I'm fine. Sit down."
He was grateful his voice didn't waver. . . Not much. She regarded him closely for a little while, then stepped back and sat down again.
"You don't look that well," she said.
Erik huffed. Now she was mothering him?
"Why did you come, Christine?" he asked sharply.
He expected her to lower hey eyes, frightened. He was surprised when she contemplated him instead, brows furrowed.
"Your daughter said you were paralyzed," her voice was firm, questioning. "She said you had suffered a stroke some years back."
She evidently expected an answer.
"It was a story we concocted years ago. It explains why I don't leave the apartment," his voice was coldly polite in turn. "Why did you come?" he insisted.
She took in a shuddering breath.
"I thought. . . I thought you were gravely ill. I couldn't bear the idea of loosing you without seeing you again."
Erik winced. There were those words again. They were painful, more painful than the pounding in his head, more painful than any other physical pain he had ever suffered.
"Loosing me?"
"I went to the Opéra, after the fire. . . I came back, but I couldn't. . ." Her words were now coming in short, gasping breaths. "I couldn't find you. The mob had. . . had destroyed your home and Madame Giry told me. . . They had shot you, Erik. They said you were dead!"
She was now weeping quietly again. Erik's hand darted towards his shoulder, where he could almost feel his old wound.
"The fools that shot me had evidently never excelled in target practice," he said coldly.
"But how. . . How could you. . .?"
Erik cleared his throat, straightened in the chair.
"A friend helped me out. He took me to his home and nursed me to health."
He smiled bitterly at the surprised look on her face.
"Yes, Christine. Even a monster like me ended up having a friend," he snorted.
He didn't know why he was giving her explanations, why were they reviving those long gone, painful days. But then, an unbelievable idea struck his poor, aching brain. No, it couldn't be. He had heard wrong again.
"You. . . You went back to the Opéra?"
She nodded silently.
"A week after the fire," she whispered.
"What for?"
She looked at him as if he had grown another head.
"Why, for you, of course. . ." she whispered.
"What did you want from me?"
"Nothing. . ."
"Then why. . .? Did your Viscount leave you? Did he find out that, after all, you were not good enough for him? Did he cast you out to the street?"
Erik's voice was harsh. He spoke the words in haste, as if uttering them would get him rid of years of bitterness and heartache.
She shook her head, stunned, crossed.
"He didn't leave me. I left him. I realised I shouldn't be with him. I went back for you, Erik."
"And of what service could this beast be to you back then, Mademoiselle Daaé?"
"I didn't want anything from you, Erik! I loved you! I care for you! I have mourned you for over ten years!" she screamed.
Erik closed his eyes and the darkness exploded in a myriad of lights. He covered his brow with a hand, willing the headache away. Willing her shrill voice away. Willing her away. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and after a while, he was able to speak.
"Please, Christine," he begged. "Stop this make-believe. You don't have to pretend to care for me to get whatever you want from me. That hasn't changed. Tell me what I can do for you."
"I don't want anything from you, Erik," she protested. "I just came to see you. . . I do care."
Erik ran a hand through his hair, in a vain attempt to loosen the taut, sore muscles of his head. His mouth was terribly dry.
"All right," he sighed. "Let's pretend you cared for me back then. It's been twelve years, Christine. What is the point in unearthing all those feelings?"
He didn't look at her. He couldn't.
Christine stared at him. She could see the tension that gripped his body, the rigid self-control that he displayed, and the carefulness with which he averted her eyes.
"Oh, Erik. . ." she sighed. "Your daughter was right."
His body was shaken by a jolt.
"My daughter? In what?"
Christine stared down at her hands, which were painfully gripping Erik's handkerchief. It smelt of him, a scent she'd thought she would never perceive in her life again. That piece of linen was now, for her, more precious than anything she had previously owned.
"I. . . talked to her the day before yesterday. She is a grown girl, and I wanted to know. . . I thought what you had said about not knowing a woman's touch had been a lie."
She shook her head.
"She told me I was a fool, of course," she said in a self-deprecating tone. "That I had never grown up. That you had loved me and I had discarded you. That I didn't deserve your love. That I was so self-centred I had never known what it really meant to love someone. She was right."
She was at the brink of tears again, but she would not cry. Christine pressed her lips together, acknowledging that she no longer had a place in Erik's life. The memory she had cherished all these years, the regret and the longing, they all belonged to the past. Unlike her, he had outgrown his love for her, he had built a new life for himself, and she was not a part of it. She couldn't come to his doorstep and make egoistic demands. She had caused him enough heartache in the past. He deserved to be happy, and all she had ever brought him was anguish and grief. She stared down at her hands, which were still clenching Erik's handkerchief. This was the hardest thing she had ever done. She now fully understood the immensity of his gesture, what it must have cost him to let her go, all those years ago, underneath the Opéra. She put the handkerchief on the arm of the couch, smoothed it out slowly, carefully.
"I. . . I am sorry to have disturbed you. I'm sorry for. . ." Her voice caught.
She stood up.
"Perhaps we should leave things as they are," she whispered.
He would be much better off without her. He had done splendidly without her all these years.
She remained standing for a while, waiting for him to say something. She bit her lip and suddenly, on an impulse, picked up the handkerchief. She was going to leave. She was going to let him be, just as he seemed to wish. But she was unable to leave without a single memento of him.
Erik had raised his eyes when he heard her stand up. He watched her move, hesitate, pause, pick up the handkerchief, look at it lovingly. Yes, lovingly. He could no longer deny the evidence of his senses.
Christine breathed in, resolutely. She curtsied.
"Good bye, Erik."
She turned around and walked away. Quick, quick, she told herself. She had to be out of the apartment before tears started falling down her cheeks.
"Christine," his voice was but a whisper, but froze her in place.
She didn't turn around, unable to look at him without starting to cry again.
"Yes?" she managed.
"Perhaps. . . Perhaps you could. . . If you had time. . . Would you like to come this Saturday? In the afternoon? To visit?" His voice, which had until then been tightly laced by self-control, was shy, unsteady.
She turned around and looked at him with astounded eyes. He was standing, and was nervously turning the plain gold band on his little finger. There was a gleam in his eyes, a wistful expression she had not seen since. . . Making a tremendous effort not to be overwhelmed by the memory, she swallowed a sob and gave him her most radiant smile instead.
"I. . . I would love to," she mustered with a trembling voice.
He bowed his head.
"Until Saturday, then," his deep, velvety voice carried a profound undercurrent of emotion.
Christine went down the stairs and out to the street in a daze. She felt as if she was floating over the cobblestones, not walking on them. Had she been younger, she would have started running and jumping and dancing in joy. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her again, she told herself over and over. She walked all the way to the train station and sat on a bench. Her feet ached, she was thirsty and her cheeks burnt with the salt of shed tears. She would have to wait an hour for her train. She was hungry too, and didn't have any money, but she didn't care. The sun was shining and it was a glorious afternoon, and she would see Erik in three days time.
Author's notes: Well, that was chapter 32. I hope it solved the rest of your questions... Or at least part of them. Please, tell me what you think about it. Your long comments have been so enlightening! They have really helped me to picture how someone who's never read the story before reacts to it...
