And thus Christine came that Saturday, when the rays of the sunny afternoon bathed the old Persian carpet in the sitting room in a golden light, so alike the ones that had covered the floors of Erik's underground home. Erik offered her tea. The maid came with her favourite brand of tea and some petite gâteaus. Christine was touched to the brink of tears when she had the first bite and tasted the chocolate filling. So many years had passed and he still remembered all these small details about her. And she didn't even know what kinds of foods, beside his Russian tea, he liked best. Such had been the difference between his and her love. He had loved her with selfless intensity, while she had been so concentrated upon herself that she had completely failed to notice him. Christine had bit her lip in regret.

Noticing her hesitation and sheepishness, he had politely asked her about her pupils, her job as a music teacher, and soon succeeded in starting an easy going conversation which they maintained throughout the afternoon. It had been peppered by some awkward silences here and there, and Christine couldn't help but noticing he was also anxious and uncertain around her, not really knowing what to do and what to say at times.

She had tried to overcome the difficult moments then, reaching out to him, asking about his business and his daughter, pleased when he answered, overjoyed at the fact that he was willing to talk to her about himself. When the time had come to say good-bye, Christine hadn't waited for him to invite her again. She had, with some amount of nervousness, asked him whether she could come another afternoon, and had breathed in relief at his quick assent.

They started seeing each other again, at regular intervals. Every two weeks, Christine would catch the train bound to Paris, a nervous fluttering of butterflies in her stomach. She would sit in the third class compartment and rock on the wooden chair to the rhythm of the train, a sandwich on her lap. She would eat her sandwich between stations, and instead of taking a cab would walk all the way to Erik's, to save money for her next visit.

The long, amiable conversations in the semi-darkened sitting room had become her solace, the high points of her life. She revelled in his company, content to see his gestures and his smiles, happy to listen to him talk and laugh. . . He laughed often now, a rich and powerful sound which sent shivers down her spine. And he was so calm, so self-confident. He had evidently found an inner balance in his life, a happiness that had so long been denied to him, and Christine was happy that she had been given the chance to be a witness of his new existence.

She knew she had shattered his love for her with her betrayal years before. She knew she would never be able to regain it. She knew she didn't deserve him. That knowledge tinged the happiness of the friendship he offered with a touch of sorrow but, paradoxically, it also increased it. Christine was fully conscious of what a great miracle it was to have his company, and was immensely grateful for it.

She lingered in his home until the last minute, and several times she had been about to lose the train that would take her back to her small village in Normandy. She was content to visit, to listen to him talk and laugh. . . It was enough. It was more than enough. More than what she'd ever dreamed of.

Erik revelled in Christine's company. He spent hours preparing the house for her next visit. He spent even more time reliving their conversations in his head, recreating each one of her small gestures.

He simply couldn't believe his luck. That she was willing to take that train for his sake every two weeks; that she just sat there and talked to him about the small details of her life, of the village she lived in, of the pupils she had, of the books she had read; that she wanted to tell him about her walking trips and the run-down church, and the simple life she led, often seemed a wonder to him.

He treasured every word, every smile, and every movement of her hands, slowly discovering that the woman that came to his home was a far cry from the bashful, naïve girl he'd met so many years ago. She had changed. She had changed so much. She was now a mature, easy-going woman who sat on his couch and asked, without hesitation or reserve, about his life, about his work and his partner, about his music and his readings. She often found in herself to tease her way around painful subjects or things he didn't want to talk about, and if they disagreed on something, she would calmly stand her ground instead of cowering back and falling silent.

And one afternoon, on a Thursday, there was a knock at the door and Françoise had announced her presence. He had rushed forward, worried that something might have happened to her, but she had looked at him with contrite eyes that were belied by a small smile. She had said everything was fine; she was not in need of anything; she just had a free day, and she had thought of spending the afternoon in his company. Did he mind? Was he busy? She could just go back if. . . She made a move to turn around and leave, but he caught her elbow and with a ridiculously wide smile on his face led her to the couch. That she had come to him spontaneously, that she had braved a four hour journey to see him in the middle of the week. . . It was shocking. It was unthinkable. It was the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time.

Gracie hated it. She hated Papa's helpless love for Christine Daaé more than she hated the woman herself. She had been outraged the evening she had come home after visiting Uncle Nadir and she had learnt that the woman had dared to come to their apartment, that she had invaded their retreat and, most shockingly, that Papa had welcomed her, and he had invited her to visit.

She had made her views about the former diva clear to him, but he had retorted harshly, almost as harshly as he had reacted when he had first learnt of Gracie's and Christine Daaé's first encounter. Then he had grown menacingly calm, and he had told her, with a freezing politeness, that he had the right to choose his own friends and he would invite whomever he thought best to his home. At that, Gracie had cast her first temper tantrum. She had screamed and stamped the floor, ranted about how foolish he was to trust the woman that had shattered his heart, and when he had failed to react, she had grabbed her coat, had slammed the door, had run down the stairs and the whole way towards Uncle Nadir's abode.

She hadn't found the support she had thought she would get in Uncle Nadir. Instead of grabbing his coat and running out to Papa's apartment to spell things out to him, Uncle Nadir had calmly remained on his couch, smoking one of his huge cigars. He had told her that Papa was right, that he was old enough to make his own choices. When she had retorted, irritated, that the woman would just take advantage of him, Uncle Nadir had told her that it wouldn't do to try and protect Papa. He was not to be treated like a child. If the woman really took advantage of him, then they would have to help him stand on his feet again, but they couldn't decide his life for him. When Gracie had insisted, Uncle Nadir had reminded her, gently but firmly, that he had helped Papa back to his feet more than once, long before Gracie had ever come into the picture. That had been the end of the discussion, and Gracie had learnt that she wouldn't get any aid in her campaign against Christine Daaé.

She had hated it more when she had found out that Christine Daaé refused to make demands on Papa's love, apparently content to visit him whenever she had the chance. When Gracie started to hear about the woman's misfortunes, she thought Christine Daaé would ask Papa for help, but was surprised when the woman failed to tell Papa a single word about her dire straits in the long conversations Gracie eavesdropped from the hall.

Through Lucille and her mother, Gracie had learnt how the inhabitants of the small town in Normandy had started to shun Christine Daaé throughout the autumn, as the music teacher had continued her mysterious trips to the city every two weeks, and rumour had flown that she had a lover in Paris. The mothers of the pupils of Christine Daaé started to turn her off and, at the beginning of winter, the singer didn't have a single student left. She was asked not to sing in Church by the priest, and had to sit alone in her pew during mass, for no one would sit beside her. Madame Calmette wondered why she didn't stop her trips to Paris, and who paid for them, since her meagre savings must have been exhausted some time ago. Gracie had, on the contrary, a rough idea about how Christine Daaé managed to save the money for her trips.

She noticed that the woman was thinner, and a little bit paler at the end of autumn. She always wore one of two dresses when she visited Papa. The hem of her cloak, which she hurriedly took off at the entrance, was threadbare. Her gloves, which Françoise collected as well, had been darned more than once. But the woman had dismissed lightly Papa's concerns about her thinness and pallor, and she had laughed when he had referred to the invariability of her garments. She had said a spinster like herself was in no need of varying her wardrobe. And then, at the beginning of winter, she had moved to Paris. Madame Calmette wondered how she would now live. None of the families of the daughters she had taught had given her a single letter of recommendation.

Gracie had thought that the woman would tell Papa about her moving now that she would have more time for visiting but, to her surprise, the woman had instead told Papa that she wouldn't be able to visit during weekdays or Saturdays. She had new students, and would be forced to work on Saturdays. Would it suit him if she came on Sundays? She could visit every week, instead, if she was not being too imposing. . . Gracie's mouth had fallen open when she had heard that. She couldn't fathom what the woman was playing at.

A week later, the mystery of Christine Daaé's new means of living had been disclosed. The Calmettes' maid had gone to fetch some linen she had left in the laundry the previous week, and the clerk that had served her had been none other than Christine Daaé. The Calmettes had been so shocked by the news that the former music teacher had become their sole subject of conversation. Gracie had then decided not to invite Lucille to their apartment any more, lest Papa overhear Lucille's chattering and learnt the truth. Gracie was certainly not the only one who eavesdropped in their home.

And then, at the beginning of December, Papa had fallen ill.


Author's notes: Thank you everyone for reviewing! I know that introducing Christine after so many years was quite risky for the story. I hope that it has more or less met your expectations... And of course, Gracie couldn't just fade away. A special thanks to Sarah for her kind review... I hope this chapter didn't confirm your misgivings.