Christine had to remind herself to ascend the steps slowly. Last Sunday, Erik had teased her incessantly because she had been out of breath when she had knocked at his door, and today she didn't want to be the target for more teasing. She didn't want to appear too eager to visit. His visible eyebrow had shot up in a curious, disbelieving gesture when she had told him she was free the coming Wednesday, a gesture which had not entirely faded when she had reminded him that it was the feast of Immaculate Conception. He had commented, almost casually, that he hated for her to spend all her day travelling. He was sure she was missing Mass because of him. She had smiled, had reminded him of something she had told him before: she attended the first morning Mass, and then she took the train. She had breathed inwardly in relief when he seemed to accept her reasoning.
Until now, he apparently didn't suspect that she had moved back to Paris, as he hadn't noticed the small changes that had occurred with her change of trade. The first two or three times she had visited after starting her work at the laundry, Christine had been extremely worried about the redness and dryness of her hands, about the faint smell of bleach which stubbornly stuck to her after the long hours of washing clothes. But she had quickly found a remedy for both things: a new bottle of perfume and a pair of white crochet gloves which Erik had praised and which had cost her two weeks' wages. Christine, who had been eating nothing but porridge for a long time now, had been forced to reduce her meagre portions even more during those two weeks. It had been a torture to rein herself and not gobble up all of Erik's sandwiches in her visits, but it had been worthwhile. She couldn't have him worrying about her. She didn't think she could bear the embarrassment of him knowing her current trade and living arrangements.
Christine had been so immersed in her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed the woman who was running down the stairs until they collided. Christine grabbed the banister tightly to avoid falling, as she lost her footing. She stumbled back a step. Meanwhile, the woman held on to the wall and jumped the two remaining steps unto the third floor landing, continuing her way without looking back.
"I'm sorry, Madame!" Christine heard her shout from the next landing, and only then did she realise it was Erik's maid.
Puzzled, Christine climbed the rest of the stairs, asking herself what could have put Françoise in such a hurry. Only when she had knocked at the door and nobody answered did a terrible premonition engulf her. A void opened in the pit of her stomach, and she quietly slid down the wall, covering her mouth with her hand, until she was sitting on the floor.
Françoise found her there half an hour later, when she returned with the doctor. The doctor had looked curiously at the woman sitting on the stairs, but he had hurried down the hall as soon as Françoise had opened the door. It remained Françoise's task to lift Mademoiselle Daaé to her feet, guide her into the sitting room and offer her a cup of tea. Only then did Mademoiselle Daaé seem to shake out of her shock.
"What happened to him?" were the first words she uttered.
Françoise bit her lip, considering how much to tell her. She had been utterly surprised the fist afternoon Monsieur Devaux had allowed the woman to come into his home, and it only had puzzled her further when he had invited Mademoiselle Daaé again and again in the past few months. But Françoise's misgivings were soon dispelled by Monsieur Devaux's joy at her visits.
"He had a heart attack, Mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle Daaé's eyes widened.
"Oh my God. . ." she breathed and her eyes darted away.
Françoise feared she was about to give way to hysteria, just as she had done the first afternoon she had visited. But Mademoiselle composed herself quite rapidly. Only her tightly clenched fingers gave away her anguish when she looked at Françoise again.
"Is there anything I can do? Fetch another doctor? Go to the chemist's?"
Françoise shook her head slowly.
"Doctor Albaret is a very competent physician, Mademoiselle. He has treated Monsieur Devaux before. And Gracie is with him. If there's need for medicine I will run the errand."
Mademoiselle Daaé blinked repeatedly and swallowed hard. She lifted her hands and splayed them in the air, in a helpless gesture.
"But maybe. . ."
"The only thing to do now is to wait, Mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle Daaé nodded. Her lips were now trembling.
"I guess it will be better if I left. I don't want to intrude. . ." she said with a very small voice as she attempted to stand up.
Françoise took pity on her. She put her hand on Mademoiselle's shoulder, comfortingly.
"I think. . . I think Monsieur would be glad to know you are here. If you can spare the time. . ."
Mademoiselle sat back with a sigh of relief. Her eyes were now filled with an immense gratitude.
"I'll bring you your tea," added Françoise.
She had almost gone out of the sitting room when Mademoiselle Daaé called her back.
"Françoise. . ."
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
When Françoise came back with the cup of tea, Mademoiselle was staring longingly at Monsieur Devaux's armchair.
