Françoise unbolted the front door and opened it without asking who it was. As she had expected, she came face to face with Mademoiselle Daaé. No one else knocked with those timid raps. Françoise smiled at the expectant woman.
"He woke up this morning, Mademoiselle. The doctor came and checked him and said he's going to be all right."
"Thank God," breathed Mademoiselle, taking a clasped hand to her chest and using the other one to brace herself on the doorjamb.
"Do you need help, Mademoiselle?" asked Françoise offering her arm to help her cross the threshold.
"No, thank you, Françoise."
Mademoiselle Daaé steadied herself enough to come into the apartment. Françoise noticed, as she took the woman's cloak and gloves, that there were deep shadows under her eyes, and she looked even paler than the day before. Françoise fingered the material of the garment as she hung it on the clothes rack. It was worn and too thin for the winter. She wondered whether Mademoiselle Daaé had a better cloak. She doubted it.
"Please, come in," she said inviting the woman to the sitting room. "I'll make you a cup of tea, and call upon Mademoiselle Gracie."
Mademoiselle Daaé's face, which had been drawing a grateful smile at the mention of tea, fell suddenly.
"No, Françoise. I don't want to disturb. I'll stay a few minutes and then will go my way."
"Monsieur Kahn left orders," countered Françoise with a tone that admitted no reply and went down the hall.
She made a mental note to serve some pastries with the tea. Françoise was almost certain the woman hadn't had breakfast yet.
Christine stood up when Erik's daughter came into the sitting room. The girl assessed Christine with a cold gaze. Then she curtsied.
"Good morning, Mademoiselle Daaé."
"Good morning."
Christine opted for a simple greeting since she didn't know how to address her. To call her Mademoiselle Devaux was terribly formal given the difference in age, and Christine had the clear feeling the girl wouldn't like Christine to call her by first name.
"My father is doing better. I should thank you for your concern for his health."
The girl uttered the words flatly, as if she had learnt them by rote. There was not the slightest trace of gratefulness in her voice. Christine nodded and attempted a smile. She knew Gracie should have had a dreadful day and night, more dreadful even than Christine's.
There was a strained silence, until Françoise came in with a tray holding two cups of tea, a teapot and a plate with biscuits. With perfect manners, Gracie invited Christine to sit, served her tea and encouraged her to help herself with the biscuits. She sipped her tea while Christine nibbled on one. There was another heavy silence until Christine gathered enough courage to phrase her request.
"Do you think. . . Could I see him for a moment? It would be a short visit. . ."
Gracie's cup clunked against the saucer. Some tea spilled.
"He's sleeping now."
"All the better. I wouldn't tire him. . ." ventured Christine.
"Papa is a very light sleeper," countered Gracie harshly. She opened her mouth to say something else but closed it without a sound, visibly trying to contain herself.
Christine winced as if she had been slapped. She had a sip of tea, which now tasted inexplicably bitter. Someone knocked at the door and Gracie immediately stood up. She turned her back to Christine, listening intently at the exchange of greetings between a young man and Françoise. So like Erik, Christine thought. Gracie would regally disregard the people she held in contempt.
And just as Christine was thinking those thoughts, a young man appeared at the entrance to the sitting room and Gracie cast herself against him. The young man hugged her tightly and whispered:
"I came as soon as I got your telegram."
They separated, still holding hands, and the young man eyed the girl carefully.
"How is he? How are you? Is there something I can do?"
"He is doing better, Louis. He is doing much better. He woke up this morning and had a cup of tea and something to eat. The doctor said he will recover just fine. . . although he's quite weak. It will take some time."
Gracie's warm words were a stark contrast to the chilly tone she had employed when talking to Christine.
"And you? How are you?" queried the young man, hunching to come level with her eyes.
"I'm fine."
"Really?"
"Really, Louis, I'm perfectly fine," insisted Gracie with a low chuckle.
She stepped to the side and then the young man noticed Christine sitting on the couch. He cleared his throat and turned a deep shade of red. Christine smiled at him and slowly stood up. Her smile must have helped to ease his embarrassment, for he gave her an affable, sheepish smile in turn.
"Oh, forgive me. Let me introduce you. . ." said Gracie, her tone chilly again.
"Mademoiselle Daaé, Monsieur Louis Menand. Monsieur Menand is my father's partner. Monsieur Menand, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé.
Instantly the young architect's eyes went cold. He recovered himself though and bowed.
"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle," he said, in an impeccable demonstration of politeness.
But it was just a façade. Christine saw, through its cracks, that this young man, who didn't know her, felt an infinite disdain for her. And she understood. He was Erik's partner, Erik's friend, and he, like his daughter, knew what Christine had done to Erik in the past.
"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur."
They looked at each other in silence for a heartbeat, each at a loss for words. Christine prayed for Gracie to say something, anything, but a glance at the girl's stony façade made it clear she wouldn't be of any help. Christine smoothed the front of her dress, her sense of inadequacy increased.
"I. . . I think I'd rather. . . I'd rather go my way," she stuttered.
"Please, don't let my interruption cut short. . ." started the young architect.
"No, I really must go. I'm sorry," protested Christine, edging her way towards the door.
"May we meet again under more favourable conditions then," said Monsieur Menand.
Erik's daughter huffed under her breath, and Christine could barely draw a smile as she put her hand into the extended hand of the architect. He fleetingly brushed Christine's knuckles with his lips. Christine prayed he wouldn't notice the faint smell of bleach. That was, she thought with no small amount of bitterness, the only advantage of Erik's reluctance to touch her. She suddenly remembered his tenseness and hesitancy around her, his constant paranoia with the mask which led him to slightly turn his head away from her, his embarrassment about his distorted mouth, which caused him to cover his lips either with a hand or the napkin every time he had a bite of a sandwich. These people were right, thought Christine. She wasn't good for him. He was sweet and considerate and generous, and she was a vile, selfish, cold-hearted creature. What could she bring him but disappointment? It would be better if she disappeared.
Somehow, in the midst of her misery, she managed some words of farewell which she prayed had been appropriate, said thanks to Françoise as the maid gave her cloak and opened the door for her. The wind on the street was cold. It turned the tears that ran down her cheeks into icy rivulets.
Author's notes: The last chapter was also quite short... So you also got two chapters this time! I thought it was all right, since we are getting close to the end of the story.
Thank you all so much for your reviews! Keep them coming!
