They were refugees together, the Girys and the Phantom. For the first few days they regrouped—they slept a great deal, ate rather less, and annoyed the servants by each asking for a bath. Erik roused himself sufficiently to realize that Giry's resources were strained and withdrew enough money from one of his widespread accounts to cover their expenses. The three of them sat together, largely silent. Meg was the first recover and become restless. She took over their care, heading out in the mornings and returning at night with her arms full of packages. Soon they had enough clothing to seem like respectable people instead of vagabonds, and she started to talk about the future. Erik would raise his eyes to Giry's and see a weariness to match his own. Much went unspoken between them, but he knew that she maintained her care for him, her sympathy. Regardless, he knew that he had brought everything down on them. He had been too arrogant. He had been insane.
In his own small room, Erik could not hide from his own thoughts. He would have raged with self-loathing, except that it seemed his very soul was exhausted. Christine was not at fault. She was so young. "And I am an idiot," he thought, staring into his shaving mirror. He had convinced himself that she belonged to him, as if she was an object to be possessed. She had broken his heart on the rooftop, when she declared her love for that boy, when she refused the darkness. So for three months he had been in a fever of hurt. He had sat underground, composing in a rage. He would sit at his organ until his hands bled, until he ran out of ink, until he fainted from lack of sleep or hunger. By the New Year's ball, he was thin, mad, and desperate. Christine had been the very definition of loveliness. There was a moment when he had felt almost gentle, until he saw the ring hanging around her neck. There were so many words to regret, so many stupid actions that would haunt him forever. He thought briefly of turning himself in to the police, but his instinct for survival was too great. Better to wander the earth in penance. He had brought about the destruction of his own home and had taken away the livelihood of nearly a hundred people. At the very least, he would care for Giry and Meg. That would be something.
Christine would marry Chagny, of course. She deserved happiness, and Erik knew he had no talent for joy. He swore to himself that he would never trouble her again—he would let her go. He told himself sternly: "I will let her go."