Days turned to weeks, and Christine felt her life to be very strange. She was given a lovely guest room and a small but pretty wardrobe. The servants were more aloof but civil, and the Comtesse was distantly kind. Yet she was not invited to join them for dinner parties or outings, and the inactivity was driving her mad. Raoul was often out of the house with his father. She was desperate for news from the Opéra, but the Comtesse waved her questions away, and Raoul told her that "all that" was behind her.
When nearly two weeks had gone by, Raoul sat with her at tea and said, "Tell me what has been wrong, darling. I've been miserable going about town without you, and I'm so sorry you've been ill."
Her heart sank. It was a mystery solved at least, but she felt that she and Raoul had been played like fools. She didn't know whether his parents were being more kind or cruel by drawing things out and giving him hope. She supposed that they were at least generous in not having thrown her into the street. She squeezed his hand.
"I will be fine, Raoul. It's just that all my fright has left me rather fragile."
He smiled at her sweetly and kissed her. "You must get strong soon," he said, and his gaze had an intent behind it that reminded her of her Angel. "I'm becoming rather impatient to marry you." She hoped that the turn of her head seemed coy than sad.
She was not surprised the next day when the Comtesse came to her and said, "We have all worried for your health, my dear. I wonder whether it would do you good to spend some time in the country?"
"Ah," Christine thought. "It begins." She no longer feared that they would actively damage her reputation if she rebelled, but she could recognize in their deft manipulations that they had finally decided for their son. Better to not fight. Any arguments on her part would merely be painful, and she was tired. The future yawned in front of her, huge and unknowable, and its weight wore on her. "Madame, I think you might be right," she said.
The Comtesse sighed heavily, as if she had been holding her breath. "I am glad," she said, and patted Christine's hand before she left the room.
Apparently every noble family had an abundance of country cousins. It was quickly decided that Christine would to go Aunt Adelaide, who lived very quietly four hours away by horseback—far enough, Christine thought ruefully, to make a one-day trip inconvenient. Raoul rarely had two free days together. His father kept him busy. Raoul complained bitterly, and she comforted him as best she could without feeling like a hypocrite.
She had been able to discover nothing of who had survived the Opéra fire. When she thought of her Angel, despair was a sensation of falling inside her chest. She tried to push the feeling aside as much as possible. Surely, someone must have lived. Meg was young, fit, and not at all given to melancholy. Christine thought that she must have escaped. She wrote a letter. The morning that she left for the country, she rose early and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. She hugged Mme. Henri and thanked her for all her kindness. Mme. Henri promised to set the stable boy to the task of finding Marguerite Giry.