As she had expected, Raoul visited rarely, and his visits obviously frustrated him—there was always some urgent business that would call him away, and Aunt's sense of propriety was such that she never left them alone. He fairly quivered with irritation.
"I don't know why my father is so insistent," he grumbled one day as he escorted them back from church. "All this business. It's not as if he's feeble and going to die any time soon. I don't see why I can't have a little leisure to court my fiancée."
Christine could only smile sadly at him and squeeze his arm. While she had been at the Opéra, they had had much time alone together, which had been filled with kisses and romantic daydreaming. She was quite sure that the boundaries of decency had been breached a couple of times. That he was now able to kiss no more than her hand clearly annoyed him. Because she had "lost" her ring, Raoul was desperate to give her a new one, and his mother's "forgetfulness" in producing one from her jewel box was another source of complaint. Christine felt guilty for her collusion in his parents' plan, especially when Raoul was standing next to her, tapping his riding crop against the side of his boot and scowling at the horizon. But the more weeks passed, the more tangible her relief. She realized that, had she married him, at some point she would have been the one scowling toward the distance. He was a dear friend, but he did not inspire passion in her, not like—well. That thought was tucked neatly away.
Raoul did write every day. She kept her own letters light in tone, describing the books she was reading and the dear, silly things that Aunt said. His letters were by turns long lists of the ways in which he was kept busy and darker rants. She learned a great deal about him from those letters. He would have married her, she thought, if his parents had allowed it, but his sense of duty was so strong that she thought his heartbreak would be of short duration. She was comforted by the thought that he would be philosophical.
They let her stay with Aunt for three months. Raoul had been able to visit only four times. Just the week before, she had received a note from Meg. Her relief and joy quite overcame her, and she cried herself into a headache, whereupon Aunt put her to bed and clucked over her delicate nature. The note was curiously short, but she and her mother were alive, living comfortably, and Meg was teaching dance to the daughters of hopeful bourgeoisie. Christine was unfamiliar with the address, but she sent a letter full of questions, as well as a note of thanks to Mme. Henri.
The Comte de Chagny visited the day after her letter was sent. Aunt was entirely cowed by her rich cousin—when he insisted on speaking to Christine alone, her protest was limited to a sigh. Christine stood looking at the floor, twisting her fingers together.
He looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Sit down, child." She sat. Aunt had left the tea things out, so Christine refreshed both their cups. While they had a task, her hands would not shake.
"Cousin Adelaide tells me that you have had a very quiet time here," he said at last.
Christine smiled into her cup. "Aunt has been kind," she said. "I must thank you, monsieur, for sending me here. I have learned a great deal, and I do think that the quiet must have done me good."
The Comte had bushy white eyebrows—they were rather comical, lifted in surprise. "Learned?"
So Christine told him of her embroidery lessons, that she could not carry on a simple conversation in old-fashioned German, and that she was learning to enjoy poetry.
The Comte was obviously startled. "I would not have imagined you to be interested in such things."
Christine turned her cup around a couple of times. "For a woman in my situation, every shred of respectability is helpful."
The Comte nodded. "That is very sensible of you." Their conversation was full of long pauses—she thought that he must be nearly as uncomfortable as she was, and she wished that temperament and propriety would allow her to speak plainly to him, as she might have with Mme. Giry.
"I once heard your father play," he was finally, and Christine was too surprised to cry. "He was a true virtuoso." She realized with a shock that his eyes held pity. It looked strange in his stern face.
"Thank you, monsieur. You are very good to say so."
The Comte laid down his teacup. "You have surprised me at every turn, Mlle. Daae. I am not … unacquainted with dancers and chorus girls, and I must say that you comport yourself with a great deal of gentility." She took a shaky breath. "Moreover, since the scandal at the Opéra, it has seemed to my wife and me that you are aware of the realities of your situation and that you accept what must be."
This was true, and she was resigned to it, but the conversation was still difficult. She nodded, but tears stood in her eyes. The Comte went so far as to lay his hand briefly upon hers.
"Please understand, my child, that our objection is not to your person. We have been very gratified by your grace and discretion, and certainly you are very lovely."
He paused, and Christine thought that it must be very infrequently that he found himself searching for words. She decided that it might be wise to say something sensible, even through her tears.
"I am sure that Raoul's—the Vicomte's—affection for me has much to do with our childhood friendship," she said, and the Comte smiled with approval.
"That is very true," he said. "Children are never aware of the constraints of adult life."
"So perhaps," she said, and it was agony to do so, "his suffering will be brief." There. She had said it. She felt as if she had been freed from a great burden. The Comte sighed.
"My dear, you are very good." Then he kindly looked away while she had a short cry.
"What will you do?" he asked gently, once she had composed herself. "My son has said that you were a dancer before you were a singer."
"I had much rather sing," Christine said.
"Very good. That is a more respectable profession." His pause was uncomfortable. "Given the circumstances, do you plan to remain in Paris?" Oh, how was she able to bear this?
"I think not," she said, and pretended not to notice his visible relief. "Because of the scandal, I feel sure that the major houses will be closed to me. I have not given much thought yet as to where I will go. I shall have to find some work in Paris for a little while, until I have enough money to go abroad."
The Comte sighed heavily and rose from his chair. He walked to the window and stared out for a moment at the gorgeous summer day.
"When I came here today, I did not entirely know what to expect, "he said at last. "I had thought that it might be necessary to appeal to your more … avaricious nature." This was mildly offensive. "I see now that I was entirely wrong, of course." He sat back down and took her hand. "I can see that this is painful to you, and I am very grateful for your sacrifice, both for my sake and my son's. Please allow me to make a gift of the money I have brought. I beg you to take it for my sake, Mademoiselle. I would be more comfortable if I were to know that my son's childhood friend was not in any danger."
It was a very pretty speech, and Christine was sensible enough to realize that this, too, was in his best interest—she would go abroad sooner if she could afford it. She did not feel at all greedy. This was a matter of survival. She said yes. The Comte paid her several more compliments, which she thought that he meant. He summoned Aunt Adelaide and arranged Christine's departure for Paris the next day. Aunt was shocked but too well bred to ask questions. It was not until the Comte left and she was alone in her room that Christine looked at the bank draft. To a girl used to living on the barest pittance, it was a staggering amount. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. All the fright and uncertainty of the past months flooded her at once, and she wept for dreams laid aside, for childhood romances ended, and for sheer relief that she would not starve.