He did not even look at her as he left the room. "I will go" was all he said—no greeting, nothing that would indicate anything other than a desire to be away from her. Christine was mortified and saddened, enough confused that she could think of nothing to say. That Meg touched his arm as he passed only made her cry harder.
For a time, she was inconsolable. Mme. Giry was able to draw her into a chair, and Meg, ever affectionate, rocked Christine against her breast as if she were a small child. After her long day of travel, she did not have the energy to weep forever, but as her sobs quieted, she was left aching and hollow. The wide-eyed little maid brought in tea and toast, and Mme. Giry set about pouring and buttering, although her frequent glances were sharply curious. Meg sat close by, holding Christine's hand.
As Mme. Giry passed around the tea, she said, "Is it so horrible, then, to see him again?"
That she had been so misunderstood brought on another rush of tears. Once this was done, Christine felt that she could sleep for a month. She hurt from head to toe. Several sips of tea roused her a bit.
"I thought—I assumed that he was dead," she said finally, and Mme. Giry nodded.
After a moment, she said, "Perhaps that would be easier for you?"
Christine squirmed in her chair. "I would never wish such a thing!" She frowned into her teacup. "No," she said, shaking her head. "It's just very surprising." Everything she said sounded wrong. "I don't understand."
Mme. Giry's story astounded her. With every word, Christine felt her eyebrows rising ever closer toward her hairline.
"He came for us not long after the fire started. I didn't even know; the smoke had not reached ground level yet. Had I waited—for it was very hard to think of going—who knows what would have happened? Yet he came for us, and Erik, Meg, and I have remained together these past months."
Meg interrupted. "I call him Uncle, Christine! Could you ever have imagined it? The Phantom of the Opéra? Every time I think of it, I have to laugh. He is not as he was in the theater. He bought me hair ribbons! Never once has he bullied us or been cruel. Even when I started teaching at the school, he has made me keep all my wages." Christine could only gape. Mme. Giry patted her hand.
"You should give him a chance, my dear. He has changed a great deal."
Christine's mind was spinning. It was too much information, and none of it made any sense. "You mean … he pays for all of this?" Mme. Giry nodded but said nothing. She had more questions than her mouth could form words for. She kept coming back to the same thought—he is alive. She must have said it aloud, because Meg squeezed her hand.
"Were you so sure, then, that he was dead?" Mme. Giry asked gently. Christine nodded. "Can you tell us?" She had not spoken of it to a soul, even in confession. To say the words was more difficult than she would have guessed.
"There was a mob," she said after a moment. "We could hear them coming. He let—he let us go. By the time we reached the theater, there was smoke everywhere. We took a horse. Raoul took us to his family's house. He was hurt and ill. The next day, they said the opera house was destroyed. He lived so far underground, and we had the boat, and they were coming for him. I never thought—I was sure he had died." She wanted to cry, but there were no tears left in her. She stared down into her cup, and so she missed the long, solemn look that passed between the Giry women.
"But what happened before?" Meg asked. "We saw you fall down under the stage. I don't know about Maman, but I know that I worried whether you had survived."
Christine gawked at her friend. "The Angel didn't tell you?" There was another of those measured looks between mother and daughter.
"No," Mme. Giry said. "Erik has told us nothing of that night." Christine's nerves snapped, and she jumped up from her chair, pacing around the room. Even she could hear the childish whine in her voice.
"Erik! How is it that you so easily call him Erik and Uncle, and whatever pet names you have invented, while I was kept always in the dark?" Her hands clenched reflexively at her sides, and Mme. Giry gaped at her.
"You never knew his name?"
"No!" Christine cried out, and it seemed that she did have tears left after all. Mme. Giry sighed.
"Child, you cannot do this tonight. It is too much. We have a great deal to say to one another—all of us—but not until you have had some rest." They tucked her into Meg's bed, and she was asleep before she had time to protest. Mme. Giry sat for a long time afterward, staring into the fire.