As it had always been, to silently watch told Erik more than asking questions ever could. Christine was as jumpy as a deer, but her eyes were not fearful when she looked at him—confusion was there, certainly, and hesitation, but not fear. He had very nearly laughed at Giry's comment about her laziness, remembering how much doing it had taken on his part to cow her into putting half the effort into her singing that he wanted. Of course, now that he thought about it, his demands had probably been unrealistic. The outlook was quite different from a place of regular meals, adequate sleep, and a warm home that didn't drip constantly. Then talk turned to women's fashion, and his attention wandered to topics more interesting (anything else, really).
So when she said, "before I go," his attention wrenched back toward her with a nearly audible snap, and his belly turned to ice. His own "go where?" left his mouth before he could control himself.
Christine drew back into herself until she seemed very small. Where had she picked up that habit of twisting her fingers? It looked painful. An age passed before she spoke.
"I have money," she said in a low voice. "You all know very well that I will never work in Paris again." Erik felt sure that the accusation in her voice was meant for him.
"And I know the salary they paid you," Giry said, "and how little of it you saved. I ask again—what money?"
"I don't see why you care to know!" she shouted. Dread was creeping steadily along Erik's spine.
Apparently Giry's thoughts were much the same, for she asked softly, "What have you done, child?"
Christine was evidently in a rage—she jumped up out of her chair and paced in front of the fire. "I haven't done anything!" she said. "And even if I have, what right do you have to judge me for it?" She turned to him and hissed, "Any of you? I have done what I must to survive!"
Then she collapsed where she was and sat on the floor sobbing. Meg was at her side at once; Erik discovered himself to be standing. Giry was also standing, staring down at Christine with her mouth drawn into a thin line. She let the girl cry for a moment, then thumped her cane on the floor in true ballet-mistress fashion. They all of them jumped.
"I asked you a question, girl. Who gave you money?"
He gripped the back of his chair hard enough to hurt. It was a necessary distraction. He would not—must not—think of her giving herself to that boy. Must not picture her lying beneath him, God, must not hear her voice crying out, "Raoul."
"The Comte de Chagny," Christine spat. The—what?
Meg asked for him. "The Comte?"
Bitterness ran through each of Christine's words. "Of course. So I wouldn't marry Raoul, you know. So that I can go as far away as possible." She glanced up at Giry. "And it's a sight better than things half a dozen of your other girls have done, so I'll thank you to keep quiet about it!"
Giry's brows were still drawn, but her mouth softened. "Is that what it came to, then? I am sorry."
Christine stood, unsteadily, with tears running down her cheeks but her eyes still angry.
"Are you? I can't imagine what you're sorry for. After all, you had your own selves to look after."
At that, Meg started to cry. "Christine, how can you be so cruel? I missed you every day! And when you wrote and said you weren't getting married, well, I was miserable! How can you speak so? We are your friends!"
The look she shot him was pure venom. "Are you?" she said. "Are you all?"
Just when he had begun to hope, she made it clear. She did hate him. Surely it was nothing more than he deserved, after all he had done. It took every speck of will, but he bowed to her calmly, even as his mind raged and his heart broke all over again.
"Mademoiselle, it would have been my greatest honor if you had considered me your friend."
After that, he could only concentrate on keeping his back straight, his steps measured. He could do nothing about the trembling of his hands. Erik counted his steps. Twelve to the doorway. Thirty down the hall, and then at last he was in the haven of his own room and could sink to his knees, could at last gasp and sob with the pain that flooded him. "You all know very well that I will never work in Paris again." He had not considered it, but it must be true. She had a reputation for scandal, and while audiences might forgive, managers and other singers would not. She was right to blame him. It was entirely his fault.
Erik tore off his cravat—he could not get enough air. As his fingers fumbled with his collar, he noted how familiar this choking, grinding pain was. It took him a moment to place—that last night at the Opéra, when she had torn off his mask.
She must have known that it was the worst kind of betrayal, to expose his hideousness to the world. The memories would not be pushed aside. He could very nearly feel the music in his throat, even as he gasped. She had known immediately when he had joined her on stage; she had gone rigid and then slowly relaxed, and when she sang at him—to him—he had staggered under the force of her voice, the fire underneath it. For years he had tried to coach her into singing with her very heart, not just lungs and throat. He had thought it was him, had arrogantly, stupidly assumed that his music had finally touched her. Then she had exposed him, and it was just like all of his nightmares, down to the screams and the calls for his head.
He had thought he was so powerful, that he could keep her forever. They played the same pattern over and over: in his lair, at the ball, in the graveyard, on the catwalk. He would draw her in and she would come close before she spurned him. The viper, she had taken all she could from him and made sure to hurt him at every turn. He had not seen it. She had played him for a fool. Groaning, he bent until his head touched the floor. He could not even cry.