Did it count as bravery, that she got in the carriage, boarded the train, even though it terrified her to do so? Despite having decided that this was what she wanted, it was one thing to fix on a plan and quite another to carry it out. She had not given much thought to the notion that she would be entirely alone. And when it came time to say goodbye, everything seemed so final. She wished that she had not been wearing gloves, that she had been able to feel Erik's lips on her hand.
She settled herself into the ladies' carriage. An older woman in half-mourning smiled at her—her hazel eyes were surrounded by a web of smile lines, and Christine was comforted by the thought that she might have an ally, or at least someone to talk to. A stern-looking woman with two small children sat in the back, and a frumpy girl was sleeping with her head against the window. Christine sat close to the older woman, far enough not to crowd but close enough to leave conversation open. She was glad the carriage was so empty, but when the train finally started, it was very loud, and it shook horribly. She settled into her seat and pulled Erik's gift from her travel bag.
The black ribbon made her smile. In times past, she had fretted over these ribbons, because his gifts of single roses confused her as to whether he was flesh or spirit, or because he had frightened her, or because she felt choked by his pervasive presence. Now, she felt so gentle toward him. She was glad he had done it—added this ribbon—no matter how unconsciously. The silk of the package itself was beautiful, the color of blood. She would have to think how best to use it. Her fingers hesitated over unwrapping the gift, although she did not know why.
She heaved a great sigh as her fingers stroked the cloth. Something in her relaxed, a tautness that she had been holding since that conversation in the middle of the night, when they had reached their understanding, when she had put her arms around his broad shoulders and drunk in his scent, his presence. "Let the miles pass," she thought. Let distance divide them, that she might have a clear head and know her heart. She had been muddled by him, by the shock that he lived and all that had been unresolved between them.
She had always been muddled by his presence. It was part of why she had thrown herself at Raoul—with him she was still herself. Erik consumed her. And was that what she wanted? These few days, it had seemed so. It was too much to bear. She must find her way, find silence. She blessed her own strength, that she had kept quiet, kept away from him. She was a foolish girl, and if she had yielded to the temptation of him and later changed her mind—for how could she know that she would not? There would be nothing more terrible. At worst, he would not survive it. No. She had proved herself fickle, and for the sake of any man who might love her, she would keep silent until she could trust herself.
Still she had not opened the gift. She would have to break herself of this habit of staring for long moments into the distance. She would have to get used again to hard work. How difficult would it be to secure an audition at the Royal Opera? She hoped that Mme. Giry was right, that her name would count for something. She knew her voice was good enough at least for the chorus, and that would give her a living, however meager. If that could happen soon, she could save the Comte's money and be assured of safety even when she was old.
She laughed a little at herself, that she had done it again and was still sitting with the little package on her lap, finding any excuse not to open it, as if he'd wrapped up a scorpion for her. She drew off the ribbon, smoothed it through her fingers. The piece of silk was quite large, but after she had unwrapped two folds, the shape began to feel familiar to her hands and her breath caught in her throat. She had to make herself keep going as her hands began to shake—her heart was thudding in her chest and she could not get enough air. How had he managed it? Tears dripped down onto that face, so beloved, so missed. The glass was cracked, but Papa's portrait was undamaged. If she had thought it still existed, she would have been miserable to leave this behind, but she had assumed that it was destroyed along with everything else.
Erik must have gone back to the Opéra to get it for her. What danger had he risked for it? For all she knew, the gendarmes still patrolled to find him. The entire building could have fallen on him. That he had done this for her was shattering. Had she opened it at the flat, she never would have left. There could be no better gift. She clutched her father's portrait to her chest and sobbed.