The Girys would begin at the Comédie Française on the first of the month, which left them just under three weeks to prepare. Meg quit her job at the day school and announced her intention to spend the time "doing absolutely nothing, as it's the last chance I get until my legs give out." She accomplished this admirably.
Erik thought that he would not stay in Paris. The thought of a cottage in the country—or perhaps by the sea—appealed to him. He could have solitude and inspiration both, with the added bonus of not having to worry that someone would realize he was the Opéra Ghost and turn him in for the bounty. The sea would be better. He had never seen the ocean, but the thought of pounding waves and the unceasing rhythm of waves appealed to him. He began to sketch plans for a small house—just in case, he told himself.
A letter from Christine arrived sooner than any of them would have expected, and Erik's breath caught when Giry handed him a small piece of paper with his name on it. He put this into his pocket for later reading. He felt that Meg was expressing his own raptures at her good luck in so quickly finding friends and a place to live and at her joy in her home town. That she betrayed some nervousness over the prospect of trying to get an audition at the opera surprised him not at all, but he knew the quality of her voice. They would be fools not to take her. Of course, it sounded as if her new friends were telling her the same thing. Between that and the fact that they were all old women, he approved of them wholeheartedly. That each of them was finding her place pleased him a great deal. He hoped that he would be half so fortunate.
Late that night, Erik sat on his bed and unfolded Christine's note. He felt that he could look at it forever, his name written in her hand—although the artist in him did note that she had not been a very attentive student of penmanship. Still, it was from her, and that was everything. As many notes as he had sent over the years, this was the first he had ever received.
Erik—I cannot think of what to write to let you know how grateful I am. Of all the things anyone could give me, nothing could mean more than to have my father's portrait back. And now I have been able to bring him home again. I have so much to thank you for. Thank you, thank you, thank you, my dear friend and teacher. You have given me back a piece of my own heart. Always, Christine.
Erik touched the page as gently as if it was her face. Dear friend and teacher. Always. He blessed his own instinct that had driven him to the opera house to retrieve the picture. For all that they had set to rights between them, he felt that he still owed her a great debt—and yet she had much to thank him for? He had known too many years of misery; he did not know what to do with this gentle conversation, with this fluttering in his heart that might just be joy. He read the letter many times before he folded it away, and for months he carried it in his pocket like a talisman.
He fixed on heading west as soon as the Girys moved, which their landlady, Mme. Bronet, declared to be very convenient, even if she did cheerfully complain about losing such quiet, reliable tenants. She even asked to take Aimée, whose relief was palpable when she was presented with the idea. She had changed in their months together from a jumpy scarecrow into quite the study little person (if shy). Erik was extremely glad. He wrote back to Christine of his joy that she liked his gift and of his plans to go to the coast and write.
They were all glad enough of the change that they were packed early—Meg complained that she was down to one novel she had already read, and Erik did not have enough paper. He couldn't be too annoyed by it—he had learned so much about himself and had recovered his sanity in this small flat, with these two women. It was good to sit quietly with them and talk over the future.
With two days to go, he was finally prepared—train tickets bought, trunk packed, and his various accounts emptied. He had a tidy pile of money; perhaps he would not have to haunt any seaside amateur theatre troupe. Meg and Giry were out buying toe shoes and whatnot for their upcoming work. Erik found himself pacing the sitting room, spinning together a melody that he was scribbling into the flyleaf of a book. There was a commotion at the door, and then he heard the voice he least wanted to hear, calling out.
"Christine? Christine, darling, are you here?"
And then he was in the doorway, his enemy, with that damned perfect face. The Vicomte de Chagny stared at him for a moment, his expression one of growing horror.
"You!"