Chapter Seven
Slowly, Christine drifted back to consciousness. She felt a mattress beneath her body, smelled a man's cologne on her dress.
Someone had brought her back to the hotel room.
But who?
She heard a man's voice close by.
"She dropped this paper when she fainted, Madame Firmin. It must be the reason for her distress."
Who was he? It was not Louis Firmin. This man spoke excellent French, but with the faintest trace of an aristocratic accent.
The voice was somehow familiar, but she could not place it.
The paper...Sam's note...three words...Erik is dead...
She bit her lip until she tasted her own blood. She had to keep from screaming in front of this stranger.
"Madame, who is this Erik?"
"I don't know," she heard Berthe reply, "her husband perhaps. She said there was someone in Paris...a man."
"No, I don't think she is married. There is no wedding ring."
Erik...her teacher, her friend, her lover...gone. And she had nothing. Not even a photograph of him. Only the memory of his warmth and his embrace, of his voice and his smile...of his passion and his tenderness.
"I think she's waking up, poor girl," Berthe remarked as Christine stirred.
She opened her eyes and saw Madame Firmin sitting next to her bed. A man stood beside her. A pleasant-looking man, slim and well-dressed.
"Christine, you had us very worried."
She sat up slowly, wondering how he knew her name. Berthe gently pushed a pillow behind her back.
"When your mother first brougt you to Paris, we used to play together in the Bois," the man went on, holding out his hand to her, "you often wore a red shawl."
"Raoul," Christine said, remembering the little boy with golden hair, "Raoul de Chagny."
He had indeed been the playmate of her childhood. His father had been French, his mother the daughter of titled Englishman. They had been good friends until his parents were killed in an accident and he was sent to live with an uncle near London.
"I'm afraid we meet at a bad time, Christine. You must have some very bad news."
He was holding Sam's note. The paper was neatly folded, but the bitter words were there...unseen and unchanged.
"Yes, Raoul. Someone that I...someone close to me..."
She broke off and willingly let the tears choke her voice.
"Please...just leave me alone for a time...please..."
Raoul nodded. He remembered the sudden deaths of his parents. Sometimes, there was nothing one could do but give and let the anguish spent its fury.
He pressed a handkerchief into her hand and led Berthe from the room.
When they had gone, Christine huddled on the bed. Clutching at the pillow, she sobbed.
Erik...I love you.