Chapter Twenty-six
A price on his head...
For a moment, it seemed as if a demon was whispering in what was left of Erik's soul.
Let the Germans find this boy...you could arrange it...hand him over to the Germans...take Christine away...she wouldn't have to know...she would be yours forever...let the Nazis deal with him the way they dealt with you...
The way the Germans dealt with me...oh, God...no!
He involuntarily raised his hand to his mask, hoping Christine had not seen the shudder that passed through him.
He remembered the chill of that stone floor oozing into his weary body, the taste of his own blood, the pain without end, the unappeasable brutality of his captors, of the horrifying knowledge that he would never see her again...and then the oblivion...the emptiness of memory that was a blessing...he would never know exactly what they had done to him...only the results of those days of agony.
He drew a chair close to the sofa and sat down in front of her.
"Christine, tell me everything that happened...from the moment you left Paris," he said tensely, fighting the urge to take her in his arms and hold her, to promise her that all would be well.
She reached out and laid her hand on his knee.
"I trust you now, Erik, as I always have."
"Tell me everything," he repeated, forcing himself not to flinch at her touch and at her confidence in him.
"I didn't want to leave Paris without you. I want to stay with Sam, to look for you. He insisted that I go, that it was what you wanted. I went to Marseilles and waited for you to come. Or for some news from Sam. Days went by without word. I was so sick with fear, not knowing where you were...not knowing if I would ever see you again. Then the note came...telling me that you were dead. Oh, Erik, you don't know what it was like!"
"I don't want to know, Christine. Go on."
As he spoke, he gently removed her hand from his knee. It was so cold and small. He wanted only to hold it between his own, to warm it, to feel her slim fingers lace with his own. He did not dare, knowing he would never let her go.
"When I read those terrible words, I must have fainted in the hotel lobby. But a passerby carried me up to the little room I was sharing with a family from Rouen."
Oh, my poor Christine...I left you at the mercy of strangers, didn't I?
He didn't want to think of her like that...a frightened girl lost amid hundred of refugees...frightened, frantic...helpless.
"When I came to, I found an old friend at my side. I hadn't seen Raoul de Chagny in so many years, but he and I played together as children...he remembered me and was so kind, so helpful."
Suddenly, she slipped off the sofa and onto her knees before him. He saw the plea in her eyes, a cry for mercy...
"Erik, I was alone...I was frightened...I had no one...and he was so good to me. Then he asked me to marry him."
He reached down and cupped her delicate jaw with his fingers. Her skin was damp and he wondered why he hadn't noticed the tears.
"Christine, how long...how long did you wait...after you received Sam's note...before you married this de Chagny?"
"Six days," she whispered.
Six days...six days...
He felt himself drowing in his own rage, felting in closing over him like stagnant water.
He kicked back his chair and jumped to his feet, letting Christine fall away from him.
She could not even wait a week...damn her.