Chapter Thirty
Christine sat before the mirror in the hotel room. She had washed away the traces of her tears, but her lips were still bruised from the severity of Erik's kiss. She prayed her husband would not notice.
As she went through the motions of pinning up her hair, she felt herself plunging into a deeper grief than ever. The Erik she had loved in Paris was indeed dead. The masked...no, unmasked man...who had handled her so roughly in that little apartment above the nightclub was not the same man she'd wanted more than life.
She knew she would never cease to mourn for him.
Raoul was fastening his cufflinks when there was a knock at the door. Cautiously, Raoul opened it a few inches until he recognized the hotel's bellboy.
"A package for Madame de Chagny," the lad said, with an amiable little bob of his head towards Christine.
She saw the parcel he held. It was the shawl Erik had bought for her that morning. She had forgotten it when she saw the terrible ruin of his face...when he kissed her so brutally.
"For my wife," Raoul said, glancing suspiciously at the plain wrapping. A bold hand written the hotel's name on the paper, beneath it were the words Madame de Chagny.
Christine rose quickly and took it from the boy.
"Oh, it's nothing. Just a shawl I bought in the market this morning...something to remember Casablanca by," she said with a smile she hoped was light and easy, "I didn't feel like carrying it around the bazaar so I asked that it be sent round to the hotel."
Her explaination seemed to satisfy Raoul who tipped the lad and sent him away.
"I'm sorry, Christine. I didn't mean to sound so nervous. But my meeting with Monsieur Philippe...well, I will explain to you later. Come, we should be going now."
Christine fastened her pearl bracelet around her wrist.
She did not want to go back to La Belle Reve...not knowing that Erik was so close, but lost to her forever.
Suddenly, she unwrapped the shawl and, with a surge of defiance, swirled in over her shoulders. It seemed a perfect match for her simple ivory silk dress.
"It's beautiful, dearest," Raoul said, taking her arm, "it suits you."
Erik tore the frame from the wall of his darkened bedroom.
He pulled the picture of Christine free from the wood and glass. He was only vaguely aware that his hands were shaking violently as he tore it to pieces.
Every sharp rip of the heavy paper was like a curse in the stillness.
She will never forgive you now...
The pieces of her portrait fluttered across the floor and he stepped on them as he bend to pick up the envelope.
He tucked the letters of transit inside his dinner jacket and, checking to make certain his mask was secure on his face, went down to his office.
And you don't want her forgiveness...