When Fate is Denied

Ch. 4 – The Consequences of Kindness

In his haste to leave, the doctor did not notice the fine carriage parked in the shadows across the street. He did not see the handsome, young nobleman hurrying towards the door from whence he had just come. The collar of the young man's long jacket was turned up and he hunched forward slightly to fend off the incessant rain as he strode quickly across the slick cobblestone.

Inside, Erik sat once more in the chair beside Christine's sleeping form. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands tightly clasped beneath his chin as he stared unseeing toward the opposite wall. He glanced briefly at Christine. She was resting comfortably now, and he knew he should be doing the same. As difficult as this night had been, tomorrow was sure to prove a trial in and of itself, as the consequences of taking this woman into his home were sure to make themselves brutally clear in the light of day.

Erik sighed. He had really had no choice, of course. No matter what she had done, no matter how he denied it, he still cared for her. He could no sooner have allowed her to die than he could stop the beating of his own heart.

He dropped his face into his hands. No, whatever the cost of his actions, he could not regret them. Tomorrow, if she was well enough, he would ask her to explain what had caused her to take such a drastic course of action. If he was satisfied that the vicomte was in no way involved, he would have no choice but to notify him of his wife's whereabouts and return her to him, although he would certainly keep a closer eye out for her well being in the future. And if the vicomte were to be the cause...well, he would cross that bridge if and when he came to it.

Christine stirred slightly just then, and he turned to look at her once more. The maid and his elderly housekeeper, a rather motherly sort of woman, had bathed her and changed her into the light cotton nightdress after the doctor had concluded his examination. With her curls dry and plaited into a neat braid at the back of her head and the white cotton lace around her throat she looked agonizingly young and fragile – hardly older than the little girl he had seen enter the Opera Populaire with Madame Giry so many years ago.

He reached out and reverently brushed the back of his hand along the curve of her cheek. Touching her was like a drug to him, filling his cold emptiness with a warmth that he only felt when in contact with her skin. Remembering that it also had the same addictive qualities, he withdrew his hand abruptly and stood up to leave the room. He looked back at her once more and could not help but think that whatever the next few days might bring, he was thankful for the stolen moments alone with her that he had been granted tonight.

As he descended the staircase to give Henry and the staff instructions for Christine's care, he could not help but feel a tiny surge of hope. Obviously, something was amiss in Christine's marriage. He had always imagined she was blissfully happy in her life with the vicomte. Could it be that there may yet be a chance for him someday to be part of her life?

There was a loud knock at the door, and as he opened it, hope died in his chest as suddenly as it had come. It was instantly replaced by a far more familiar feeling - hatred. There on his doorstep was the Vicomte de Chagny.