Thirteen

When Christine awoke, she was utterly disoriented. There was light around her, but it was fading— she was warm, wrapped in bedclothes, and the walls were white. For a moment she thought she must have been back in her bedroom at home, a little girl still, and any moment her father would come in, smiling, and request her to wake and dress for the day, to come down and help him make breakfast—

Then she remembered he was dead, and she was grown. Young, but grown. And perhaps this room was her room in the boarding house, and perhaps she still sang at the Opera Populaire, and perhaps Raoul was only a boy she had known long ago, and her Erik would be there tonight, to give her lessons—

She comforted herself with this fiction for some time, lying quiet, eyes dreamy and unfocused, as the light grew dim and shadows grew long. As long as she was undisturbed she was content to believe this dream, this lovely fantasy that nothing could be wrong, that all was right with the world—

The moment Raoul entered the room she knew it was a lie.

His face was white and strained, there were dark shadows under his eyes. He swallowed and looked disgusted at the sight of her, looked as though he couldn't bear her presence— but forced himself to walk over to her and sit stiffly in a chair at her side.

She knew something was wrong, but she didn't know what. She stared at him, confused.

"Raoul, what is it?"

He swallowed again. "I was wondering when you would wake up."

"But—" she said, and could not think of the words she wanted.

"The doctor said to let you rest. I suppose it was the best thing, and I assume you are feeling much stronger after such a long slumber."

"Long slumber— Raoul—"

"Are you hungry? I will have the maid bring you something to eat."

There was something he was not telling her, something escaping her mind—

There was a voice in her head; it cried and it moaned, but she could not understand the words—

Then suddenly, she did.

She stared at Raoul in horror.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"You need not worry, I have taken good care of you."

"How long, Raoul?"

The muscles of his face worked, and finally he said, quietly, "The irony of it almost amuses me. Three days."

"Erik!"

She flung back the bedcovers and stood up immediately, fighting off a wave of nausea. Raoul leapt to his feet and tried to constrain her— with all her strength she placed her hands on his chest and shoved him back into the chair. He fell awkwardly, staring up at her in utter disbelief.

"You are mad, Christine!"

"Perhaps I am!" she screamed at him. "How could you keep me here, how could you keep me away from Erik when he is dying! He swore he would die if I did not come back— you have killed him, Raoul!"

He stood back up, his hands bunched into fists. "Good if I have!" he bellowed back. "He deserves to die— he is not fit to live! He has ruined my life, Christine, mine and yours— he took our lives together away from us! And you were his willing accomplice in this murder— if you wish to return to me, you will have to beg me, Christine— beg my forgiveness and throw yourself on the mercy of society."

She stared at him, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Raoul forced his fists to unclench and took a long, shuddering breath.

"He has taken your purity from you, Christine," he said.

Christine's face burnt bright red and again she lifted her arms and pounded her fists on Raoul's chest as hard as she could. "How dare you!" she screamed. "How dare you say such a thing! He did nothing— do you hear me, Raoul de Chagny? Erik is the least guilty of us all!"

Raoul's face had gone white and he stumbled back, away from her. She followed, her teeth clenched and her eyes flashing fire, reaching out to hit him again, hurt him any way she could.

"I cannot believe you! After everything— I loved you, Raoul— I gave you my heart—"

"And I gave you mine," he mumbled, looking embarrassed, looking betrayed. Christine stopped, stood still and put her hands down at her sides.

"I am sorry," she said. "Deeply sorry, Raoul. But if I have betrayed you now, I betrayed Erik long ago. I gave him my heart first. He is the one with a rightful claim."

Raoul stared at the floor, unwilling and unable to meet her gaze. She stood some minutes more, bringing her breathing back under control, gaining some measure of composure.

"I thank you for watching over me, for wanting to protect me," she said. "But I am not mad, Raoul— at least, not that way. And if I am mad in Erik's manner— well, I must return to him, and we will be mad together."

He stepped away from her and went to the window. The Paris of early evening unfolded beneath him.

"I must return," she said again. "I do not know how long he has left— I see death in his eyes— smell it on his breath— he tastes of it." She shivered suddenly. "I belong with him, for as long as possible."

"Do you love him," Raoul enquired, in a voice so low that she almost didn't catch it.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

He turned his head back to the window without another word.

"I must go. I— I do not expect to see you again— Monsieur de Chagny."

"Do not say that, Christine. Erik may be dying, but you will not die with him. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you, and I—" He faltered, his pride unwilling to let him finish. But Christine understood.

"I am sorry," she said once again, and left. He heard her footsteps down the hall, and after some minutes saw her emerge onto the street beneath him, head turning this way and that to discern which direction she should go. A small smile quirked his lips, a smile of sadness and regret— and hope.

"Au revoir—" he breathed, his breath making a small cloud on the window pane. "—Madame Opera Ghost.