Regarding Madame Giry: to the best of my knowledge, neither Leroux nor ALW give us her first name. Some works of fanfiction, both published and online, call her Antoinette; others I have seen include Adele, Charlotte and even Marguerite. I decided on Agathe because I think it suits her.
Today's trivia: The title of this chapter comes from a song by Cold Chisel. If you are not familiar with it, the lyrics are worth a look.
Chapter 14 – When the War Is Over
More than once, Raoul had been on the verge of giving up the search as futile. The Bois de Boulogne was vast, and Christine, walking on foot and unconstrained by the carriage-ways, could be anywhere within it – if she was in the park at all. He was not certain why he persevered so obstinately in heeding the concierge's advice, except that he could not stand the thought of sitting alone in his study like an invalid; he wanted to move, to feel that he was doing something purposeful and sensible. Was it sensible, to wander through a park for hours, his heart leaping at every passerby who bore the slightest resemblance to Christine? Was it sensible, to fear that if he did not find her now, he never would?
A landau rolled past. For the briefest moment Raoul thought the dark-haired girl reclining on the plush seat was Christine. She was not. He took the next turn into yet another unexplored path and kept walking.
Gradually the shadows deepened, turning the foliage of the ancient trees dark-green and casting long purple shapes upon the footpaths. Raoul glanced at his fob-watch; it was after seven, and the sun was starting to set. More and more of the people he met along the paths were coming the other way, heading back home or to the cafés or the theatres, emptying the park of voices. After a while, he could hear only the unseen birds.
That was how he found her in the end: by her voice in the growing stillness.
He had turned into a wide alley that led to the lake, and heard laughter. And there they were: two slender figures seated on one of the wrought-iron benches alongside the path, silhouetted like black lace against the fiery glare of sunset. Meg and Christine talked in low, animated voices, their laughter carrying in the still-warm air.
It was mean to resent this laughter, Raoul thought. Irrational. He could not help it.
He walked toward them with a rapid gait, spurred by betrayal.
"Bon soir."
The laughter stopped; Christine's head shot up.
"What a charming coincidence, mademoiselle. You're looking well, I see."
"Raoul..."
"Oh, you remember me."
The moment the words were out, Raoul knew he had spoken with the voice of his father, with the acid sarcasm he himself had always detested. A terrible gulf of remorse opened inside him, but he could not apologise.
The remnants of joy froze in Christine's face, then melted away, leaving nothing. Raoul thought wretchedly, I take away her joy.
Christine stood up, nervously smoothing the dark skirt that made her seem again the fatherless child, dry-eyed at his funeral. Beside her, Meg said something and went away. Raoul heard her footsteps fading.
He had thought of a thousand things to say while he searched for Christine: about her, about him, about the Phantom, about letting go of the past. All sensible words, all hollow. Instead, he reached into his pocket for the ring:
"You ran off," he said, "and left something behind. Like Cinderella." Raoul smiled crookedly. He had not known it was possible, with his heart breaking.
Christine did not take the ring from his palm, but only looked at it, and then at her own hands. She sighed.
"Please... No more stories."
"You used to love them."
Christine flinched. "I still do. I'm just – not Cinderella, Raoul. Nor Little Lotte, nor any of the others. Only me."
"Don't you think I know that? Christine, I'm in love with you. Not with some story."
Christine reached one gloved hand to touch his sleeve; a light, impossibly careful caress, as though she feared she had no right to it. Then she bit her lip, hard.
"I am not in love with you."
Raoul exhaled a breath. He looked aside, to the sunlit path. At its end, the lake glimmered through branches.
"I do love you, with all my heart," Christine's voice was breaking, quietly. "You mean more to me than anyone else in this world. The things you and I remember – the stories, my father's music – everything that's happened, everything that was ours. But I can't keep hurting you—"
"Then don't."
Raoul turned back, his mouth set, and looked at her squarely. Christine's face was half in shadow from the tree behind her, and she stood there, helpless, stranded – just as she had stood on the edge of the underground lake a lifetime ago, knowing there was nothing she could do. I love you, she had promised him silently, only her lips moving.
"One more story," Raoul said, abruptly. "I'll tell you one."
Christine looked at him in consternation, as well she might: Raoul supposed it was only fair; they both knew he had never been one for storytelling. He looked down at his shoes; kicked at a piece of gravel by the bench.
"Let's sit," he suggested.
They sat awkwardly, careful not to touch. All very proper, now. After a pause, he asked:
"Have you ever seen a poppy-seed rattle?"
Christine darted him a surprised glance. "No... I don't think so."
"I have. My father gave me one, when I was small."
"Your father?"
"I suppose he thought it was a curious thing. Maybe he just wanted to give me something." Raoul shrugged, dismissing the question. "It looked strange. A dry, hollow pod on a stalk, with seeds inside. When I shook it, it made a noise like whispers. And I thought – what if I plant the seeds? I could have poppies, hundreds of them."
"I remember the fields," Christine agreed. "Near a town where Father played. They were beautiful."
"That's what I thought, too. So I broke the pod. It cracked open in my hands, and the seeds came out. There were so many, enough for a field. I only had a small patch, in my parents' old house. I planted them, and watered them faithfully, every single day. Only, Christine – nothing grew. Not one plant. Days passed, and then weeks, and nothing happened."
"Why not? Was it too cold?"
"Perhaps. I'm afraid I know no more about poppies now than I did then. But they did not grow. When at last I realised they never would, I remembered that rattle, and the noise it had made. And how my father had looked at me when he gave it to me. And I realised that – I'd destroyed it. I wanted something better, and I destroyed what I had. It was beautiful, that dry thing. In its own way."
He was silent for a while, looking at the bench, the trees, the path.
"We were good friends, Christine. A long time ago."
From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod.
"I wanted to grow old with you," he said simply. "I thought we could be happy."
"So did I. Raoul, I just... Maybe I'm poisoned inside. I don't know how to be happy. From all those stories, I never learned that."
"You are happy. Without me."
"Raoul..."
"Could I kiss you?"
He saw Christine's refusal in her imploring eyes. He ran his hands over his face, roughly. "You kissed the Phantom."
He had not meant to accuse her. He sighed, "Why did you ask Madame Giry for his name?"
"I didn't. This isn't about him."
"No. But what if he should come back to haunt you? I swore to keep you safe."
Christine only looked at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Then she shook her head very slightly, and Raoul understood. Her future was closed to him. Her fears were not his to soothe, nor her grief, her laughter, her kiss... Whatever lay ahead – it was no longer his to share. He could not keep her safe now, she wanted to do it herself.
Christine was saying good-bye.
"I could wait," he said at last. "Until November... until you want."
Her tears did fall then, and Raoul knew that these, too, were not his to wipe away. "It is like your poppy-seeds," she said. "They will not grow."
"Yes, I know... You're right."
He rose to his feet numbly, offering his hand to help her up.
"Forgive me, I must go. Allow me to offer you my carriage to take you home; Georges is waiting at the gates." He indicated the direction he had come from.
She looked bewildered. "But what about you?"
"I am expected at Reboul's for supper; it isn't far. I shall walk." He tipped his hat at her and nodded respectfully, in farewell. "My apologies for interrupting your conversation earlier. I will let Georges know to wait for you on my way out. Have a good evening, Christine."
"Raoul, wait!"
He turned in polite inquiry.
"Could we not still be friends? Please..."
He reached forward and took her hand gently, her fingers in his, then let go. "Of course," he said graciously. "We shall always remain friends."
He left her standing near the bench, lit by the last of the sun behind her as though on stage once again. He thought he saw her raise a hand towards him, but he could not look.
When Raoul reached the next bench, he nodded at Meg in passing, to let her know that he had finished taking up Christine's time. His vision seemed blurred a little; the iron gates up ahead appeared to waver like the air above a burning lamp. It did not last long. He reached the row of carriages lined up along the road outside, and found Georges, bored and leafing through a penny magazine of caricatures. The big man reacted without surprise to the instructions regarding conveying the ladies home; Raoul left the matter there and walked on along the footpath until he was out of sight of the carriages. He stopped and looked up at the park to his left, at the wall of trees behind the iron fence and higher, at the colourless sky of early evening. He took out the ring, and pitched it into the thicket.
The diamond winked in the fading light, and disappeared. If its fall made a sound, Raoul did not hear it.
He did not go to Reboul's for supper. The prospect of half a dozen of his friends gathered for food and banter was physically repulsive. Instead, he walked through the city until he could no longer move his legs, and then sat in some all-night café-concert with his chin in his hands, listening to one song succeed another, each of them different, all about love.
In the morning, he returned home to wash, shave and change his clothes. He was perfectly composed when he went to tell his parents. His mother sighed with relief; his father expressed approval with a grip of his shoulder and the offer of a drink, as though it was some sort of celebration. Raoul spent the morning being a dutiful son, and the afternoon being a dutiful patron, smiling at everyone at some art exhibition.
He tried to recall what he had done with his days, before Christine – but he could not remember.
o o o
"Are you all right?" Meg asked, coming to the bench next to which Christine stood, statue-like. Meg squinted against the sunlight. "Would you like to go home?"
Christine shook her head, then glanced back over her shoulder. "Let's walk to the lake."
"It's getting late. Maman will be worried if we're not home for supper."
"We will be; Raoul left us the carriage."
"Left it? What do you mean?"
"He said he would walk, and that Georges will drive us home."
"Christine, you're crying..."
"I know."
Meg went to hug her, but it was like embracing a stone; Christine stood unmoving in the circle of her arms, uncomforted. She made no protest, but Meg knew to leave her to her grief. It was all she could do.
They walked side by side to the lake, as the sun set. The surface shivered in the lightest wind, the water black under the flecks of golden light.
Christine took off a glove and picked up a pebble, then another. Meg thought she would throw them in the water, but she only looked at them for a while, then dropped them to the ground. A flock of ducks rose off the water, quacking and screaming, and disappeared past the trees on the other side.
"It's getting cold," said Christine. "And I don't want to keep Georges waiting. We should go."
"Was it – difficult?" Meg asked, when they turned back along the alley towards the exit. She chided herself mentally for such a clumsy question.
"Yes."
"You are strange, Christine. To do this to yourself..."
"You keep saying that."
"I'm sorry. I'm young and naïve; I'll understand when I'm older."
Meg was gratified to hear the small laugh Christine could not repress – there was only eight months between them. "How do you do this, Meg?"
"What?"
"Make everything seem so... normal."
Meg shrugged, "Everything is normal. If you let it be."
Christine gave her an uncertain smile. "You have an odd idea of 'normal'..."
"Well, I did grow up in an opera house."
Christine shook her head at that, but Meg noticed that she relaxed slightly, and walked with a lighter step.
They came out of the park and onto the street, heading toward Avenue de Neuilly. The street lamps had been lit even though it was still early, and the pale halos of gaslight seemed tenuous against a sky not yet dark. Only three or four carriages were still waiting, and they had no trouble finding the right one. Georges spotted them, hopping down from his box-seat, and he and Christine exchanged all the usual words of greeting while he helped them inside. The door was closed behind them, and they drove off.
The gates of the fortifications reared ahead, welcoming, and then they were again inside the city proper, with its lively cafés and dance-halls, promenading couples and tourists; the endless shimmering lights glowing brighter and brighter against the blue dusk.
It was strange to be there with Christine, watching her stare out the window as though determined to ignore the familiar space inside, devoid of Raoul's presence.
"I shouldn't ask you this," Meg said, "but I will. Are you—"
"Don't ask me if I am sure, Meg. Please don't ask."
She leaned her forehead against the glass, and cried noiselessly all the way home.