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Chapter 4
Christine leaned back in the carriage as they sped through the streets of Paris. When she dared to peer out of the window, all she could see was a blur of buildings, a sea of faces and fog, heavy fog everywhere. Christine toyed with the idea that perhaps this was just a fantasy, and that she was really still back in the Cathedral, promising herself to Raoul for all time before God and man. What a thought…
"Arret!" the driver roughly bellowed. The horses came to a halt, their iron-shod hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Christine slid off the narrow bench and onto the floor of the carriage. No, this was not a fantasy. Fantasies do not result in barked shins and broken fingernails.
Christine could recognize the Rue St. Denis from her vantage inside the carriage. People thronged here, eager to enter or leave the city through the majestic archway, one of the mighty gates of Paris. A customs officer approached the carriage for his appointed inspection. Christine shrank from the doorway and put the window shade down. She did not wish to be found!
As the customs officer put his hand on the door handle, he was distracted by the familiar jingle of coins in a sack. Christine saw the driver's hand lower the bag to the customs officer, who grabbed it with alacrity. The official stepped away from the door and gave a sharp rap to the carriage's side. And they were on their way—through the city's south gate, into the French countryside.
It was astonishing, the way the crowded environs of the city became tranquil farmland within a few minutes' ride. The air was fresher, sweeter somehow. A few more minutes, and the fog dissipated into pearly wisps that caressed the damp fields. The driver slowed the carriage to spare the horses. The gentle rocking motion lulled Christine into closing her eyes for just a moment…
They were stopped. Christine's eyes flew open. She pulled up the window shade to see a humble country inn before her. Where was she? Was this the safe place Mme. Giry had promised her? Christine opened the window and leaned her head out.
"Driver! Have we arrived?" Christine began to open the carriage's door, but a strong hand on the other side prevented her.
"My lady," the driver began. He had a peculiarly high, almost distorted voice. "One of the horses has thrown a shoe. He will be ready directly. Please, my lady, stay where you are."
Christine settled herself back in the carriage. There was something about that voice. She leaned out again. The driver was harnessing the lead horse, tending the animal with care. She could not make out his face, but he seemed—familiar.
"Driver! Please come here." The coachman neared, only to stand flush against the side of the carriage. Christine could not make out his face. "What is your wish, my lady?" Again, that odd, strangled sound.
"I-I'm thirsty. May I have a drink of water?" Christine sank back onto the narrow bench. She sounded like a little girl! A dipper full of cold, clean water from the inn's well was thrust through the open window. Christine took it and drank it down greedily. A black-gloved hand retrieved it from her.
"Do you need anything else, my lady?" Was it the inflection of his voice? Something…"No, that was all. Thank you for driving me, sir." Christine shook her head. It was probably nothing.
"Mademoiselle, I am your obedient servant." The driver clambered to his seat and took up the traces. The carriage moved forward again. The sun was now high in the sky. The road had dried out and they made good progress.
As the miles slipped away, Christine felt a wave of inexplicable joy sweep over her heart. For the first time in weeks, really, she had a sense of hope. Without realizing it, Christine began to hum a tune from Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro; Cherubino's entrance aria.
Non so piu cosa son, cosa faccio, Or di foco, ora sono di ghiaccio
"Breathe"
Ogni donna cangiar di colore,
"Open"
Ogni donna mi fa palpitar.
"Relax!"
Ogni donna mi fa palpitar! Ogni donna mi fa palpitar!
"Transition!"
Christine wasn't in the carriage any more. She was again in the Opera Populaire, singing with her beloved Angel of Music. His voice all around her, taking her through each phrase of the music, listening to her, supporting her. Creating a thing of beauty that belonged to both of them. Heedless, without shame or self-consciousness, Christine sang in time to the horses' hooves, to the turning of the carriage wheels.
The sound floated up to the coachman. He knew every beat, every semi-quaver of that aria. The driver could barely keep his eyes on the road, for they were flooded with tears.
