Chapter 13

I cannot longer

hide my passion,

It must have vent,

Or inward burning

Will consume me!

-Semele, Act I, Scene I

Music suggestions: 'Your Hands Are Cold' played by Jean-Yves Thibaudet ('Pride and Prejudice' 2005 soundtrack); 'Addicted to a Certain Lifestyle' by David Arnold and Michael Price; 'The Woman' by David Arnold and Michael Price ('Sherlock Holmes' soundtrack)

A few days later

The days went by and Christine didn't hear a word from him. She knew she shouldn't expect it of him. She had no right. It was selfish, it was childish. But she couldn't help hoping all the same.

Each day Madame Giry brought some new good news. That same day he'd started drinking water by himself again; he couldn't stand being babied.

The next morning he was sitting up, eating, playing the violin, demanding coffee. When he started berating her for not grinding the beans properly, she knew he would be well.

When Christine learned the good news, she gave Madame Giry a letter to give to him. Thinking it was only a get-well note, she had delivered it without question.

She hadn't been expecting any reply. However, just a few hours later, when she came out of rehearsal, she found an envelope slid under the door of her practice-room. She snatched it up, her heart in her throat.

Inside was a sheet of letter-paper, with a single sentence on it, written so large it took up a whole side. She smiled in spite of herself.

Would seven o'clock on Monday on the rooftop be convenient? it said in the curious childlike scrawl she had come to love so much.

Convenient? she thought, almost laughing in her joy. It was more than convenient. It was the most welcome invitation she had ever received. She would have jilted a meeting with the emperor to be able to keep it.

She spent twice as much time as usual taming her curls into submission that evening, even going so far as to arrange them into an elegant basket braid. She dusted her face with powder, even added a hint of rouge, and she chose her favorite gown - violet shot silk that shone turquoise when the light hit it at an angle, like some strange ethereal potion. She didn't know whether he liked the gown, or if he would even notice. But any small thing she could do that might make him look on her favorably. She had to win back his regard.

After seeing that no-one observed her, she climbed to the uppermost levels of the Opéra, past even the cheapest seats, to places where only the crew and the Phantom normally ventured.

She gained the topmost floor and was soon just below the roof, in a maze of timberwork. She slipped nimbly through the buttresses and rafters that held up one of the most immense buildings in the Capitol, running from beam to beam as though running between trees in a forest.

Erik, she knew, would be just above.

She hadn't been so nervous since her sudden audition for Hannibal. Though she had no fear of heights, as she reached the door that led to the roof and emerged into the evening air, she was shaking.

Outside, sunset was beginning. Clouds crowned with gold and purple drifted slowly by. The golden statue of Apollo at the peak of the roof, the crown jewel of the opera house, lifted his bronze lyre toward a sky filled with crimson fire.

Erik was already there, just beneath its pedestal, gazing watchfully out over the city. Enveloped in his cloak, he resembled a falcon with folded wings.

She sucked in her breath when she saw him. She had not realized til now how worried she still was. Seeing him here and healthy after so many hours of worry was almost overwhelming.

As she stepped out onto the leaden avenues of the roof, he whirled round to face her. "Christine!"

"Erik!" She could not stop herself from running up to him. "I am very glad indeed to see you! You are well?"

He looked surprised. "Well enough."

She looked him up and down and could see it was true. "Thank God," she said, unable to keep the emotion out of her voice.

"Forgive me - why did you wish to see me?"

"For… many reasons," she said. His abruptness saddened but did not surprise her, given how they parted after the last time they met. A great deal had changed for her since then, but for him, the last thing he remembered was their argument, how unsparing she had been. She winced at the recollection. "I must say - please allow me to tell you how sorry I am for the way I spoke to you."

"Is that all? It is already forgiven, Christine," he said at once, with a curious look.

"Truly?" Relief washed over her.

"Of course."

"Thank you! Erik, thank you!"

"I thought you did not care anymore what I thought of you."

"No!" she said. "I always cared! I care very much."

Erik gave her a curious look. His mind was whirling. Was it possible that perhaps, somehow...?

"What is it?" she asked.

There was a long silence.

Suddenly he smirked, laughing to himself at his own stupidity. No. She still despised him for his crimes. And even were that not an obstacle, someday she would be bound to see his face. The whole thing was impossible, the very idea. "It is nothing," he said.

"Oh... very well," she said in obvious confusion, and he winced. What a buffoon he was.

"Then you do not... think me a scoundrel?" he said.

"No, not in the least!"

"Why have you changed your mind?" he asked after a moment.

Christine saw suspicion in his eyes.

She swallowed. She had hoped not to discuss this. "Does there need to be a reason?"

"Yes, I rather think there does," he said aggressively.

"Perhaps you would prefer not to know."

"I think not."

Upon reflection, Christine decided she agreed. I she didn't want there to be any more lies between them. "Mère Giry told me of the circumstances under which you met."

"What?"

"Yes-"

"-What do you mean?" he demanded.

"How she, ah, helped you escape from the-"

"-Wait! Christine! But then you know…?"

"Know what?" she said.

"About... this!" Erik lifted his hand to his face, unable to say it. No, it cannot be. Surely should would not be here speaking to me...

But then Christine nodded.

It was the most horrible moment of his life.

He stared at Christine and she looked uneasily back.

His silence stretched on for a quarter-rest.

A half-rest.

A full measure.

Christine watched his face as though watching a conductor, waiting for his cue on a particularly tricky passage.

She could not know, Erik thought, how he was coming apart inside.

He had always known this moment would come, of course.

But that did not make it any easier.

He desperately wanted to lie, to say Madame Giry had invented the whole thing. But it would do no good. Even if he lied to her now, that would not change the facts. All she would have to do would be to take off his mask. The horrible evidence was there, impossible to destroy (though God knew he had tried). Separated from her only by half an inch of fabric and leather and glue, a defense that felt even flimsier to him than usual.

It was too late. The damage was done.

Suddenly he longed for the time a few days before when she had thought he was an ordinary criminal. Now she knew the truth that was infinitely worse. She knew what a monster he really was. Innocent of one crime, but guilty of another that was far worse. Guilty by nature, by his very makeup. A degenerate, sub-human.

And Madame Giry had given him away.

"Erik-" Christine said.

He turned away, clutching the rough stone of the balustrade. He was on fire with horror and rage. "That... that deceitful witch!" he cried, at last finding words. "She had no right to talk of that, none-"

"-Do not speak of her thus!" Christine cried. "She had no choice but to tell me."

"No choice?" he scoffed.

"She found you lying in a tunnel under the Opéra-"

"-What?"

"-after you drank the absinthe - you were sick - you were hardly breathing-"

"-Good God," he groaned, humiliated. "But why-"

"-She needed my help to get you back to your, ah, home. I am sorry if I have intruded, but if we had not gotten you near the fire you would have perished from the cold - Perhaps I ought not to have trespassed... but..."

"Oh." His anger faded away and he was left with nothing but shame. "I see."

"If I have offended you, then I am more sorry than-"

"-No. I am... grateful for your assistance," he managed with difficulty. At least she still thought his miserable hide was worth saving.

"There is nothing to thank me for," she said as gently as possible. She could see he was still very much in distress.

There was another long, painful silence.

"Erik…" she ventured. "I am wretchedly sorry for what you have endured…"

He scarcely heard her. "-I am sorry I did not tell you, Christine," he said, utterly wretched. His voice sounded shriveled and small.

She looked surprised. "You did not owe it to me to tell me those things."

"No, I do not mean that. I mean... I should have told you what I was. What must you think of me? No - I can imagine."

"There is nothing to apologize for," she said. "You don't owe it to anyone to see your face if you do not wish to. Although... now that I know... I must admit I think better of you than I did before, if you will forgive me for saying so. Now I understand..." She trailed off.

He turned round, and stared at her in astonishment for a moment. He would not dignify such an absurd remark with a response. Of course she did not think better of him. She saw him for what he really was now. "Why are you here?" he asked at length instead.

"What do you mean?" she said, taken aback.

"Now that you know this - why should you want to be anywhere near me?"

"Do you think so little of me as that? What-"

"-Christine, why?" he shouted.

For a moment she stood frozen. "I am fond of you," she said at last. What a wretched, pathetic, insulting understatement. But now was not the time for grandiose declarations of love. He had had a difficult enough time of it these past few days as it was.

"Fond of me?" he said in astonishment.

"Well, that is not quite the right word; you are right," she said uneasily, mistaking his incredulity for contempt. "I treasure our conversations. I want us to enjoy each other's company as before."

This was more than he could ever have expected, he thought, astounded. Still, he could not stand before her every day. Not now. The shame... "That will not be possible, for a number of reasons," he said at last.

Music suggestions: 'I've Seen Hell' by Martin Phipps ('North and South' soundtrack)

"What? But surely it is!"

"No - you see, I am going away, Christine," he said.

"What?" she cried.

"Yes."

"What do you mean?" she cried. "When? For how long? Why?"

"Indefinitely," he said, giving the answers as they came to him. "And as soon as possible."

"But where? Far away?"

He shrugged. "Back to Russia, perhaps."

"Russia?" she gasped. "No! You cannot! You cannot go a thousand miles away!"

"Why should you get to dictate my movements?" he snapped.

"I don't mean to; I simply-"

"-Two days ago you wished me a thousand miles away!-"

"-No, never!-"

"-You have never cared whether I lived or died!"

"That is not true; I-"

"-What are you crying for?" he scoffed.

"-I am crying for the usual reason people cry - because I am distressed! You know it is not true I never cared- I was angry when I found out you were the Phantom, but I still cared very much-"

"-No - no - not then, not even before that!"

"What do you mean?"

"I was a means to an end for you; that much is very evident. You would never have spoken to me if it had not been for our lessons-"

"-How can you say that?" she cried. "What must you think of me-"

"-Now that you have Pauline Viardot-García to see you, I am hardly of any use to you."

"No! - How can you say that?- It isn't a question of your 'being of use to me'- it never was, Erik! Even from the beginning-"

"-Why should you care where I go?"

She burst into sobs. "-Because I am in love with you!"

Erik tripped and caught himself clumsily on the statue. The whole earth had been shaken loose from its foundation and was now crashing through the universe unmoored. Was this some after-effect of the absinthe? Or perhaps he had started to suffocate before Madame Giry found him, and this was a sign of some brain injury.

"I am sorry for telling you at a time like this," the object of his affections went on, blissfully unaware of the irreconcilable cosmic disorder she had just unleashed. "If my affections are unwelcome to you, I shall never say another word on the subject for as long as I live. But I could not help myself!"

"In love?" he managed at last. He had to stop himself from flinging his hands up in the air and laughing hysterically. Well, Erik, you fool, you have finally lost your mind - we all knew this day had to come. You are hearing things.

Tears gathered in her lovely brown eyes. "Yes. Oh, don't look at me like that, I entreat you. Please, say something - anything. You don't know what you are doing to me, to stand there and look at me like that. If you are going to reject me, come out and tell me. Please, give me some kind of answer. I deserve that at least."

There were a thousand things he could have said in return. French was a beautiful language; he could have put together any number of mellifluous replies - that is, if he could think of anything coherent to say at all. But no - instead, out of every possibility, the word his brain chose to select from amongst his enormous vocabulary was "Why?"

Christine blinked. She had gone over every imaginable scenario in her head, but she had not anticipated this. "Pardon?"

"In love - with me - why, Christine? Why did you say that?" he said mechanically. "What do you want from me? I do not understand. You cannot be in love with me. It does not make sense. Christine..."

She looked at him in bewilderment. "But it makes perfect sense," she said. "You have always been so good and kind to me..."

"But..."

"...Even when I thought you were the angel, I could tell you things I could not tell anyone else. I told you all the darkest thoughts in my heart, and you weren't repelled by me - you understood."

"Ah..."

"I used to be so lonely and afraid," she said, "but I am not anymore, thanks to you. Please... please do not go away. I don't know what I would do."

He stared at her in astonishment. He understood exactly the feeling she was describing - it was precisely what she meant to him.

Had she been reading his thoughts?

Christine looked alarmed by his silence.

"Yes, I am foreign and a Protestant, and I daresay most people think I am half-mad," she said, backpedaling. "You could do far better in most people's eyes. If you would prefer we remain as we are... I certainly shall not blame you... But... if I could dare to hope for more... that you might think of me as more, as your love... then that... that would be the greatest happiness I could imagine." She paused. "I shall never become Catholic," she suddenly added. "I have not forgotten myself that much. I am a committed heathen. If that is unacceptable to you, then I quite understand. But I would do anything else to be with you, anything that was right."

For some reason, it was this little stipulation that made it finally begin to seem real to him. He would not have dreamed that. For a moment, he almost believed this was possible. "That... is not of importance," he managed, almost laughing. "If you only knew how little that matters to me, Christine."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Then…?"

"Christine..." For a moment, Erik looked at her with infinite hope, as vulnerable as a child.

For that split second, he was happier than he had ever been in his life. The music that was ever-present in his mind, underscoring his feelings, exploded - a hundred symphonies playing at once. It soaked into him, giving him warmth, giving him life and light.

But it was not strong enough.

He felt the darkness in him reassert itself. The part of him that had learned to distrust everything good or kind as a trap.

The music turned sour. It was slow and ominous now - tense, menacing strings. It was a warning. Something was wrong.

She doesn't believe you could reject her, said the voice of all his fears and doubts. The voice of his keeper, entrapping him still even now. The thought hasn't even occurred to her. She expects you to fall to your knees and do her bidding. She only thinks how lucky you would be to have her, what a favor she is doing you.

He would rather be alone for the rest of his life than stomach that.

"Erik?" Christine said.

He shook himself out of his stupor and focused on her lovely face, still hovering before him. The expression of love and truth in her eyes suddenly seemed as false as a painting.

"Why did you never say anything until now?" he said at last in a slow, icy voice. Each word was like a heavy stone being dropped into the water.

She looked at him in confusion. "Because I did not think I could trust you. I did not think there could be an honest reason for you to hide your face. One must admit it is a somewhat unusual practic-"

"-Hmh. Well, that is a very convenient excuse, but it is not the real reason why."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"There is only one explanation for this sudden change." Suddenly he exploded, bounding toward her like an animal, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Now that you have learned what a freak I am, now that you know there is no risk of your affection being rejected, you seem quite comfortable in bestowing it!"

"What?" she said in disbelief, too stunned to form any other words.

"Oh, you played your part very well," he sneered. "But a little too well, I am afraid. The part where when you said you did not know if I would accept was particularly touching. One of your better performances. Why, if you would only take such care on the stage, Paris would be yours. Til now I thought you were a rather wooden actress, but obviously I was mistaken. "

"That was cruel of you to say! This was not playacting," she said, the tears that had been standing in her eyes beginning to overflow again. "You know I am telling the truth. You know I would not lie about a matter like this. And you are wrong - there is another explanation. That I have only now realized that I love you. I am only sorry for being so stupid - for taking so long to see what should have been obvious."

He hated her for not understanding. "I suppose you expect me to fall at your feet. To say how fortunate I am that you have condescended to notice me."

"No," she said, astonished. "I assure you, I expected no such thing." She blinked back the tears in her eyes, angry at herself for showing how wounded she was. "I had hoped we would be equals. I never expected you to thank me. I don't want gratitude."

"Yes, you did expect that. No doubt you believe that all I ever dreamt of was loving you - that I worshipped the ground you walked on - that I have spent all this time gazing at you from the shadows like some pitiful, lovesick puppy? That you were everything I ever dreamed of."

"No - but you were everything I ever dreamed of," she said, no longer bothering to hide her tears.

"Oh, spare me your histrionics!" he cried. "We both know I am not stupid enough to fall for them. It is plain to see: you think I am nothing-"

"-No!"

"-You never imagined I could reject you!" he cried. "Well, see here, I am! Even I possess dignity enough not to accept your sniveling offer of affection. What do you say to that, hein?" He drew himself up to his full height, towering over her triumphantly.

She stared at him in astonishment and horror, scarcely able to breathe. "So this is what you think of me?"

"Yes, it is!" he cried. "What else could I think? You are goodness and light! A monster like me could never love something as pure and innocent as you! I would never dare soil you with my affection! Congratulations, Mademoiselle - you have had a very lucky escape this evening. No doubt you will have no trouble finding other admirers. Now go and find some rich aristocrat."

"I don't want-"

"-Run along, now. Go on. Go!" The last sound echoed off the rooftops like the cry of a wounded animal.

Christine was sobbing openly now. At his look, she withered further. She turned to go, withdrawing into herself. At the last moment, however, she paused to look over her shoulder. "Dear God," she said, "What has the world done to you? What must you have endured?"

"I daresay you can guess, since you have gone and found out so much already. Why not put that excessively active imagination of yours to use and fill in the rest, if you are so curious?"

She stared at him for a moment in silence. "You will not make me stop loving you," she said at last. "You act as though it tainted you to be loved by me. Well, I am afraid you cannot change it. You can go as far away as you like - I will still love you. I am sorry to say you will never be rid of my 'sniveling affections'."

Outwardly, Erik remained impassive, but inwardly, his mind was whirling. He wanted to move but found he could not.

Dragging herself away like a wounded animal, Christine disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.

He watched her go, dizzied by all that had taken place. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined he would ever be in a position to reject someone. (And she deserved it, of course. Any fool who was stupid enough to lower themselves to loving such a monster deserved the contempt of everyone.) The darkness in him luxuriated in the thrill of it. He was shocked by the power of it. It coursed through him. It was exhilarating, like lightning.

It lasted scarcely any longer, however.

As soon as the catalyst of her presence, which always drove him into a frenzy of emotion, was removed, the deadly progress of his rage began to wind down.

All at once he came to his senses. He remembered where he was. He remembered what had happened - though he did not understand it.

Christine. Christine had been here!

Had he hurt her?

He tore after her.

He found her a few yards along the corridor, walking as though in a trance.

"Christine!" he called out- "Christine!-" But she did not respond.

In desperation, he caught at her shoulder.

She whirled around. Her eyes were red and her face shone with tears. She looked ten years older than the shy young woman who had come out onto the rooftop a few minutes before.

"What do you want from me now?" she cried in a raw, ugly voice utterly unlike her own.

He snatched his hand away as though it would burn her. Had he done this to her? "Christine," he said, "I... I spoke harshly. It was wrong of me. I..."

"No," she said. "Don't. You have every right to reject me. It is I who should apologize to you." Though for months now she had called him by the familiar, friendly 'tu', now she had reverted to 'vous', with all its cold formality. "I was presumptuous."

"No-"

"-I forgot myself. I only hope you can understand that it was done out of love. Perhaps you cannot understand it... I hardly know. I don't know in what way I have insulted you, but do forgive me. I didn't know it would be such an outrage to you to..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

He had not expected this quiet acceptance. In this past, she had always stood up for herself. He even liked arguing with her.

This was different - this was horrifying. What had he done to her? Where was the fire he remembered in her? Had he put it out?

He had hurt her. He didn't know how, but he had. "Christine..." he began.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't even a beginning. But he found he couldn't think of anything else to say. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

"I must go," Christine said. "They will be wondering where I am. I should not have come." Her voice broke in a sob, and she started down the spiral staircase that led back down to the theater. Suddenly she tripped and fell on her knees with a cry of pain.

He ran to catch her. "Christine!"

"-Let me alone!" she cried, furious and humiliated, shoving him away and staggering to her feet.

He sprang back. Bewildered and heartbroken and reeling with regret, he was so confused he simply watched her walk away.

Music suggestions: 'Look Back' by Martin Phipps ('North and South' soundtrack)

Christine emerged from the employees' entrance and wandered aimlessly past the Opéra. She had no idea where she might going. She didn't care. Everything sailed by her in a blur. Snatches of conversation passed through her mind without leaving any trace of meaning.

"Pull up to the curve, Martin," she heard a voice say from the street nearby her.

Martin was the name of Raoul's driver, she thought distantly. That was a coincidence. And the voice sounded like Raoul's, too...

And suddenly Raoul was standing in front of her on the sidewalk, peering at her with a delighted smile. "Christine!"

Christine blinked, coming out of her stupor.

She saw now that his carriage, an elegant brougham, had alighted beside her. She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she had not noticed.

Raoul tipped his hat, still with the same happy smile. "I was just coming to the Opera to see if perhaps you were still there."

She quickly choked back her tears. The last thing she needed was to have to try to explain to him why she had been crying.

He was waiting for a reply; she said the first coherent sentence that presented itself to her thoughts. "Your timing is impeccable. I just came out."

"Where are you going?" he asked pleasantly.

Where was she going? She hadn't given it any thought. She might have walked the length of Paris without noticing if he hadn't come by. "Home, I think."

If this was a strange thing to say, Raoul had the good grace not to notice. "You should not be walking alone at night-time," he said instead. "It isn't safe."

"This is the Opéra district, not a battleground," she said, equally touched and amused by his concern. After Erik's cruelty, his consideration felt as reviving as sunlight. "And my stop isn't far."

"Your stop?"

She almost laughed. "For my omnibus."

He looked faintly disgusted. "A young lady traveling alone shouldn't have to take the omnibus. What kind of gentleman would I be? Allow me to escort you?" Turning toward the brougham, he held out one gloved hand with a gentle smile.

Though the prospect of passing the long journey home in a comfortable carriage was appealing, Christine hesitated.

Suddenly Raoul's expression changed. He peered off into the distance with a concerned look on his face.

"What is it?" Christine said.

"There's a fellow over there, by the opera house, watching us. No, don't look. Call it military instinct, but there is something about his manner I do not like at all."

Christine jumped. She knew exactly who that was.

Well, she certainly wasn't going to stay here with him around. In a split second, she'd taken Raoul's hand. "I should be very glad of your company," she said. "Thank you."

"Yes," Raoul said. "Let us go."

Music: Caresse sur l'Océan by Bruno Coulais

Erik shook himself free from his stupor and ran down the stairs. Reasoning that Christine would have left the building, he tore outside, pausing only to turn up his collar to hide the mask. Running down the steps, he frantically scanned the street, thinking for a split second each time that every curly-haired brunette he saw was her.

At last, he spotted her - the turquoise flash of her dress caught his eye. She was moving swiftly away down the boulevard. He could see by her posture that she was weeping, not bothering to conceal her tears. He already knew that was because of him.

He was torn between wanting to run to her - he couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, but surely anything would be better than leaving matters as they now stood - and wanting to run to the nearest bridge and throw himself into the Seine.

Then, however, he was distracted from these thoughts as a carriage pulled up beside her.

Erik knew who the owner was long before he got out. He'd seen that coat of arms nearly every day outside the opera house. It had a particularly detested place in his memory.

As he watched, the Vicomte de Chagny emerged from his carriage and alighted in front of Christine.

Why did he have to come by now of all times? Erik thought. He couldn't go up to her now. She might ask the fop to shoot him.

He wouldn't blame her.

He stayed where he was, watching them, miserably transfixed.

The Vicomte tipped his hat to Christine and said something - Erik would have given a fortune to know what. She hurriedly tried to dry her tears and produced a smile - forced, he thought, though perhaps that was just his overactive imagination.

The pair spoke for a few moments.

Erik thought his heart would stop as Christine smiled, genuinely this time, at something the Vicomte said.

He would have given anything to be the cause of that smile - but no, he had made her cry, because he always destroyed everything innocent and beautiful that came his way, and that boy would be the one to console her.

At last he had the presence of mind to turn away - if he stayed much longer, he would probably end up strangling the fool, and he didn't want to do that. (Not in front of Christine, at least.)

He hurried away and buried himself in the tunnels once more, like the miserable creature of darkness he was.

Steadied by Raoul's hand, Christine clambered into the carriage. With its splendid interior, it felt like climbing into an immense Fabergé egg.

As she ascended the steps, the hem of her coat caught on the doorway, and the lamplight fell on the shimmering folds of silk beneath.

Raoul's keen eye, accustomed to such luxuries, noted the quality of it immediately. "That is a splendid gown," he said, sounding surprised.

She knew he was wondering who had bought it for her. "Thank you," she said. "Now that I have my contract, there is some money for nice things, at least. And the managers are very insistent that I have a presentable wardrobe."

"Ah," Raoul said, looking relieved.

Martin shut the door and clambered into the driver's seat. Raoul knocked on the ceiling, and the carriage began to roll smoothly along the boulevard.

"Are you coming from one of your many publicity engagements, then?" Raoul asked Christine.

"No, nothing like that."

"Oh?" he pressed.

He was incorrigible, Christine thought, irritated in spite of herself. "A small party with a few friends." She winced at the lie.

"I see. You know, of course," Raoul told Christine, leaning back in his seat, "That I should be happy to buy a gown for you on any occasion. You need only ask."

"Thank you. I am grateful for your generosity," she said. For some reason she could not understand, the idea repulsed her. "But I'm not sure it would be quite proper to accept." A single flower from Erik would be worth more to her than all the lavish gowns in the world. The thought came to her from out of nowhere. But no, she was never going to get anything like that from him. Why was it that a man who could not stir her heart showered her with unending affection while the one man who made her soul soar, who filled her heart with music, despised her? She turned her head away to hide a sudden flood of tears.

But Raoul was too fast - he spotted them at once. He gently caught hold of her chin and turned her face toward him. "You are crying," he said, his voice tender with concern.

There was no point in trying to hide it now. She shrugged, drawing a ragged breath.

"I hope your circumstances are not distressing you," Raoul said, putting a hand on her arm. "They are treating you well at the Opéra? You are satisfied with the terms of your contract?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Christine paused. "It is a privilege to sing such exquisite music. I am fortunate beyond belief, in that respect. But the rest of it... the chance of fame and fortune... it all seems so empty... what is the point of it all if there are things you want that they can never bring you?"

Raoul looked as though he thought he understood. "Like bringing your father back?" he said with infinite gentleness.

"Oh. Why... yes," Christine replied. It was a convenient excuse. She sent a silent prayer of apology Heavenward for using her father in a such a monumental lie. Well, it wasn't entirely a falsehood. She would always miss him - nothing, even time, could ever fully take that ache away - and all her successes would be in some measure tinged by the knowledge that he was not there to rejoice with her.

But that wasn't what she was thinking of now.

For a moment, the two of them were silent.

"I cannot claim to have known losses as heavy as yours, but I think in a way I can understand, a little," he ventured at last.

"Oh?"

He sighed. "Everyone says I am one of the luckiest men who ever breathed, but what is the point of having money or influence if I cannot have the woman I love?"

The thought hit Christine like an express train: Was she doing to his heart what Erik had done to hers? The last thing she wanted was to ever cause anyone as much pain as she had experienced tonight.

She turned toward him. Raoul. Dear, good Raoul, so patient and steadfast, so concerned for her well-being. He had always been there. He had never scorned or mocked her. She had been so ungrateful to him.

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not intend to..."

"No," she said. "There is no need to apologize. Raoul... you..."

Their eyes met and for a moment both of them were silent.

All at once, Raoul leaned forward, taking her in his arms. He tenderly kissed her hand, her forehead, her cheek, and then suddenly his lips came to rest on hers.

Christine didn't protest.

At least someone wanted her. Erik was right about that.

End of Chapter 13