Chapter 22 - Con Amore

From Paris, dear, we shall go away,

to live our lives together.

We shall make up for all our heartache...

You will be the light of my life...

-La Traviata, Act III

Music suggestions: 'Patience' by Patrick Doyle (Sense and Sensibility soundtrack); 'A Crock of Gold' by Terry Davies (Brideshead Revisited movie soundtrack); 'The Master is Painting' by Alexandre Desplat (Girl With a Pearl Earring soundtrack); 'Beau Soir' by Claude Debussy, played by Anne-Sophie Mutter (album: The Berlin Recital); 'Ellen's House' by Elmer Bernstein (The Age of Innocence soundtrack); 'Coco and Boy' by Alexandre Desplat (Coco Before Chanel soundtrack).

Christine looked at him in surprise. "You have tended to my wounds as carefully as I could wish for; will you not let me help you?"

"Forgive me, but I had much rather do it myself," he said. "And you ought to return home."

"But when I return, you shall insist on accompanying me, I know-"

"-You are quite right." He smiled.

"Yes, I know. And then you would be waiting two hours or more to look after those dreadful cuts you gave yourself," she finished. "I cannot allow that."

"Mon rêve-"

"-Really; I shall not move from this spot until you look after yourself," she said. "I am resolved."

He stared at her in mute exasperation for a moment, then angrily snatched up the iodine bottle and turned his back.

"I also wondered if I might dry out my things for awhile before I go," she ventured after a moment, her voice hesitant. "I would catch cold were I to travel home like this."

After a moment's silence, he moved to uncover the fire.

"Thank you, mon cœur, but I shall do it," she said at once. "You ought to-"

"-What perfect nonsense," he said, smiling gently. "It is out of the question."

Christine sighed, but she was too tired to work up any real frustration.

She watched as he summoned a healthy blaze glowing in the stone alcove.

The sight of it restored a basic comfort and decency to the atmosphere. It was what had been missing down there in that dark cave, while they argued and fretted.

Both of them felt the difference.

"How lovely," Christine said happily, drawing close and holding out her hands.

She sidled closer to him so that their arms were touching, and for a moment they stood there contentedly together, enjoying the warmth and the rich, smoky smell of wood burning.

"Er, forgive me, but have you a robe de chambre or something of the kind I might borrow?" she asked presently.

He jumped, then peered at her in alarm. "I have, but…"

She flushed. "I know it is somewhat irregular, but my love, I am soaked to the bone - I certainly shall catch cold if I do not hang my things out. They will never get dry like this."

He shrugged philosophically. "The whole of my existence is irregular. I am in no position to condemn you for that."

"But… you have some other objection?"

He sighed heavily, but after a moment, he went to his bedroom and collected the long kaftan - black, like most of his meager wardrobe - that he used as a robe de chambre. "Yes… No. I don't see what choice you have in this instance, I suppose."

"Thank you," she said.

He mutely handed over the kaftan, but did nothing more. He was lost in his own frightened thoughts.

Christine looked at him expectantly. "Forgive me," she prodded gently at last; "Is there somewhere where… er…"

This inquiry jerked him abruptly back to the present. He felt his face grow hot when he realized what she was asking. "Oh! Yes. There is a curtained alcove over there. Just up that flight of steps. You have my word I shall not disturb you."

"I know," she said. Without realizing it, she closer to him, and, to both of their surprise, added softly, "Though I confess I would not mind if you did."

Now Erik was certain he had gone bright red. Thank Heaven for the mask.

Apparently surprised by her own boldness, Christine swiftly turned away and hurried into the alcove, drawing the curtain shut behind her.

In the silence that followed, he stood there awkwardly, at a loss for what to do with himself.

"Are you looking after those cuts on your hands?" came Christine's voice after a moment.

"Er... yes, of course," he called, suddenly pulled back to the present. He realized his mind had begun to wander, veering toward thoughts that no creature like him should ever think about anyone.

He tried frantically to control it, to not think about her in there, about what she was doing.

That in itself was a mistake. The harder he tried, the more impossible it was not to. He couldn't help imagining her. She had bewitched him.

A part of his being - the part he never obeyed, the part he could not afford to obey - burned to go in there with her, slip behind the curtain. She would not object...

That frightened him more than anything else ever had. It was the worst thing he could do. If she were caught with him…

And yet, the temptation was overpowering.

He stood up. "Christine?"

"Yes, what is it, mon cœur?"

No. No. It was absolutely necessary to think on something else.

He turned away and began savagely scrubbing at the cuts on his hands. The metallic sting of the iodine mingled with his distress, reminding him of the pain he had put Christine through. "Mon rêve, I do not wish to distress you, but I must emphasize that this kind of thing cannot happen again."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "My being down here? But I may need to come. What if you need my help?"

He sighed heavily. "As I said before, any hint that any of this - being down here, being with me, any of it - was voluntary on your part could be very bad for you - very bad indeed- and-"

"-Mon cœur, I know that, but any appearance that it was not - anything that might lead someone to believe you had... coerced me..."

"-Yes, I understand; go on," he snapped, sickened by the thought.

"-that would make things far, far worse for you!" she finished.

"Not worse than they would be for you," he said darkly.

"What do you mean?" she said. "You act as though I would be condemned for your crimes if it were known that I have been associated with you."

Erik winced at the words 'your crimes'.

"But frankly I fail to see how they could blame any of it on me," Christine said.

"Even if they did not, I have another, greater fear."

"Oh?"

He gathered his courage. "I am convinced they would lock you away in some institution for daring to love a thing like me," he explained at last.

"You are a never-ending succession of delightful possibilities."

"Truly," he said. "I was not in jest when I said that before."

"Erik… Surely not." The sarcasm had quite disappeared from her tone. Her voice was dull with sadness.

"You think not?" he said, weakly and cynically.

"Even if they did lock me away - which I think unlikely in the extreme; any sensible person could see at once that I have all my wits about me, thank you - you would get me out. You would come and rescue me."

"If they dared to lay a hand on you, my God - I would hail Hell itself."

"-There, then that is settled," she said.

Before he could protest, she emerged from the alcove and descended the steps, an unwieldy pile of clothing bundled into her arms.

He could not help but feel that the matter had not been satisfactorily resolved. But when he sight of her, all aglow in the faint firelight, with the silk of the kaftan clinging to her every line, every curve of her beautiful form, all other thoughts vanished.

Even in his old robe, she looked radiant. Her beauty had elevated it to something more than it was. The black fabric set off her luminous skin in a startling chiaroscuro, like Gautier's 'Portrait of Madame X'.

"What do you think?" she laughed, looking down at herself with amusement. "I think it becomes me very well."

The sleeves were too long for her, coming down past her fingertips. He rolled them up to her wrists so they wouldn't trail near the fire. "You are radiant as ever."

"What, half-drenched, and with my hair in disaster?" she laughed, hanging her wet clothes over the screen before the fire.

"Yes, just so." He drew near to her. "I quite like you like this, with your hair 'in disaster', as you put it. However, I have one objection."

She was standing right before him now. "Oh? Indeed? And what is that?"

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "Black does not suit you, Christine," he murmured. "You are young and lovely and full of life."

She smiled up at him. "It is funny you should say that," she replied in a thoughtful murmur. "These days, I've found I don't want to wear black so much anymore, you know. Meg says I have been wearing more color lately."

He pulled her into his arms, quite without realizing it, and ran his fingers through her hair. "Yes, you have, Christine," he murmured into her hair. "What has effected this transformation?"

"Why... you. It is because I am happy."

He pulled away stared at her for longer than he intended to, still astounded by this thought. How had he managed to make someone like her feel so joyful and full of life? What was this strange power?

"I have you to look forward to passing through life with," she went on, "Instead of merely always looking back on all those I love who have died and... wishing that they were somehow here again. My life isn't all behind me."

He smiled, delighted. "You have done just the same for me, Christine. How much brighter the future appears now. If I can give you that comfort than I am very glad indeed."

She returned his kiss with a fuller one on the lips.

For a few moments, they were lost in the delicious silence that followed.

Christine put her arms about him and in the process hit the ring box in his pocket. The ring fell out and tumbled to the cave floor, pinging against the stone.

He swooped down frantically and snatched it up before it was lost in a crevasse.

"Oh, we have forgotten again," Christine said.

"Ah, yes - so I have."

"You promised me." Smiling, she held out her hand.

He held the ring up and looked at it as though it were a perplexing problem.

"What is it?" she asked gently, concern in her voice.

"This is not how I intended for things to be, Christine," he said at last, his voice sad. "You with bandaged hands, and cold and wet and tired... This is not at all what I wanted for you, Christine."

"I am here with the man I love," she said, "and we are safe. That is the only thing that is of any importance."

He hesitated. At last, he turned her hand over and set the ring on her palm. Voilà," he said, folding her fingers around it.

"No, you must put it on for me," she said. "It is the law." She laughed, but beneath her smile there was a current of uneasiness; something in his behavior troubled her.

"Oh," he said uneasily. Though he knew he could not tell her, this felt wrong, somehow, to him. He should not be doing this. He had no right. But at last he knelt and did as she'd asked.

"Now it is sealed," Christine said. She looked at him with bright eyes.

Erik, kneeling there looking up at her as though she were an angel, felt as though his heart might burst. He drew her hand toward him and kissed each finger, one by one.

Christine drew him to his feet and picked up the kiss where they had left off. Soon he'd forgotten his fears, forgotten everything.

When they emerged from the kiss and he came out of this happy daze, he found they'd somehow ended up nestled on a chaise longue by the fire. He scarcely had any recollection of how they had gotten there.

Worse, his right hand had slipped under the sleeve of her robe - his robe, that was - to caress her bare shoulder, and seemed to be thinking about taking it off. He practically jumped in alarm. He hadn't told it to do that.

And, what frightened him even more, Christine hadn't seemed to want him to stop whatever it was he'd been doing. In fact, she was smiling.

"We ought to get up," he said, trying to collect himself. "This is not wise."

Her smile faded. "But I don't want to," she said simply, pleadingly.

"Nor I - but nevertheless, we..."

"We have so few chances to simply hold one another like this. It would be cruel not to take the chance - unnatural."

"Someday we shall be able to hold one another like this without having to be afraid, without having to look over our shoulders," he said. "We must look forward to then."

"Yes," Christine said, kissing him gently.

She tried to stand up. But it was more difficult than she had expected. Somehow - neither of them knew quite how - they were tangled up together and found it impossible to extricate themselves.

"I cannot get away if you keep holding on to me in this outrageous manner," she said, smiling.

"I am not holding on to you," he protested, quite certain it was true. "You must be holding on to me."

"No, I am not."

"Yes."

"Well, then, we are an impasse," she said, sounding remarkably unconcerned. She draped herself back onto the chaise over top of him, arranging her arm around his shoulders and smiling into his face. "If neither of us is responsible, I cannot see a way out of this predicament."

"No, Christine, you must-"

"Really, the struggle has exhausted me. I give up." She laid down with her head against his chest, curled up and closed her eyes like a contented cat.

"Really, you cannot…"

"I need your help," she murmured, her eyes still closed. "If you do not hold me I may catch a chill and die of pneumonia, and then Carlotta would have to sing Leïla in The Pearl Fishers, and we can't have that."

He allowed himself a chuckle. "No, I certainly cannot allow that."

"But I see the peril you are so concerned about," she said.

"You understand, then?"

"Yes. Any moment now Count Almaviva shall come barging in and you shall have to leap out the window into the flowerpots," she said wryly.

This brought forth a small smile from him. He was beginning to understand that laughing was her way of assuaging her fears. "And leave you behind, Susanna?" he riposted. "Out of the question."

"Well, if it comes down to that," she said, "I should always rather have you safe, even if it means leaving me behind for a time."

There, they were back to the heart of the matter now. He was reassured. She understood the gravity of the situation. He ought to have known. He ought to have more faith in her.

He took her hand and held it out, admiring the effect of the ring on her finger, pleased in spite of himself by the sight.

He was certainly right that it would not pass unnoticed; the ruby at its center was as large as an almond. Pear-shaped, looking like a vast drop of blood, it was bordered by a delicate band of diamonds, so that it seemed to be composed of nothing but light.

"I never dreamt I would even get to touch a stone like this," Christine said in a voice of disbelief. "Wherever did you ever find it? It cannot be from the Continent. It looks like something out of Aladdin's cave."

"You are right that it is not from the West. It was mined in Burma."

"Did you find it here, or on your travels?"

"In Persia."

"Tell me."

"The shah presented it to me in exchange for my services. It was part of the crown jewels originally," he couldn't resist telling her. He didn't want her to think him boastful, but it was impossible not to want to show off for her. The truth was, he would have turned cartwheels if he thought that was what would impress her.

She turned to look at him, her eyes wide. "You are joking!"

He shook his head, enormously pleased to have impressed her so much.

She stared at him in amazement. "You must have been very important indeed!"

He shrugged, trying not to preen. "Well."

"To think…! I, wearing a ruby from the Persian crown jewels! How romantic!" She beamed.

"Do you like it, then?" he asked.

"How could I not? It is quite perfect, just like everything you have done for me." She gazed down at her hand and a dreamy look came into her eyes. Suddenly, however, it was replaced by a wicked smile. "What kind of services?"

He did not understand at first. "Architectural servi..." Then, "Christine!"

She laughed. "You will find I am not nearly so demure as people think."

"I never thought you were demure. You are quiet - that is not the same thing."

She smiled. "Good."

"I am glad you are pleased with it," he said after a moment. "I wasn't sure if it looked like you."

"Yes, I am pleased with it, very much. I have always loved red. Why, how thoughtful you are." She smiled. "I would not have expected a gentleman to think about such things."

"That is something you must accustom yourself to about Frenchmen," he said. "Ever since the court of Louis XVI, we have cared about clothing more than our wives do." He paused. Something about his last sentence had sounded peculiar. After a moment's concentration it came to him: He had spoken about himself as though he were just like other man. That had never happened to him before, never. Now that he had Christine, for the first time he could almost see himself as a part of mankind.

He wondered if she had noticed this change. If so, she did not remark on it.

Perhaps it seemed natural to her that he would think of himself in that way. The thought cheered him enormously.

Christine was pondering the ring, her eyes full of thought. "It is not the sort of thing I would have chosen for myself," she reflected; "Rather, it would be the sort of thing I would wish to choose but wouldn't dare to because I wouldn't think I would be able to carry it off, and then it would haunt me after I left the shop and I would realize I was right all along. Oh, listen to me!" she interjected wryly. "I am talking as though the jewelry shops on the Rue de la Paix are one of my regularly scheduled stops."

"Someday they will be, Christine," he said with certainty. "Someday they will all be making pieces in honor of La Daae, and begging you to wear them."

Her face lit up with a lovely smile. "Well, I should never like any of them so well as I like this one, because you gave it to me."

He smiled back at her, touched.

"Did it come with this setting?" she asked after a moment. "It does not look Persian to my eye, though I am no expert."

"No, no, you are quite right. A friend of mine was kind enough to take it to Cartier - discreetly - and have them put it in a setting for me."

"Cartier?" she said. "But they don't do anything quickly."

"No." He looked at her questioningly, wondering what she was getting at.

"But then you must have..." She stopped.

Ah. Nothing escaped her. "Yes - as a matter of fact, I have had it waiting for weeks," he confessed all at once. "I have been wanting to propose to you for weeks- months. Sometimes it feels I have been in love with you for a million years."

She beamed. "Oh, that makes me happier, almost, than any of the rest of it."

"You aren't angry that I was telling you I was an angel whilst concealing that I... harbored feelings for you?"

"No." She gently put her hand against his cheek. "You know I have heard your reasons for doing so, and they appear to me quite sufficient."

He marveled at the strength of the comfort he drew from her soft touch. She appeared so delicate and yet within her, somehow, she harbored the power to keep all his most horrific demons at bay.

For a moment, he was lost in the gentleness in her eyes.

Then, however, her face suddenly darkened. She looked away, her brow furrowed.

"What is it?" he said frantically, desperate to keep her favor, to clear away the clouds on her face.

"I... No, it is nothing of importance," she mumbled.

"Something is troubling you."

She hesitated, not wanting to meet his eye. "Well..." She said at last. "But... Forgive me, if you have had a jewel like this for the past two years or more... you could have sold it, surely?"

"Sold it?"

"It must be worth thousands. You told me you had desperate need of money... Forgive me, my love; I do not mean to be cruel, but..."

He felt his temper flare. Was nothing he did ever going to be good enough? "And how exactly could I have sold a jewel like this without raising suspicion? Do you imagine I did not think of selling it?"

"I-"

"-I don't like stealing and blackmailing, you know! But the moment it appeared on the market the shah would know where I am - and he'd see me imprisoned at least! Did you think of that?"

"No. I didn't. I see what you mean." She looked chastened. "Forgive me."

"How many times must I prove myself?"

"You are right. I am not yet able to understand all that you have to face." Her face softened. "I suppose I must learn."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Forgive me," Erik said at last. "I... spoke harshly." The words felt strange. He paused. "No doubt I shall give you an abundance of opportunities to mistrust me," he said sadly.

She laughed softly. "Don't say that. I don't intend to go looking for reasons."

He smiled at this. "I did sell many of the smaller jewels they gave me," he said after a moment. "But the profits didn't last forever."

"Not if you spent them on things like Havana cigars," Christine pointed out. "Yes, I saw that box."

He sighed. "I had few enough enjoyments. I am not extravagant by nature, but life is different when one cannot even go up and see the sun."

She paused. "I am sorry, mon cœur."

"Sorry?"

"Wretchedly sorry, for all of it. It is miserably unfair."

"It isn't your doing," he said softly.

"But... you deserve far better than the lot life dealt out to you. You deserve everything - the whole empire of the world..."

He was too overcome to speak, his anger forgotten.

"But as I was saying before," she said gently after a moment, "Now you will have other things to occupy the time."

"Oh?" he said.

Instead of replying, she planted another kiss on his mouth.

Immediately he was lost, blissfully lost.

"Yes," he murmured when she pulled away, smiling at her in a happy daze. "Just so."

"Mmm." She turned on her side and nestled closer into his arms, resting her head against his chest.

For a moment, all was peaceful.

But then his mind, never free from anxieties for long, began to flit back over the events of that evening.

Suddenly he stiffened. "Damn!" he cried, sitting up.

Christine jumped. "My love, what is it? What has happened?"

"I forgot: I had set out a picnic for us!"

"What?"

"In the Parc. But I forgot and left it there! Enfer!"

"Oh, I am sorry!" she said. "But you must not blame yourself-"

"-There was a bottle of Veuve Clicquot," he lamented. "I had plates and glasses all laid out, and candles, and everything charming-"

"-Why, it sounds perfectly lovely! How thoughtful of you!"

"It was lovely! The effect was entirely picturesque!" He scowled. "You would have thought me a very romantic fellow indeed!"

"I think you romantic in any case," she said, running her fingers through his hair.

"Hm. Well." He looked mollified for a moment. Suddenly, however, his face hardened. "For God's sake, that damned policeman is going to find it and the fool is going to help himself- no! It is not to be borne!" He paused. "I am going to go and get it," he decided, moving to give up.

"No!" Christine cried, grabbing his arm. "It is far too dangerous."

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. There was a whole wheel of Camembert in there. My God, what a waste."

She didn't see that he was joking. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation!"

Though he wouldn't admit it, he liked having her fret and fuss over him. "I shall be quite well. That clod couldn't catch me with both hands tied behind my back."

"Wait!" A look of horror flashed over Christine's face, and she clutched at his arm. "Could the bottle have had your fingerprints on it? Perhaps we had better go back and get it after all."

He raised his brows, impressed. "My fingerprints?"

"Yes, it is a way of identifying people. Modern technology can be frightening, don't you think?"

"Yes. Where do you learn these things?"

She grinned. "Meg, in this instance. She wants to be Paris' first lady-detective."

He looked alarmed. "I have no doubt that girl could succeed in that ambition."

"No, nor I," she said with a chuckle. "Dear Meg. She is a force to be reckoned with."

"But you would make a better detective than her, I think. With your sweetness and refinement, no-one would ever suspect you."

"Thank you. But what about the bottle?" she asked fretfully.

"I wore gloves, Christine. They cannot connect it back to me - or you, for that matter."

"Thank Heaven." She relaxed.

"I would not be so careless. I have been in this business a long time, you forget."

"This business?"

"Existing illicitly. Breathing illicitly." Suddenly he scowled. "Everyone would rather imagine I do not exist - it is less troubling - and I intend to make it as easy for them as possible to do so. And thus-" he waved a hand in the air- "they do not have my fingerprints on file, and I intend for that happy state of affairs to continue."

"Not everyone," Christine said.

He looked at her blankly. "What?"

"Not everyone would rather you do not exist." Her voice was suddenly full of conviction.

"Thank you, mon rêve. I know it."

"Then act as though you do!" she cried, startling him with her sudden anger.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me."

"Thank you," she said in a softer voice, blinking back tears.

He squeezed her hand gently.

She looked up and fixed him in her gaze. "No more thefts," she reminded him warningly.

He shrugged. "In any case, soon I shall be gone from here."

"Yes, I suppose so." She paused. "But only if you are not captured tonight. My love, please don't go back, I beg you."

"I shall stay away from there if that is really what you wish," he gave in at last, looking at her tenderly.

"Thank you, my love. Oh, thank you. I could never be easy if I did not know you were being careful with yourself." She planted a brief kiss on his lips, which he gladly reciprocated, before falling silent.

He gazed down her with naked adoration. How frightening it was, to give someone a look that showed how much you loved them. And how wonderful.

Smiling, she closed her eyes and leaned her head sleepily against his shoulder. There was something very pleasant about the weight of her.

It felt right, as though his shoulders had been designed for the express purpose of being a place for Christine Daae to rest her head.

Suddenly, a little spurt of laughter escaped her lips. She opened her eyes, pulled away and looked at him, trying to stifle a grin.

"What?" he said, smiling, her mirth already beginning to infect him.

"Well… it is just… Imagine, tomorrow morning someone is going to stumble across a picnic-basket sitting there all by itself in the park-" She hid a giggle- "as though it wandered there on its own," she said, and finally burst laughter. "They shall have no idea where it came from... Oh dear! It is too much!" She doubled over, holding her sides.

His frustration could not last amid the lovely sound of her laughter. It soon evaporated. "A picnic hamper," he said, joining in her mirth. "A whole hamper. And a picnic blanket. With wine-glasses and plates and all. I had everything set up for us."

Christine tried to comport herself for a moment. "Oh, my dear, I am sorry!" she managed. "All the trouble you went to, for nothing!" She paused, struggling as her smile began trying to reassert herself. "But... but... that is even better, you must admit!" she cried, giving in once more. "A picnic-blanket, indeed! As though it set itself up!"

"As though it were set up by a ghost," Erik said.

Soon the sound of their laughter was ringing around the cave, loud and long, but no-one heard it except for themselves and the rats.

They were secure here, for now, and for a few brief moments the two of them managed to forget their troubles.

They sat at the eye of a storm, it was true, but the eye of a storm was safe.

They were together, and as long as they had these moments where they could laugh like this, that was enough.

End of Chapter 22. Thank you so, so much for reading! Thank you Chryselis, missgalindaa, Pinkdynamite, Tangosalsa, WrappedinRed29, Charlotte, and Angel of Iowa for your lovely reviews and input - I appreciate your input so much! I'm so thrilled that we share a love for the beautiful world of Phantom.