Chapter 23

Beneath your ardent kisses
Heaven is radiant within me.
1 have given you my heart;
it is yours, yours for ever.

-Romeo et Juliette, Act IV, Scene I

Music for this chapter: 'Traumerei' by Robert Schumann; 'Au Fond du Temple Saint' played by Livia Sohn; 'Pur Ti Miro' by Monteverdi.

They lapsed into a companionable silence.

"Will you play something for me?" she murmured after a few minutes.

He was torn between delight at the thought of playing for her and reluctance to stop holding her. But he could never refuse any request of hers. "What should you like to hear, Christine?"

"Whatever you choose."

"Hmm." He went to where he'd left his violin resting on the piano.

Her face brightened with excitement when she saw it. "The violin is my favorite."

He smiled.

Closing his eyes, he let his hands play the first thing that came to them, Schumann's 'Traumerei'. 'Dreaming'. Then he turned to The Pearl Fishers, improvising an arrangement for violin of Au Fond du Temple Saint, one of its most beautiful duets. When that was over he launched into Monteverdi's Pur Ti Miro.

"I adore you, I embrace you," Christine said, reciting the song's lyrics. "I desire you, I enchain you."

Erik stopped. "What? Forgive me, mon rêve - I did not mean... I wasn't thinking... I did not intend to imply..."

She merely smiled and went on. "No more grieving..."

Put at ease again by the gentleness in her expression, he drew close to her. "No more sorrow," he joined in again at last, their voices blending. "O my dearest, O my beloved, I am yours - O my love, tell me so."

She put a finger to his lips and continued on. "You are mine, mine alone, O my love. Feel my heart." She rested his hand against her breastbone, and indeed, he could feel her heart fluttering beneath his fingertips. "See my love," she finished, bending and kissing his wrist. "Thank you, mon cœur. That was beautiful."

"I am delighted that it pleased you," he managed, suddenly having difficulty finding his voice. He loved the satiny smoothness of her skin. God, he adored every inch of her. But he was alarmed by the intense desire it sent coursing through him. The thought of her knowing how wildly, how desperately he wanted her frightened him more than anything else. He let his hand there for as long as he could bear it, but soon found he had to pull it away. As an excuse, he transferred it to his violin, pretending to be adjusting one of the strings. "Are there any other pieces you should like to hear?" He looked up at her shyly.

"I want to hear you play every song in the world." She smiled. "But I should not like for you to hurt your violin. You must be the judge. The cold air cannot be good for it. My father would slap you if he saw this," she teased.

"I think he would strangle me first for falling in love with his daughter."

"No. He would have been so very glad that I am to marry you." Her eyes suddenly grew distant. She looked happy and sad at the same time. "He would have liked you very much," she went on in a soft, reflective voice. "I am sorry indeed you shall never meet. The two men I love." She had dreamt of their meeting many times, in fact.

But it was impossible, when one of them was gone forever.

She loved two ghosts.

"And I am sorry for you," Erik said. He swallowed, hoping she wouldn't notice the omission in his reply. Even if Christine was right that they were the sort of people who would have gotten along, he was sure Isak Daae wouldn't have wanted him to marry his daughter. No doubt he was a good and kind man, but no father would want his only child to be bound to a deformed wretch for the rest of her life. It wasn't natural.

If Christine had noticed his lack of enthusiasm, she did not remark on it. Instead, she simply said, "Thank you."

"But of course, mon rêve," he said softly. "Well."

"But it is not only me who has known loss," she said. "You were not fortunate in your parents, it seems."

"Ah. Well." There was a long silence. "You needn't worry about my violin," he said at last. "It is a miserable piece of garbage. It doesn't deserve to be coddled."

She could see he did not want to linger on the subject of his parents. "You played so beautifully I did not notice."

"Hmph. You are losing your ear," he said, smiling wryly.

Truth to be told, however, the cold air blowing in off the lake was making his hands stiff and sore, and he didn't like the thought of what it might be doing to his violin. He finished the piece, so as not to leave the unpleasantness of an unresolved melody rattling around in their restless, unquiet, troubled minds - how alike they were beneath the surface - and then let it rest.

Having put the miserable excuse for a violin away, he sat down beside her once more, settling on the end of the chaise. She pulled her feet up to make room for him and covered his hand with hers as he gazed off into the distance.

For a moment he almost felt like they had a normal life. The crackle of the fire drowned out the more unpleasant noises that usually filled the grotto - the cold, vaguely menacing slosh of the chilly green lake water against the shore, and whatever sounds echoed in caves in the darkness, like the voices of the dead.

Erik had almost gone mad once or twice, alone there in the dark, thinking they were speaking to him, or then again footsteps coming for him at last...

But now all that was different. Now there was Christine. She kept all that at bay.

He looked down at her, thinking he would murmur something into her ear, but he found her eyes had fallen closed. He was so startled that for a moment he feared she'd fallen ill. But no, there was a soft smile on her lips, and a healthy glow suffused her sweet, gentle face.

He could scarcely believe it was possible that she would fall asleep beside him. That any woman - any human being, in fact - could trust him enough that she would let down her guard so completely around him.

The notion was so alien to him, seemed so unnatural, almost, that his first instinct was to wake her.

But she'd been so tired, so cold and afraid, and this would at last give her at least a few moments' respite from that.

He let her sleep. He allowed himself that indulgence.

But only, he quickly told himself, until her things had dried.

His entire life was bounded by limits like that, especially when it came to her.

He could lose himself in music, but only so much; he always needed to be able to hear if there were footsteps approaching.

He could kiss Christine, touch her, hold her, but only within limits, never for as long as he liked. He could promise her happiness but always when he did, his mind caught on a snag of doubt, wondering if he was lying to her when he acted as though he could guarantee her anything.

Only so much joy, only a drop here and there.

With her, it was enough, for now, at least. He would rather have this strange, twilight existence with her than have everything with anyone else.

But he wanted her to have joy unconfined, without limits. Perfect joy, perfect love, perfect hope.

Would that day ever come? And even if it did, could he be a part of it? Was there a place for him in that?

Well, there was one thing he knew for certain. If he fit into the world anywhere, it was by her side. If there was a place and a purpose for him, this was it.

His eyes went to her clothes hanging by the fire. He knew he should be willing them to dry faster but he found himself selfishly wishing the opposite, that they would take as long as possible. He felt personally insulted by every drop of water that fell from the hem of her dress, as though each one was reminding him she had to leave, that he shouldn't have her with him, and certainly shouldn't have been holding her like he was.

He let a few minutes go by, savoring the warmth of her, her weight on him. The time seemed to evaporate like water on a hot stove.

At last he reached down and gently ran a hand along her shoulder.

She blinked awake and smiled up into his face. He adored her sleepy expression.

"Hmm? Did I fall asleep?" she asked in a groggy voice.

He kissed her cheek. "Yes, but only for a few minutes."

"Oh. Good." She closed her eyes and pulled him down so he was lying beside her. "Plenty of time, then. Mmm."

"I fear we must return," he said, pulling away from her.

"No." The sound was long and drawn-out. Eyes still closed, she stuck out a hand, found a soft velvet blanket draped over the chaise, and tugged it toward her. It responded by sliding off the armrest and onto the floor.

With the greatest reluctance, Erik stood and went to the fireplace. "I think your things are dry enough now."

"Oh, that is unfortunate." She got up, but only because he had been her source of warmth. She tried to put her arms around him, but he moved away, hovering anxiously. At last she reached out reluctantly for her coat. "Ah," she said, "It is drier than I had expected. But... oh, dear, my stockings have not had the same success. Well, I shall put the rest on. I can leave these here for the time being."

"Is that wise?" Erik said uneasily.

"I can collect them later. It gives me an excuse to see you." She smiled and, bundling the rest of her clothes into her arms, ducked back behind the curtain.

In a few minutes, she was ready to depart.

He felt bereft as he led her back through his labyrinth of tunnels to the surface. He knew he couldn't see her again soon. It wasn't safe. But the thought of being parted from her was like ripping away a part of himself. The darkness was darker without her, the cave somehow colder.

In the cab, she rested her head on his shoulder. The ride to her neighborhood passed in relative silence. He was accustomed to going without rest - sometimes he did not sleep for fourteen days and nights together, caught up in the furor of creation - but all at once he was conscious of an overwhelming weariness, a weariness of the soul. The events of this night had drained him.

The cab tilted back as it began to climb up the steep streets of Montmartre. Her street was poorly-lit, and it wasn't hard for Erik to find a shadow to hide in until the cabbie and his tired little horse had driven away.

When they were gone, Christine - her hood pulled up so no-one would see her - pulled him into her arms for a lingering kiss good-bye. No-one was watching; no-one passed by, and for a few moments, he almost forgot to be afraid. When he caught sight of the ring sparkling on her lovely hand, his happiness from earlier that evening flickered to life again.

All too soon, however, the indefinable sense of urgency that stalked them everywhere they went caught up to him again. Christine drew away and whispered that she had to go. He nodded mutely, but kept holding onto her hand for as long as possible, until her arm was stretched out to its full length and he was at last obliged to let go of the tips of her fingers.

As he watched her walk away, he wanted to cry out for her to come back to him, take her somewhere far away, never let her go again. Already the world seemed wider and emptier, his place in it more precarious. The thought of being without her made the days ahead seem to stretch out in front of him like an interminable, cold ocean.

He stared at the spot where she had disappeared into her building. Someday, he thought dejectedly, she would disappear from his life just like she had melted into the shadows just now.

And all the better for her.

A few moments went by, and finally he saw a light flicker to life in the window she had pointed out to him as her own. He could imagine her there- getting ready for bed, flinging her coat aside in that careless way she had, letting down her beautiful hair- though she was too far away to see. There she was, out of his reach, as always, never able to stay within his grasp for more than a brief instant.

He drank in the light for a moment, yearning for her as never before, before reluctantly turning to go and plunging back into the night.

One day after a few weeks had gone by, instead of one of Erik's usual long letters, she found a note that simply said If you visit the Pleyel concert hall at Number 22 Rue Rochechouart* at five-thirty in the evening on November the 17th, you shall hear something that may be of interest to you.

"In your light, I have learned how to love. In your beauty, how to create music. You dance in my heart where no one can see you."*

As usual, he had not signed it.

She smiled, equally intrigued and amused by Erik's flair for the dramatic. It was like something straight out of an Alexandre Dumas novel.

What could this mean? He had recommended concerts - which, she assumed, was what this must be too - to her before, as a supplement to her musical education, but he'd never been so opaque about it. He'd always told her what the programme consisted of, who the musicians and composers were. He'd certainly never trailed tantalizing, mysterious lines like "you shall hear something that may be of interest to you".

As she readied herself to go on the appointed evening, she felt torn between interest and fear. Was he intending to come? The thought alarmed her.

Skulking about the once-proud Opéra Populaire and making himself a flea in the ear of buffoons who didn't have a clue what they were doing was one thing. Trying that sort of thing on at Pleyel Hall, on the other hand, would be dangerous in the extreme. It was small, but that didn't comfort her. Quite the contrary, its size was merely an indicator of how exclusive and selective it was. Its leadership were nothing like Andre and Firmin. Renowned for their artistic judgment and business acumen, they were shrewd, well-connected and powerful.

But no, she told herself, Erik wouldn't try anything. He was bold and impertinent, yes - if impertinence could be considered the right word for the behavior of a great genius toward men who were in every way his inferiors, forced to content himself with playing pranks on them like a little boy when he should rightfully have ruled over all of them. But he wasn't foolhardy. And she knew he was not mad, whatever people might say about him. In many ways, he was the sanest man she had ever known.

He wouldn't be incautious enough to leave the safety of the opera house and come out among the public. Not now that he had her to think of. He'd promised her he would be careful for her sake, and so far he'd given her no reason to believe he would ever break that promise. He would never be careless where his Christine was concerned. She had to believe that.

Well, one thing was for certain - she had to go or her curiosity would drive her mad.

And that was just as Erik had, no doubt, intended it.

To Christine's surprise, when she mentioned in passing that she was going to a concert that evening, Meg, who normally regarded music as merely something to dance to, invited herself along. Christine couldn't think of an excuse to keep her from coming with her. Moreover, whether it was right or not, she didn't want to.

She and Erik had agreed it was better not to tell Meg of their relationship - it was safer for her to know as little about his dealings as possible. And yet she could not bear to lie to her oldest friend, and so she had been obliged to simply tell Meg they had agreed to continue their lessons and leave it at that. This arrangement left Meg hopelessly bewildered and Christine resorting to ever more complicated means of avoiding her questions. Eventually Meg had given up, and since they now were both obliged to artificially avoid the subject, their conversations had grown rather awkward and stilted. It was a state of affairs Christine would have given almost anything to reverse.

"I had not expected you would want to come along," she said, smiling at her as they meandered toward Rue Rochechouart.

"Well, it's almost impossible to get you alone anymore." Though Meg didn't say it, both of them knew she was referring to Christine's newfound fame.

Their friendship was strong enough, however, that Christine knew there wasn't any resentment. It was merely an unfortunate inconvenience, and that was all.

"I am sorry," she said.

"It isn't your fault." Meg squeezed her hand. "I am just glad I could come along with you to this."

Christine smiled. "So am I."

"Er... What is it we're going to, anyway?" Meg said, which made Christine laugh. "And will there be champagne?"

"I imagine there will," Christine said. "As to what in particular is on the programme - I don't know, precisely."

Meg blinked. "You don't know what it is?"

"No," Christine said awkwardly. "I believe it is a concert of some variety."

"Didn't you try to find out?"

Christine gave up trying to avoid mentioning Erik. "My instructor told me he thought it would be of interest to me-"

"-I might have known. Whatever happened with him? Are you still having lessons?"

"Yes."

Meg gave her an uncertain look. "I'm not sure I like this. There is something... odd about it, don't you think?"

"No. Why should you say that?"

"The things he does do not make any sense. What does he want from you, Christine? He bewilders me. I do not understand him."

Sadness tugged at Christine's heart. "But I do," she said quietly, looking away.

A silence settled over them, but it didn't fit right. Meg, not one to tolerate such things, impatiently shrugged it off.

"Dear," she said abruptly, catching Christine's eye in a direct gaze, "Is there... anything you want to tell me?"

"Pardon?" Christine said, startled.

"I don't mean to pry, but you seem... as though something has been weighing on you," Meg said. "You seem frightened, sometimes."

"You are the sister I never had," Christine said. "You have every right to pry. In fact, I am grateful for it." She hesitated. "As a matter of fact, yes, there is something I want to tell you," she said at last, looking down at the paving stones beneath their feet. The words came out quickly, in a rush. She knew she probably ought not even to have ventured this much, but she wasn't willing to risk weakening their friendship.

"Oh?" Meg said. She looked eager to believe whatever explanation Christine had to offer for her behavior, anything that would let them get over this awkwardness and back to the way things had been before.

"But... I cannot tell it to you," Christine said. "Not now. I shall be able to someday, but not yet. Do you see? Is that... can you accept that for now?"

"Yes." Meg paused. "There's nothing... frightening you?"

"No," Christine said. "It is nothing like that. Thank you. It is a good thing. But it is... rather significant. And I confess I am... concerned for a... friend of mine."

"Well, now I understand everything. Thank Heaven that is all sorted out," Meg said dryly.

Christine smiled sadly. "I know I am not being clear. I will tell you more when I can, you have my word."

"Very well," Meg said. "You must decide when you tell me."

"Thank you," Christine said gratefully. Though the conversation had done little to clarify anything, somehow she felt that the air between them was clearer now, that they were seeing each other eye to eye again.

For a few moments, they walked in companionable silence, enjoying the brisk air and silvery light of a Paris afternoon in November.

Suddenly recalling something Meg had said earlier, Christine asked, "Was there something you wished to talk about with me?"

"Oh. Why... as a matter of fact, yes," Meg said, recollecting. She gave a nervous giggle, something she was not in the habit of doing. "Well. You are not the only one who has secrets, as it happens."

"Oh?" Christine said.

"Yes. Do you remember the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac?"

"Yes," Christine said immediately. The Baron was the most recent in Meg's long line of admirers.

Christine had quickly come to feel that there was something different about him than the others. He was as handsome and agreeable as Philippe the noodle-brained Marquis, but considerably more intelligent. Moreover, there seemed to be a certain basic decency about him. Wherever they went together, he went out of his way to make sure she was enjoying herself.

He had seemed interested in getting to know Christine - this before she was famous - and not merely to size her up as a possibility for a menage à trois, as the rest of Meg's lovers invariably seemed to do when they saw her. Parisians.

He was polite and courteous - a gentleman, to borrow a word from the English.

Christine smiled, inviting Meg to go on.

"Well," Meg said. She stopped and sucked in her breath. "Oh, Good Lord. Christine... how do you know when you are in love?"

Christine jumped. Meg, in love? She hesitated. "Well... I... I'm not sure I have ever been in love," she said, though it cost her a great deal.

"Of course you have."

Christine sighed. "I have told everyone, the Vicomte is not-"

"-Not Monsieur le Vicomte." Meg almost rolled her eyes. "Your mysterious... Erik-or-Alphonse-or-whatever-his-name-is. Weren't you in love with him? For a time, at least."

Really, there's no fooling Meg. Christine hesitated. "Very well," she said at last. "Yes." She could not stop herself from adding, "As a matter of fact, I still am."

"Oh," Meg said. But, seeing that Christine did not want to elaborate, she had the good grace not to demand an explanation. "I thought as much," she said simply, and squeezed Christine's hand.

They walked for a few paces in silence.

Eventually Meg ventured, "Would you mind telling me... how did you know?"

"Well, I can... if things were different, I, er, could imagine... passing through the rest of my life with him."

Meg stopped short. She looked as though she'd swallowed something sour while reading an appalling piece of news in the paper at the same time. "Oh, Good Lord, I have it," she said, suddenly sounding sixty years older.

"You are in love with him?" Christine said, grabbing Meg's hands eagerly in hers.

"So it would seem," Meg said in a voice more like her usual one, scowling darkly. "Just throw me in a ditch and leave me to die."

Christine beamed. Most of her other friends were constantly declaring that they were in love, and falling out of it a week later, but Meg had never once said those words. If she thought she was in love, then she was. "Meg, this is-"

"This is a catastrophe!" Meg cried.

"No, it is wonderful!" Christine said. She was so happy in love that she wanted everybody else to be, too. "He is a good man, Meg. I can tell. And you have seemed happier recently, you know."

"Yes, yes." Meg waved her hand impatiently. "That's always the first step - you feel feverish and giddy. But then you really get it badly. Charming, Meggo. What a mess you have gotten yourself into." She picked up her pace, as though she could walk it off.

"Why is it 'a mess'?" Christine said, scurrying to keep up with her.

"It skews the field in his advantage. If he finds out, I'll never get him to agree to anything. I can't afford to be taken advantage of."

"Skews the field?" Christine cried incredulously. "What language are you speaking? This isn't sport we are talking of."

"Yes, but you know how it is for us," Meg said. "If a man finds out you love him, he'll know he can make you do whatever he wants."

"I suspect perhaps it is a little more complicated than that," Christine said.

"Hm. Perhaps you're right," Meg said. Maybe I'm not mad after all."

"Of course you are not."

"You see, I don't know what will happen in the future, but I want to be with him now, whatever may happen," Meg said.

"I understand entirely," Christine said. Better than you think, she added silently. Involuntarily, she touched the ring hidden under her dress.

"Is that so very foolish of me, to think like that for once in my life?" Meg said.

"No, of course not."

"I have always tried to be practical, but must one always think practically?"

"No, indeed," Christine said.

"Just because we are women doesn't mean we should always have to think everything is a trap."

"I quite agree!" Christine cried.

"You don't think I'm mad?" Meg asked again as they reached their stop.

"For the fiftieth time - no, not at all."

"And... you won't tell anyone about this?" Meg whispered.

"Never," Christine assured her. Your secret is safe with me for as long as I live." She paused. "Well. What do you think you are going to do?"

At that moment, however, their omnibus pulled up, and they were forced to change the subject of their conversation to the weather.

Soon afterward, Christine found herself standing before the grand façade of Pleyel Hall.

End of Chapter 23.

Thank you so much to WrappedinRed29, Charlotte, scarletvixenwthorns, AngelofIowa, TangoSalsa, PinkDynamite, missgalindaa, Chryselis, and FanFantome for your reviews and support! It means so much more to me than I can express!

Please feel free to comment, it really does help with inspiration!

Sorry, I couldn't resist throwing in a stockings reference. ;)

* I am extremely proud of myself for learning to spell this. However, do not attempt to pronounce it if you are not French. Serious injury may result.

*Rumi again. The original quote says "poetry", not music. But music can be a form of poetry, so close enough. :)