Chapter 27 - Rallentando

Upon your soul,
If you want me for a wife
Let me be told which day,
At what hour, in what place!
-Romeo et Juliette, Act I

"Mon rêve, there is something I must tell you," he said at length.

He had built a fire and they were resting before the hearth, nestled in a mound of sumptuous velvet cushions he called a Turkish corner, with a bottle of wine between them. Alone and safe in a halo of light amid the darkness of the cave beyond, it had felt like they were hanging suspended in a world of their own, somewhere between Heaven and earth.

Hours had effortlessly flowed by. He'd taken up a lute he'd been trying to compose with and played her a few pieces, and then she'd asked to learn and, hands resting on hers, his arms around her, he'd shown her a few chords. She learned swiftly, and soon the house by the lake reverberated with soft, sweet music; he'd listened, bewitched, as she blended the chords with her voice.

At length, tired, she put the instrument aside and curled up against him and he'd listened, perfectly content, tracing her fingers with his and occasionally murmering a reply, as she murmured her dreams to him, all the places she hoped they might travel together, the music she longed to perform, and how one day she would star in the premiere of his opera (a dream they had both had been plotting together for some time).

However, at length he had fallen silent, and now he was no longer speaking in the same comfortable, easy tone as before.

"What is it?" Christine said, surprised, trying to shake herself out of her warm, comfortable stupor. The apprehensive look on his face startled her. "You may tell me anything without fear."

"I know it, but this you will not be pleased to hear. And indeed, it distresses me." He closed his arms more tightly around her.

She turned in his arms. "Now you are frightening me."

"Forgive me, Christine; I do not mean to-"

She gripped his hand. "Please, tell me at once."

He sighed heavily. "Well- if I am to stay here, I had rather postpone our marriage."

This was perhaps the only thing he could have said that could have upset her. "What?" she cried, pulling away and staring at him. "Postpone it?"

"Yes."

Christine suddenly felt as though the brightest thing in her life were being dragged away from her. "But there are only a few days left!" she said. "I have been longing for the day!"

"Yes," he said, "but-"

"-I thought you were as well!" she cried.

He stared at her in astonishment. He had expected she would be unhappy, but he had not anticipated this. "It is all I have dreamt of for months-"

"-Is it? This is not the first time you have asked to delay it."

"-But why not wait a little longer, when we have our whole lives to be happy? That was our original intention, after all."

"But you are safe now," she said.

He looked away.

"Mon cœur?" she said.

When he did not reply, her expression changed from one of anger to alarm. "You are safe now," she said, "are you not...?"

He swallowed. "I am safe from the managers and the police, it appears, but there are far more dangerous men here in France from... my old life... and they know my old name. The name on our marriage announcement. In addition... I think, for the ceremony, they would have asked me to... remove my mask... people would see, Christine. And you know those damned bureaucratic fools who work for the mayor's office would not keep it to themselves... word would get out, and between that and the name... those men could find me. I know I ought to have thought of this before, but you see, the thought of... taking my mask off, it is so unimaginable to me that I did not..." He trailed off.

"I see." Christine's expression changed, her look of reproach gone. She regarded him with deep regret in her eyes. "Mon cœur, you ought to have told me it was dangerous for you. I should never have insisted upon our being married here in France."

He put a hand on her arm in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "It was not, since I was to leave immediately afterwards anyway, and they would have no idea where I was going. But now that I have the chance to stay... I should rather be near to you and not yet married, than married to you but a thousand miles apart."

"I see. Yes, I agree."

"You will not... mind?" he asked anxiously.

"I confess I do mind, yes, but I had much rather have you here with me, of course." Her face assumed a look of resolve. "We ought to go and take down the notice at once. There is no time to lose. It would be better to go at night; there will be fewer people watching-"

"-Ah. Yes." He looked to one side.

His lighthearted tone confused her. "Erik?"

"It is, of course, possible that, er, a strong wind blew it down recently," he said.

"What? Erik!-"

"-Shortly after Monsieur Joseph Masson received word that he had achieved resounding musical success."

"Erik! You did not tell me of this!" she cried. "Was I then to appear at the mayor's office on the appointed day only to be informed that the marriage could not take place because our banns had somehow mysteriously disappeared? You can, I imagine, see where that might be a somewhat distressing development."

He smiled faintly. "Of course. If you had still wanted to be married after this... discussion, I would have put the notice back up in time."

"Oh. I see."

"I kept it safe." He rose and took the paper from his desk, drawing it out of the marbled portfolio where he kept the few official documents that had attached to him over the course of his irregular existence. There was his birth certificate, which he had returned one night to his mother's house to steal - she had never known he was there, nor, it seemed, noticed it was missing later, for no report had ever been filed in their little town of the theft. The check with his winnings from the music competition. And now this, their marriage notice. By far his favorite, even if it was effectively null now.

Christine studied it wistfully for a moment. "Mon cœur," she said at last, looking up, "the next time something like this happens-"

He laughed darkly. "-Oh, I hope nothing like this will ever happen ag-"

"-When it does," she cut him off abruptly, "You ought to simply tell me. Do not go scheming and plotting without my knowledge. It does neither of us any favors."

He was taken aback. He had been coming to sit beside her, but stopped at the sharpness of her tone. "You are right," he said weakly.

Seeing that she had unsettled him, that he had moved away, she reached out and gently took his hand. He tentatively squeezed hers in return, and a certain calmness was restored between them.

"Are we to leave France, then?" Christine asked after a moment, thinking back over their conversation up to that point. "Once my contract runs out?"

"It is essential," he said. "In fact, I confess the only reason I remained here as long as I have was for wanting to be near you, Christine." He paused. "I am sorry to tear you away from your life here-"

She put a hand over his. "-No- this is exactly what I had hoped for."

"Oh?"

"I had much rather go and begin a new life somewhere else," she said. "I have been thinking. There is nothing here I shall truly regret leaving behind."

"Nothing?"

"Except perhaps my father's grave, and as for that, I think it may be better for me not to be so close, not to be able to always be going there."

"But... your friends here..." he said. "The Girys..."

"I think Meg will soon be married," Christine said. "And then who knows where she will go." She smiled wistfully.

"Ah, yes. I am glad for her. But... what about Madame Giry?"

A pang of sadness stole through Christine. "What about Madame Giry?" she said dully.

"I do not like to take you away from her. It would be a fine way for me to repay her kindness."

"I do not think it will distress her," Christine said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He looked at her in surprise. "Have you... quarreled?"

"Ah... no... it is simply... I have grown older; I am more independent, I have my own opinions now... and I think there are some things she and I shall never see eye to eye on," Christine explained. It isn't quite a lie, she told herself to stave off the pangs of guilt that immediately assailed her. And it was for Erik's sake.

He eyed her uncertainly. It was evident to both of them that this explanation had not been sufficient to explain the bitterness in her tone.

She had the impression that he could see the gaps in her reply.

It was an uncomfortable feeling.

"In any case," she went on hesitantly, "I do not want her to always feel she must worry about me. She looked after me as though I were her own child, but I do not want to burden her."

Erik's expression changed. "That I can understand," he said quietly.

The feeling that she might successfully have deceived him only made Christine feel even more guilty. She did not want to become practiced in the craft of concealing things from him. To change the subject, she took the marriage notice from his hand. She looked fondly at their two names printed next to one another. "What shall we do with this now?"

"I think perhaps you should keep it. You may... put it in your scrapbook or something," he said wryly.

The idea of a soul as wild as hers submitting to something as dainty and fastidious as keeping a scrapbook was so absurd that Christine burst into laughter, and he swiftly followed.

"Ah, indeed! Yes - a tender memento of our marriage ceremony which did not take place!" she laughed. "One of my most treasured memories!"

He grinned. "I hear it was a splendid affair."

"Yes, the event of the season, as it happened," she joined in. "Mountains of flowers, rivers of champagne."

"The bride was exquisite." He kissed her gently.

She smiled. "The groom cut a most dashing figure indeed. With his top hat, his butonnière, his lavender gloves-"

"-Lavender gloves?" Erik exclaimed, as though she had suggested he arrive wearing a doublet and hose.

She stopped and peered at him in confusion, surprised by his tone. "Yes, of course. What else?"

"You would not catch me dead wearing lavender gloves, Mademoiselle," he said. "I shall wear white gloves as befits a man of my dignity and position, and that is the end of the matter, I say."

"But you must!" she protested. "It is-"

"-What makes you imagine that I would do anything of the sort? It is out of the question."

"-It is traditional!"

"Why did you not say so before?" he scoffed. "If the folly of society demands that men blindly submit to an absurd custom like lambs being led to the slaughter, then of course I shall do it!"

"Laugh as much as you choose. I shall have my way in the end, in this matter."

They laughed.

But then, as suddenly as though a weight had been dropped on them, the mirth fell away. Worry descended like a storm moving in.

The emotion they had expended a few minutes before still hung around them in a noxious cloud, and their halfhearted jokes and uneasy laughter felt as ineffective as spraying perfume into the air.

They stopped laughing and heaved a sigh at the same time.

They looked at each other uneasily and both knew one thing: Christine was still unhappy.

"I think," she said, "Perhaps we had better go."

He nodded mutely and reluctantly helped her to her feet.

They agreed to return to the surface by way of the Rue Scribe gate, and made much of the journey in silence.

Christine found she had run out of things to say. What was there to be done?

The hope of their wedding had been the spot of brightness that had carried her through the week, and now that it was extinguished for the time being she felt cold. It had felt to her like perhaps their marriage would be the end of their ordeal of secrecy - no one would be able to keep them apart afterwards, she hoped, so perhaps, just perhaps, people wouldn't bother to try; they could finally be left in peace.

She wanted so much to have this sealed. To have it set down in law so no-one could undo it. Then at last there would be something they could be certain about, something fixed and unchangeable. And most of all, she wanted it to have God's blessing. Any divine intervention in this whole affair would be welcome. They needed all the help they could get.

And yes, perhaps - she admitted it to herself for the first time - she was beginning to fear he did not want to marry her. He loved her, of that she was certain, but he seemed so afraid of the future. Was he prepared for it?

Erik's hand sought hers in the darkness, and she took hold of it gladly, savoring its reassuring warmth.

"It cannot be easy being engaged to me, mon rêve," he ventured at length, his voice hesitant. "Can you forgive me?"

Christine scrounged for a smile, and found she'd recovered enough to produce a small one. "Perhaps," she said, her wit rising weakly. "If you wear the lavender gloves."

End of Chapter 27. Thank you so much for reading!