Chapter 29
In the splendor of the white veil
I want to hide myself...
In it, I seem like a bride
on the way to the altar!
-I Puritani, Act I
Inside, she found a large mahogany trunk, its lid and sides inlaid with panels of embroidered silk.
She looked up at him with wide eyes and the beginnings of a smile. "Erik...!"
"Are you familiar with this custom?" Erik asked.
"Is it a corbeille, is it not? I have seen them in shop windows."
"Indeed you are quite correct."
"We have wedding-chests in Sweden," she said, "though we do not call them that. But ... Erik! You did not have to... this extravagance!"
"No self-respecting Frenchman could marry without bestowing a corbeille de mariage on his bride-to-be." He smiled.
"Oh, mon coeur, you are too good. But-"
"-Do not say another word about expenses. What I do with my own earnings is my affair."
"You are in the right," she agreed.
"I am allowed to spoil my fiancée." He smiled.
"I am too wise to object to that."
He laughed.
"Besides," she said teasingly, "I know that within a few months you will revert to your usual irascible self, so I shall enjoy this while it lasts; I know it will not be forever."
"Indeed I shall not. I object most strongly to that assessment - most strongly indeed."
"We shall see." Christine opened the lid and peered inside the trunk. "Ah! - A letter!" She held up an elegant parchment envelope. "Let us see what the writer has to say."
"Pray don't," he said in a pained voice.
She smiled and sweetly ignored this request, flicking open the envelope's wax seal with a practiced hand. " 'Ma promise," she read, when she had withdrawn its contents, I know how you hate extravagance, but I hope you will allow me this indulgence." She looked up. "You are blushing."
"How could you possibly know that?" he said triumphantly. At least being obliged to wear a mask all the time was useful for something!
She grinned. "It is easy to tell. Your ears are red."
Alarmed, he put a hand to his ear. Indeed, it had gone warm. Good god, how embarrassing.
"But why, mon cœurr?" she said, her voice kind. "You write beautifully."
"I am sure I do not know what you are talking of."
"That you write beautifully?" she laughed.
"No- I do write beautifully, you are correct in that assessment. But you are mistaken as to the color of my ears. They have not gone red in the slightest. I would never allow something so undignified to happen."
Christine couldn't tell if he was joking or not. At last, she smiled and shrugged and went on. " 'In addition to the customary assorted frou-frou and et cetera, I have included a gown for you, to replace the one which was ruined by my carelessness-' " She broke in, "-Poor Erik, as if that were in any way your fault. And as if you were not the one who bought it for me in the first place!"
He shrugged. "You had better keep it, all the same. I will not be wearing it."
Christine laughed. "What a notion!"
When she had regained some measure of her composure, she went on. "'I have omitted the traditional prayer-book and rosaire, as you would, you will forgive me for observing, I think not have much use for them. You are clever enough to come up with your own prayers, unlike we dull Catholics, it seems.' You are quite right there. 'I have left out the customary sewing-supplies as well.' Ah, yes, you know how dreadfully I have neglected my embroidery. I can mend stockings and sew pointe-shoe ribbons with the best of them, of course, but that is all."
"You have employed your time much better. It would be a waste for an artist like you to fritter her time away on embroidery."
"Thank you, mon cœur. How glad I am that you do not see these things the way the rest of the world seems to." Christine looked down at the paper. "And now nothing remains but to assure you again of my immeasurable regard.'" She smiled. "Well, then. Let me assure you of mine in return." She kissed him, resting her hand on the curve of his cheek as she pulled away.
"Well. Go on, go ahead and disembowel it, then, if you are determined," he said at last, his fondness barely concealed.
She turned in the circle of his arm, and pulled aside the leaves of tissue lining the trunk to reveal its contents.
He had, as she would have expected, guessed at just the sort of things she would have wanted when setting up a home. There was a beautifully carved rosewood music stand, cleverly constructed so that it folded up to fit in the trunk, a metronome, a splendid silver-framed mirror so she could monitor herself as she sang, and a stack of new music for her to peruse. From the eighteenth century, it appeared - her favorite.
There were the traditional things one would expect to find in a corbeille. A fan, a cashmere shawl - those were indispensable, the heart of any corbeille - a cedar glove box. Perfume - of course, this was France - that smelled like jasmine blossoms (she hated the violet fragrance that most Parisian girls were wearing) and came in a tiny filigree bottle that looked like a phial of fairy potion. Tablecloths and bed-linens embroidered with their initials. Handkerchiefs and a hand mirror monogrammed with her new ones. CDM. When she read the letters, her heart fluttered. Erik would never admit in so many words that he had given in to what she wanted - but there it was. Christine Daae Masson. At least in private, she would be Madame Masson, as she'd wished. She delicately traced the letters with her finger, a tender smile playing over her lips.
As she examined the bed-linens she could feel Erik's eyes on her. She licked her lips. In her mind she could imagine their bodies entwining, defenseless and silent. Her pulse stirred. The blood beat in her veins. She looked up at him and smiled suggestively. She was not coquettish by nature, but Meg had seen to it that she learned to flirt as well as any native-born Parisienne.
Erik's ears turned more red than they ever had before. "I simply ordered the corbeille and told them what initials we wanted," he stammered, hardly knowing what he was saying. "I did not know they would include those, ah... I was not thinking..."
"Haven't you thought of that?" she said, smiling. "Someone ought to."
"No... Well, yes - well that is-"
"After all, we are going to need these things," she pressed.
"Yes, I suppose - ah, well, er, as a matter of fact, er, that is to say-"
"I intend to make good use of them, don't you?"
"Yes," Erik said. Then, in a panic, "No! Er, that is..." He looked away, tugging uncomfortably at his jacket.
Smiling, she looked away, unperturbed, and hummed demurely. She had tormented him enough for now. There would be plenty of time for that later.
"Ah- see if there is anything else in the trunk," he prompted at last.
She looked at him in surprise. She had thought the trunk was empty.
However, as she turned and examined it more closely, she saw that had missed something at the bottom. What she had taken for a colored lining, she now saw, was a sheaf of robin's-egg-blue tissue paper.
Without realizing it, she caught her breath. She had an inkling, a hope, of what this might be. When she pulled back the leaves of tissue, her guess was confirmed: a wedding-veil.
In a moment she had it out of the trunk. It came free with a soft whisper.
She turned to Erik and held it out.
He drew away a little. "Is it bad luck for me to see you...?"
"No. Well, I don't think so. I think that is just the gown." She paused.
"Ah. Well, in that case." He took the veil and carefully shook out its fragile folds before arranging it over his arm.
"Mon cœur?" Christine said.
He looked up. "Yes, mon rêve?"
"Does that superstition include seeing me just before? In the church?"
He thought. "Well, I suppose traditionally the groom does not see the bride until she is walking up the aisle. I am not certain at what precise moment the bad luck ceases to be a threat, however." He smiled wryly.
"Ah." Christine paused. "I see."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Do you tend to be superstitious?"
"I think we need all the luck we can get."
"Oh." She frowned.
"Why do you ask?"
"Well..." she said, "I have been meaning to ask you... I know it is not how things are done in this country, but I should like for us to walk down the aisle together."
"Together." He looked thoughtful, but did not reject the idea. "Ah- why, precisely?"
"It is how it is always done in Sweden. And no-one 'gives' the bride to the groom, you see - they go to the altar together, as equals. My father would never have have let me be 'given away' to anyone. And that is why no-one shall be 'giving' me to you - I am freely choosing my husband, as I have a right to. I want that to be apparent to all."
He looked up at her with an expression of transcendent gratitude. "Then that is just what we shall do, mon rêve," he said in a choked voice.
She beamed. "Oh, I am glad!"
She fell into a reverent silence as with trembling hands he settled the veil on her head. The folds rain down her face cathedral-style, gently blurring her features like a mist. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead through the delicate lace.
The light was dim, so he led her to the window and held up the hand-mirror for her. When Christine saw her reflection, which she scarcely recognized - it was like something from a dream - at last it all became real to her.
She let out a gasp.
It was impossible not to be reassured, she thought, as she threw her trembling arms around Erik. He wouldn't have done this - and the veil in particular; he certainly wouldn't have encouraged her to try it on - if he didn't mean to go on with the marriage.
All at once she realized he still had not seen her properly.
She pulled away and looked at him, the moonlight falling full on her face so he could see her at last.
When he saw her, he made a sound that might have been a sob.
Before she could read his expression, he abruptly pulled into his arms and held her so tightly she could barely breathe. She could feel his own breathing, quick and overwrought.
They stood like that for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten where they were. She hoped no-one was looking.
At last he released her when she gently squeezed his arm.
"I am not sure I was quite prepared for the sight, mon rêve," he said in a weak voice. "To think you are to be my wife... my own dear wife... to stand before me like this... It is like a dream."
Christine saw her moment. "With a wedding date to look forward to, it would not seem so unreal."
He seized her hands, an eager smile spreading over his face. "The day your contract expires... That same night we shall fly to... wherever it is you want to go - and that night, or the very next, we shall be married."
Relief flooded through Christine, as though an enormous balloon had been punctured inside her chest. "March the twenty-ninth. My last performance is that night. I can take the very next train to... wherever you wish."
"Then March the thirtieth it shall be, Christine."
She kissed him, a long, lingering kiss, with movements like a sonata, that began andante, then moved to allegretto and then vivace. At last he pulled away, startled by her intensity. She rested a hand on his shoulder, looking deep into his eyes.
He traced a finger along her cheek.
Christine leaned her head against his chest. "Wherever I want to go?" she said after a moment, recalling something he had said.
"Hm?"
"You said 'where I want to go'?"
He shrugged elaborately. "I have no attachment to anyplace. Besides, any rational husband knows it is wisest to keep his wife happy, I daresay."
"Then... what do you think of Stockholm, my love?" She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. "They have a respectable opera company there. Even you could not find fault with them."
"The Kunlinga Opera."
"Yes." She smiled appreciatively. "The very one. I have been meaning to write and request an audition."
"You want to return to Sweden, then?" he said.
"Yes. It is what I have wanted for many years, in fact. Things are different there," she said, her voice suddenly passionate. "They are better... better for ladies... A lady may go to university there, if she wishes, and vote in municipal elections."
"That is admirable."
"Oh, I am glad you agree," she said happily. "And I think you would find you were better-treated there, too, my dearest. At least, I hope so. It is a peaceable country, not like here. Not so... backward and ignorant and unscientific, forgive me. We have not fought a war in half a century."
"It sounds ideal." Or at least, not quite so bad as everywhere else, he thought morosely. "And I should like to see your homeland."
She beamed. "Then my happiness is now complete. I have nothing left to wish for. Thank you, mon cœur!"
"You have nothing to thank me for. Everything I value shall be going with me." He tenderly kissed her cheek.
She blinked back tears.
"I am relieved," she said at last, sinking into the chair, where he gladly joined her. "With all due respect to you and Meg and Madame Giry, this country is miserable. I should not have liked to think of bringing up a child here."
Erik froze. "What?"
End of Chapter 29.
Thank you so much for reading!
Thank you so much adreamama, Syri Reed, Lady Myth, afaiths21, Child of Dreams, Bonpetitepoodles, Charlotte, Inna Morati (heh, heh, I see what you did there!), Leil3, and BlossomofEdelweiss (great username! are you a sound of music fan?), for your reviews and input! It means so much to me and keeps me going! Thank you Crys as always for your friendship and support. : x
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