Chapter 39

Ah! Happiness was within our reach,

So close! So close!

- Eugene Onegin, Act II

Christine was not in the habit of using profanity, but she nevertheless managed to colorfully express her opinion of the situation she found herself in, making inventive use of those words which were at her disposal. "What a wretched, miserable evening! Why did I listen to Erik? That fool!" she exclaimed, switching between Swedish and French as they came to her. She went on at great length about the Vicomte, the painful fates she would like him to suffer, the way his parents had brought him up, Parisian policemen, Parisian cabdrivers, Paris in general, the French in general, and what God in His infinite wisdom could possibly have been thinking when He invented men. "What possessed Erik to go setting traps like this? If he finds me, I shall… I shall…"

Of course, she wouldn't do anything, she admitted to herself. There was no use denying it. She adored him.

Besides, he wouldn't find her. He was long gone, if he had any sense.

Eventually, she realized her anger was in fact fear in disguise. Fear and grief.

She would probably die here. What a way for her to die, and what a place. She who had so much life in her still, so much love left to give, so much music left to sing.

The night dragged on. Every second felt like an hour. Eventually she gave up struggling.

Her shivering weakened and then stopped, which frightened her more than anything else.

But then even the fear was gone… There was only darkness… Darkness and the cold. It was oddly peaceful. The darkness called to her, welcomed her…

But then there was something else. There was a light, then a voice, shouting, calling her name, and footsteps running toward her.

The ropes were loosening around her, and then they'd fallen away and a pair of strong arms was holding her carefully.

She tried to speak but it came out as a mumble.

"No!" said Erik's voice, and he held a gloved finger to her lips. "You must not. Christine, my God… Oh, Christine... My poor Christine..." There were tears in his eyes, she saw.

He took off his cloak and wrapped it round her, then pulled an ornately worked silver flask from the inside pocket of his jacket. Unscrewing the cap, he held it to her lips.

She managed to swallow, and tasted some potent exotic liquor she didn't recognize. It burned her throat, but the warmth began to spread through her. Soon she felt more alert as well. Perhaps there was something else in it too, she thought. With Erik, it was better not to ask.

He carried her to the shore, and then they were in the boat, heading toward the grotto.

She pulled his cloak tightly around her, and the cold eased slightly. It was all she could think to do; she still had not come back to herself.

She was dimly aware of him shouting at her. "What possessed you…" and "Had I not found you..." and "Little fool..."

She looked up at him. He looked angry, but there was something else as well. Fear.

And then she remembered. "Erik!" she cried in a weak, stammering voice. "The Vicomte knows-"

"-Christine!" he cried. "Have a care! Your voice… the cold…"

"But Erik- you must-"

"-Not another word!"

Shivering, she sighed and lapsed into silence once more.

After what seemed like hours, though it was probably only a few minutes, they came upon the grotto.

He bore her ashore, wrapped her in a blanket, and situated her carefully by the fire in a soft armchair. But this courteousness did not stop him from glaring stonily at her every moment.

His home was in disarray, she observed, looking around. He was throwing papers into the fire, seizing armfuls of possessions and flinging them into the lake helter-skelter.

Then he was leaving, she thought. Had her warning been pointless?

He turned and she noticed a bloodstain on his coat.

"Erik," she said as soon as she had thawed enough to speak. "Your injury…"

"Never mind it," he said.

"But-"

"-It merely grazed my ribs."

"Have you looked at it?"

"Yes!" he explained impatiently. "I have survived far worse. He is a wretched shot, your Vicomte."

"He isn't mine. You ought to let me look at it."

He sputtered impatiently.

"Erik-"

"-What does de Chagny know?" he asked after a moment.

"Pardon?"

"What were you saying to me just now, in the boat."

"Oh. He knows… about the passage behind my dressing-room," she said, and suddenly she was fighting back tears. "And he knows there is a lake down here… It won't be long before he finds this place… He went to the police… I couldn't stop him; I am sorry… I muddied the waters as much as I could but they already know a great deal… Things are very bad… You must flee! You must leave France; you must go as far away as possible!"

"You are right," he said, surprising her.

"Oh?" she said.

"Yes. We must go at once."

"But you ought to see a doctor-" She started. "We?"

"Naturellement. You shall be accompanying me."

"But Erik- my contract-"

"-Yes, a great pity. You ought to have thought of that before."

"Does all we have worked for mean nothing to-" She stopped. "Before what, may I ask?"

"-Before you conveniently neglected to tell that damned Vicomte of yours that your affections were no longer available!"

"He is not mine!" she cried. "Don't you have any faith in me at all?"

"Why should I?"

"Erik, how can you say that-"

"-You denied me!" he wailed. "You betrayed me!"

"I have never betrayed you in any way!" she cried. "Have you forgotten that you told me to deny you?"

"Ah, so then I had no reason at all to be suspicious?" he sneered.

"No! And I think your-"

"-What happened in the carriage?" he cried suddenly.

"What?" she said.

"What? Happened? In? The? Carriage?"

Kristina swallowed and squared her shoulders. "You have no right to demand an account of my actions then."

"What?" he roared.

"You and I were not yet a couple! You had no claim to me then." She swallowed. "But I know perfectly well that if I do not tell you, you shall imagine all sorts of vile things that are worse than the truth." She squared her shoulders. She knew that she had done nothing Erik could blame her for, not then. She had owed him nothing then. If he were angry, then he would be being totally unreasonable. But then, that had never stopped Erik… "I admit I let him kiss me. For a moment only," she added, stupidly. "It was only-"

Erik roared with rage and flipped over a mirror so hard it smashed on the ground.

Christine jumped. "What are you doing?" she cried. "Stop this!"

"Not enough!" he roared, "Not enough that he has everything, no, he must take from me the one thing that I-"

"-He hasn't taken anything from you! It was before you and I were a couple."

"Was it after you said you loved me?" he said.

"Yes, but you had rejected m-" She stopped. "How did you know that?"

"I saw you and him talking that night on the boulevard."

"You came up to find me?" she said in astonishment. She had never known that. He had never admitted it.

"Yes, I came up to apologize for - never mind. Do you mean to tell me that ten minutes after saying you loved me, you were kissing your damned Vicomte?"

Christine felt sick as she realized how this must appear. "It wasn't like you make it sound. It was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen."

He whirled around, an ugly snarl fixed on his face. "Ah! Charming! And how many more of these interesting 'accidents' should we expect?"

With difficulty, she choked back her rage. "Erik, there isn't time for this! I shall answer anything later, anything you ask me, but you must flee!"

"Then you will not come with me?" he roared.

"If you think I am going to throw away everything I have worked for because of your absurd, foolish, selfish actions this evening, then you are out of your mind!"

Suddenly his expression became icy calm. He smiled a smile that frightened her far more than his rage, and dropped into a chair. "Very well," he said, clasping his hands together pleasantly and crossing his legs, as though they were having afternoon tea. "Then I shall stay where I am."

A chill ran through her. "No… Erik, you cannot-"

"-I will be damned if I let him have you!"

"You have nothing to fear from him where I am concerned. Surely you know that? I do not love him. I love you. I would never betray him for you."

"I don't intend to take your word for it!"

"If you stay here, he will kill you!" she practically wailed.

"Then I shall die right here!" he roared.

"What?" she cried in horror.

"Erik will not move one inch - no-"

Christine's heart sank. Whenever he started talking about himself in third person it meant they were beyond all reason.

"Very well. I will go with you," she said at last, "If it is the only way to persuade you to leave and be safe." Tears spilled from her closed lids. "And as soon as we are out of France, you must find a doctor to look at your injury. You have won, Erik. Are you satisfied?"

There was a long silence. She opened her eyes and regarded him with trepidation. The music in her mind was slow, tense.

At last he nodded. "Go home and collect whatever things you might require," he ordered. "Meet me at the Gare du Nord at six o'clock."

So she had prevailed. It was a bitter victory. Damn him, she thought, for making it come to this. "Not til then? I do not need to bring anything. We ought to go now."

"You ought to go and get warm. Besides, it is the earliest I can depart - there are some affairs I must attend to first."

"Affairs? What affairs?"

"You have lost the right to ask questions of me."

"That is a pretty thing to say! A fine way for a husband and wife to relate to each other! Is this state of affairs going to continue throughout our marriage, pray?

"That is for yourself to determine," he said loftily.

For a moment, there was silence. A thousand unspoken words hung between them.

"Are you quite recovered?" he said at last.

"As much as I can hope for."

"Then you had better be going."

She sat looking at him, hoping for something, a word, a kiss, anything. But he did not move.

"Erik…" she said at last.

"What is it?"

"Erik… I love you…"

He stood and nodded coldly. "Come."

Wordlessly, she followed him up the tunnel to the Rue Scribe. She would not let him see her tears. Not now.

Erik's thoughts were in a whirl. His mind brimmed with an acrid mixture of jealousy, anger, fear, and wounded pride. And there was something else, something he was not accustomed to feeling.

He was ashamed of himself.

He had meant to test her. Not only that, but he had meant to punish her, exact his revenge for whatever dalliance she had committed with the Vicomte. He couldn't punish the Vicomte so he was expending his fury on her.

Well, his pride was satisfied. He had won. He'd bent her to his will, exacted a devastating tribute of her loyalty. She had given up all her ambitions for him. He ought to be pleased.

But he was just as unhappy as before, in fact even moreso. He felt as low and as miserable as when he had made her run sobbing down the boulevard after declaring her love for him - the same night, in fact, when she had gone home with the Vicomte and kissed him in his damned carriage.

Once again, he had been a selfish fool and she had been gentle and good, far more than he deserved. What had he been thinking? He could not take away the thing that lit up his precious Christine's life, that gave her wings.

Besides, without music, she would realize how miserable life with him really was.

If he carried through this hateful scheme, this stupid plan that would tear her away from everything she loved, it was sure to make her hate him. If she did not already.

The question was - what to do?

The journey home was interminable, but it didn't take Christine long to collect her few meagre belongings. She wouldn't be able to take the corbeille de mariage Erik had given her. The irony stung.

Within an hour, she was arriving at the Gare du Nord, where Erik would be waiting for her.

The station was cold and gloomy.

Everywhere, there were homeless soldiers, wounded by the war, wrapped in drab cloaks and threadbare blankets and trying in vain to shelter from the wind.

Many had disfigured faces. Some wore masks not unlike Erik's, though few, she opined privately, with the same quiet dignity he did.

Aside from them, there was hardly a soul to be seen.

Shivering, Christine made her way to the fifth platform, where Erik had told her to wait. Selecting a bench, she sat and waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

But no-one came.

At length, someone walked toward her.

But it was not him; it was a station-manager in a blue cloak. She stood up with a questioning look.

" 'Scuse me, Mademoiselle," he said. "Is your name Juliette?"

"Ah - yes."

"There was a fellow in a mask said you'd be here. Tall- black hair- Green eyes?"

"Thank heaven!" she cried. "I have been frantic. Where-"

"-Don't know."

She quavered. "Oh?"

"Sorry. He did have a message for you, though."

"Yes?" Christine said eagerly.

"He said he's been delayed."

"Delayed?" she cried. "What-"

"-That he didn't say. He says he doesn't want you waiting around here. He'll contact you as soon as possible."

Her heart began to pound. What in Heaven's name was she to do now? What had become of Erik? "Do you know where he went? Which train did he get on?"

He shrugged. He looked as though he hadn't had his coffee yet, Christine thought. "Don't think he got on a train," he said. "Think he took a cab. Not sure where he went, though."

"Thank you…" She waffled on the platform for a moment, looking this way and that, unsure what to do.

"I'd recommend you go home, Mam'zelle," the man's voice cut into her thoughts. "The station's not a safe place for a young lady alone."

"Isn't there a waiting-room or something of the kind?" she asked.

Again he shrugged. "Not open yet."

What are my taxes paying for? Christine wondered irately. At last, she absentmindedly nodded her thanks, and made for the exit.

As she walked down the stairs toward the street, she saw a gendarme patrolling the sidewalk.

She stopped short, feeling sick.

Of course. There were always police at the train stations. She ought to have thought of that. She ought to have warned Erik.

They must have found him. He must have been imprisoned. What could she do? There must be something that could be done!

At last it came to her. If they had found him, the Vicomte would know.

As much as it nauseated her to have to get back in touch with him, she couldn't see what other choice she had.

She stopped at a telegraph office and cabled him a hasty message - only two words this time; her spending-money had quite run out.

What news?

She directed the reply to be sent to Mère Giry's appartement in Clichy; it was closer than hers.

After sending another message to her flatmate, Babette, saying she would not be home that night, she headed to Clichy to await a response.

After six knocks, Mère Giry answered the door. She wore a heliotrope bathrobe and a bewildered expression.

"Mère," Christine said awkwardly. "Thank you for your help earlier. I-"

"-Christine!" she said, rubbing her eyes. "Come in out of the cold. Are you well? What has happened?"

"Too much to explain… I cannot find Erik... There should be a telegram here for me…"

Mère Giry shut the door. "Yes, from the Vicomte, and I have had one from Erik."

"From Erik? When? Is he-"

"So far he has avoided the police," Mère assured her.

"Thank Heaven!"

"He is on a train out of Paris."

"But..." Christine sat down heavily on a creaking armchair. He left without me, she had been about to say aloud. He must be very angry with me indeed!

But she caught herself. She would rather Mère not know that she had been planning to abandon her contract and flee the country with Erik in the middle of the night.

"Has he told you of his plans?" she asked instead. "Is he leaving France?"

"Yes," said Mère. "I think you will agree that is necessary."

"Yes, I do," Christine said, though with a heavy heart. "May I see what he wrote?"

"I am sorry - I burnt the telegram. As per Erik's strict instructions."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you - that was wise," Christine said. "Ah- how about the telegram from the Vicomte?"

"I took the liberty of reading it already," Mère Giry said sheepishly as she handed it to her.

"No matter." Christine hastily opened it.

No news as of yet. We continue to search. I shall alert you at once to any developments.

It was the most encouraging news she could have hoped for under the circumstances.

She flung the piece of paper away as though the Vicomte had personally contaminated it.

What to do now? There seemed to be nothing but dead ends.

After the maelstrom of activity that night, the sudden stillness made her dizzy. How much had happened! What a dreadful night.

"Good heavens…" she moaned suddenly. "I am utterly exhausted… Have you any coffee? I need…"

"You do not need coffee," Mère Giry said firmly. "You need to go to sleep."

"But Erik… I need to…"

"Erik is probably out of the country by now. We have no way of reaching him. There is nothing you can do for him at present." Mère Giry gently hauled Christine out of the armchair. "Go rest."

Christine thought. Perhaps she was right. It seemed there was nothing more to be done at the moment. Erik was heaven-knew-where. She had no idea when she might see him again - if indeed he wanted to see her again, she thought with a twinge - and there was no way she could conceive of that she might help him at present.

Besides, she could barely keep her eyes open. At last she mumbled sleepily, "Very well."

The small bedroom Christine and Meg had shared was still much as it had been when she moved out, save that Mère now used it to store her extra books.

She let herself flop onto her old bed, not bothering to undress or even to put out her arms to catch herself.

In the best of circumstances she was a poor sleeper, plagued by nightmares. She had been certain that after a night like this, she would lie awake, tossing and turning.

But she was so exhausted with fear and disappointment and heartbreak that she fell into slumber almost at once.

She did not dream, which was perhaps a mercy, but still it was not a restful sleep.

Several times she awoke in confusion, unsure where she was. Once she thought she was back at her own appartement, another time at the Opéra, and once on a train bound for some unknown place.

After about eight hours, she suddenly sat up with a start, calling for Erik.

Mère Giry ran into the room, flinging open the door. "Christine? What is it?"

Christine shook her head blearily. "Forgive me; I did not mean to frighten you… Is there anything from Erik?" Her head was aching. "Heavens, what time is it? For that matter… what day is it? Oof… my head…"

Mère Giry almost smiled. "Do not worry - I won't let you miss a performance. It is Monday afternoon. You don't have to be anywhere til this evening."

"Thank you. Any news from Erik, Mère?"

"Yes, my girl. He-"

"-There is? What-"

"-He has arrived in safety," Mère Giry said gently.

"Thank God," Christine sighed. "Arrived where?"

"He did not say."

"What?" Christine said. "Didn't he leave any instructions, an address - something?"

"Not yet. I'm sure in time-"

"-What about a message? Didn't he say he loves me, or anything?" Christine winced at how pathetic she sounded.

"No. Men can be rather stupid that way," Mere Giry said. "They expect us to assume their love for us is an immutable fact, even if they never do a thing to show it."

"You think he does not love me anymore?" Christine said pitifully.

Mere Giry blinked. "Forgive me - I did not mean to imply that - I was thinking of my snake of a husband. That is hardly a fair comparison. Erik may have his faults, but he is not like him. But I digress. No, I think Erik could tear his own heart out more easily than he could stop being in love with you, Christine."

Christine shook her head feebly. "I don't understand. Why didn't he give some way to contact him?"

"I doubt he thinks it safe at present. I am sure he will let you know soon."

"Yes… or perhaps… perhaps he has abandoned me…" Christine drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "He was so very angry with me about the Vicomte... and indeed I do not blame him!-" Her voice caught.

"-He would never do such a thing," Mère Giry reassured her, gently brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I know him."

"Thank you," Christine said automatically.

But as soon as she was alone in the room, she wept.

End of Chapter 39. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you to MissGalindaa, LC, IndyBean, StrangeHait, pinkdynamite, LadyMyth, Marzz, CowgirlCadet, and afaiths21 for your kind words! (LadyMyth- "holy dangling damsels"- LOLOLOLOL love it!)