Chapter 44
Night and day only of him
I think and worry.
-Pique Dame, Act II
Christine was not an unpleasant-tempered creature, far from it, but even the gentlest natures have their limit, and the next day found her as irritable and fretful as she had ever been.
"What's that color?" her dresser Pierrette exclaimed when she appeared at the Opéra that afternoon.
"Pardon?" Christine said.
"Never wear that shade of green again, kitten. You're a pretty girl, but none of us can defy nature, and she never meant for you to wear that color."
Christine forced a smile onto her face. "Thank you, Pierette."
It was two hours before curtain. She seated herself at her dressing-table and began to put her hair into pin-curls, hoping for a peaceful interlude before the performance. But this wish was not to be granted.
"You scheming little foreign minx," someone suddenly snarled from behind her. It was the voice of Marie Jammes, one of the soloists in the ballet company.
"I beg your pardon?" Christine turned round, surprised and bewildered. This behavior was quite unexpected. Marie had always been unfriendly towards her, it was true – she only bestowed her friendship on powerful people, and apparently she had not thought Christine's recent successes impressive enough to warrant her attention – but she had never behaved like this.
"You know what I am talking about," Marie said. Her wide-set blue eyes, normally large and round, were narrowed with anger. "You'd do well to keep your hands off Monsieur de Chagny."
"Tell him to keep his hands off me, then!" Christine said. Her mind whirled in bewilderment. Everyone in the opera company had known for months that the Vicomte was after Christine, and Marie had never paid the slightest attention to the fact before. Why should she suddenly care so much?
Were the Vicomte and Marie a couple?
Christine fervently hoped so, that someone had finally taken the Vicomte off her hands, but she couldn't believe it. Even if his obsession with Christine had come to an end, which seemed too much to hope for, Marie was not the sort of girl the Vicomte would be attracted to. She was very aware of her beauty and skilled at using it to her advantage. The Vicomte found such women distasteful.
"Don't be ridiculous," Marie snarled. "I know you've been carrying on with him."
"I have not," Christine said. "But even if I were, why should you care-"
"-Why should I care?" Marie echoed in a scathing voice. "Is that how you're going to be about it?"
What on earth? Christine rubbed her head. "I don't know what you have heard, or what you think has happened, but I just wish he would leave me alone. Truly."
Marie snorted. "Well. At any rate, that dress ought to help. It's hideous on you, whore." And with a toss of her hair-ribbon, she disappeared.
"What on earth?" Christine said to no-one in particular. "Are she and the Vicomte…?"
Pierrette, thinking this question was addressed to her, shrugged. "Sorry about that, kitten," she said, shaking her head. "I'll lock the door."
No sooner had she done so, however, than there came another knock.
Christine sucked in her breath.
Pierrette repeated the ritual of looking out through the keyhole. "The Vicomte," she said.
"No," Christine said sharply. She thought about asking him whether he and Marie were romantically involved, but thought it inadvisable. He would decide it meant that she was jealous. "I don't have time to speak with him-"
"What are you so angry at him for?" Pierrette asked. "Didn't he save you from death- or worse?"
"He showed up at my dressing-room with no invitation-"
"-At least he knocked at the door, instead of forcing his way in and hiding inside!"
"-That is not saying much!" Christine pointed out. "Besides, afterwards he spread the story all over Paris! Now everyone thinks I have been carrying on an affair with the Ghost!"
"I see." Pierrette went back to the door. "She's going over her music, Monsieur de Chagny," Christine heard her say.
"But-"
"-She has had a most trying few days," Pierrette said in a voice that said she was not to be trifled with.
There was a silence. At last the Vicomte sighed. "Very well."
Pierrette returned a few moments later with a large, expensive-looking bouquet. "He insisted-"
"-Oh, no, please, tell him I don't want- He'll think-"
"-He's already gone," Pierrette said. "He said he'll be back later."
Christine sighed.
Unlike many of the other performers, Christine did not like sitting around in the dressing-room in her underthings, and kept her clothes on until it was time for Pierrette to put her into her costume, no matter how hot the backstage area became. Today, however, she exchanged the green gown for a wrapper immediately.
She wanted to crumple the wretched thing up and shove it a drawer, but for Meg's sake she hung it up carefully, painstakingly smoothing out any possible wrinkles.
With that complete, she busied herself with getting ready performance. She found, to her surprise, that she was shaken after her encounter with Marie. With her nerves so strained already after the past few days' events, even relatively minor disturbances upset her.
She decided to focus her attention on her stage-makeup for the time being. The ritual always steadied her, helping her forget her own troubles for the moment and focus on the character instead.
First she reached for her scent-bottle. She always spritzed some on her chemise before a performance. It helped her remember to breathe when she was caught up in the excitement of a scene. She winced as the fragrance hit her. She had forgotten for a moment what was inside: the jasmine perfume Erik had bought her. She had never imagined something so beautiful could be so painful. Memories washed over her, tormenting her. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. She yearned for his touch as she had never yearned for anything before. She did not know how she could ever be happy again unless she felt his kiss once more upon her lips.
Shall I ever seen him again?
Erik... where are you?
Playing the vivacious Susanna was a challenge for Christine even on her best days. Today, she was miserable at it.
She was exhausted, and therefore so was her voice. She really ought to have handed this performance off to the understudy, but she desperately needed the distraction. She certainly wasn't going to be doing any of the optional embellishments, even though when it came to Mozart, the optional embellishments weren't really optional.
And her spirit was exhausted as well. Every word reminded her painfully of the past few weeks.
The lecherous Count Almaviva, full of outdated ideas, used to having his own way, could have been Firmin.
The Countess – perhaps the Countess was La Carlotta. Foolish, but sympathetic in her own way. Always being passed over for younger women.
And the Vicomte... he would be Cherubino. So overcome with adolescent hysteria and imaginary love that he could scarcely remember which way was up.
Figaro was Erik, of course. Clever, but vindictive and careless… much too intelligent for his own good, arrogant, too quick to leap to conclusions … willing to put other people in harm's way because of his jealousy.
The performance passed in an unsettling blur.
When she returned to backstage at the end of Act I, her dressing-room held a few scattered bouquets - far fewer than before the scandal with the Vicomte and the "intruder".
She scarcely registered any of them, anyway. She already knew the one offering she cared for – a red rose with a black ribbon round the stem – would be missing.
She could hear grumbling as patrons went by her dressing-room, most of them on the way to see their ballerina maîtresses.
"It's true what they say - she can't act… Scandinavians have no emotion…"
"...Voice too small… Did you hear how it was breaking down at the end…?"
"Imagine not embellishing any of the cadenzas!"
"She hasn't got the stamina for a role like Susanna… Singers aren't half as good as they were in my day…"
"Should have put Carlotta in the lead…"
"…Well, Christine Daae's prettier. Otherwise one can't bring one's self to like the character, really..."
This, to Christine's fury, from a woman.
She sat there, fuming, for a moment, and then expended some of her rage by flinging a hairbrush across the room.
Pierrette, at the other end of the room, grunted sympathetically. She had encountered all manner of divas in her time at the Opéra. Christine, even on her worst days, was by far the pleasantest leading lady she had ever worked for. Compared with the torment she had endured at the hands of the likes of La Carlotta, the occasional thrown hairbrush was so insignificant that it was not worth remaking upon.
And Christine's occasional bouts of unexplained tears, which others often remarked upon and which had seemed to be rather more frequent of late, did not seem to Pierrette at all strange. It was a consequence of the strain of carrying a major production on your shoulders, she imagined.
"Not everyone in the audience is a fool like that," she said gently.
Christine smiled sadly. "Thank you."
There was a pause.
"There aren't as many bouquets tonight," Christine reflected after a moment. "That is… I don't expect anyone to give me a bouquet, certainly… but there are fewer of them now, after the incident... I don't suppose that did any good for my career."
"That'll blow over," Pierrette said confidently.
"What?"
"Well, people are angry with you because word got out that the Vicomte proposed to you."
"Is that really the reason?" Christine asked, perplexed.
"Oh, yes. No-one really cares whether you had some man in your dressing-room or not. Everyone does that. But marrying a Vicomte… non! All those aristocrats in the audience can't forgive you for aiming that high. Once they realize you don't actually want to marry him, they'll like you again."
Christine brightened slightly. "Yes, I hope that is true. Thank you."
"It is – you mark my words. The flowers will be back by your next role."
I don't think Firmin will let me have a next role, Christine thought.
"Funny, we haven't seen any of those queer red roses in awhile," Pierrette suddenly said. "The ones with the black ribbon."
"No," Christine said sadly.
"I could never decide if I thought that was elegant or eerie. Did you ever find out who sent them?"
"No."
"That was a great mystery," Pierrette said. "I don't suppose it was the Vicomte. He wouldn't think of something like that."
"No, he wouldn't," Christine agreed.
"It's too theatrical. Too dramatic."
"Yes," Christine said.
"And he'd never send just one when he could send an enormous bouquet."
Christine chuckled weakly.
"Everyone was saying it was the Ghost," Pierrette said.
"Indeed?"
"Yes. I suppose he's angry with you now that you turned him down," Pierrette said wryly.
Christine blinked back tears.
Mercifully, she was spared from having to reply, for there came another knock at the door.
Pierrette peered out the keyhole. "Hm. I've never seen him before. He's not dressed for going to the opera." She opened the door and Christine heard the sounds of a brief, muted conversation before she leaned back into the room. "He says he has a note for you."
"Thank you," Christine said.
A tall, thin, bespectacled man in a worn but neat suit appeared. He introduced himself in a Swiss accent as 'Jean Claudin, Monsieur Khan's secretary', and handed Christine a letter.
Christine's heart pounded, and she tore the note open with fumbling fingers.
I have a piece of news I think you will want to hear. If I might trouble you for a meeting this evening - The rooftop, after the performance, eleven-thirty?
M. I. Khan.
Christine had to stifle a cry. She hurriedly wrote a reply in the affirmative.
"Do you know what the news is that he is referring to?" she asked Monsieur Claudin.
"I regret not, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Khan is very private about his affairs."
I cannot blame him, when he has acquaintances like Erik? Chrisitne thought wryly.
The secretary took her note and bowed out of the room again, leaving her almost hysterical with anxiety.
"Who's Monsieur Khan?" Pierrette asked. "Queer name. Is he from the Orient?"
"Ah… an acquaintance of mine," Christine said, hoping this did not sound evasive;
Fortunately Pierrette was much too preoccupied with making sure her wardrobe was in order to inquire further.
She had just finished lacing Christine into her first costume for Act II when the door suddenly flung open so hard it slammed against the wall.
Cecile Sorelli, Philippe de Chagny's maîtresse, stood in the doorway, her tutued form silhouetted ominously by the gaslight from beyond. "You ugly, diamond-scrunching little foreign slut!" she roared.
Christine made an elaborate show of looking behind her.
"What?" Cecile barked.
"I'm sorry," Christine said. "I wasn't sure who you could be talking to."
Cecile was not clever enough to come up with a repartee to this, but merely growled.
Christine turned to the mirror and continued touching up her maquillage. "There is no-one by that description here. You must have the wrong dressing-room."
"Oh, we all know about you supposedly not being aware of people in your dressing-room!" Cecile snapped.
Christine winced. "Was there something you wanted?" she asked, when she had collected herself.
Pierrette edged out of the room. She hated Cecile.
Cecile, not replying, sauntered over to Christine's dressing-table. Suddenly her eyes fell on the green dress. She seemed to lose track of whatever she had originally been on the verge of talking about. "Is that your dress?" she said.
Christine could not reveal the truth, of course, but she hated lying. She had done enough of it in the past few days to last a lifetime. "It is in my dressing-room," she hedged.
"That color must be revolting on you," Cecile sneered. "You can't wear acid-green."
What does she want? Christine thought furiously. "I shan't be buying anything else this color," she said, quite truthfully.
Cecile picked up the little crystal perfume bottle, sprayed some into the air and sniffed it. "Very nice!"
Christine hastily took it away. It was precious to her. She hated having someone else touch it.
"Is it Molinard?" Cecile asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
"Jasmine doesn't come cheap," Cecile said. She herself reeked of patchouli. It was making Christine's eyes water.
"No," Christine agreed.
She felt uneasy – as though Cecile could somehow find out about Erik simply by looking at a bottle of perfume he had bought. She knew it was impossible, but she was beginning to grow paranoid.
"And who bought you this dress?" Cecile said. "It's hideous - that color must be revolting on you - but it's expensive. I can tell these things."
I have no doubt you can... "No-one bought it for me," Christine said, which was quite true.
"Ha! You can't afford it on your salary!"
"You don't know my salary-"
"-That's what you think! I know everything that goes on around here."
"Oh, then perhaps you are the Ghost!" Christine said, and was pleased to see that Cecile's eyes practically rolled up in her head with confusion.
"You are out of your mind!" she cried at last.
Pierrette stuck her head in the door.
"Hello," Christine said, hoping that by some magic the intermission was over ten minutes early and she could escape this ridiculous conversation.
But the actual reason for the interruption was even more unwelcome than Cecile.
"The Vicomte," Pierrette said with an apologetic look.
What, again? "I don't want to see him," Christine pleaded. "Please, tell him to go away!"
Pierrette duly disappeared again, and the Vicomte, mercifully, did not put in an appearance.
"Oh, I see; you've realized the Vicomte's never going to marry you after the other night, so now you've passed him up and decided to go after his brother instead," Cecile snarled.
"His brother!" Christine exclaimed. "Why, of course! The Comte! Monsieur de Chagny!"
"What?" Cecile snapped.
"Oh- nothing – only, now I understand what Marie was going on about earlier when she said 'you've been carrying on with Monsieur de Chagny' - she was talking about Philippe de Chagny, wasn't she?- she wouldn't have been talking about the Vicomte… she was asking me about it on your behalf…"
"Yes, she was. I sent her," Cecile said. "You're carrying on with the Comte and I mean to put a stop to it. He's mine, do you hear?"
"But where did you get this idea?"
"Oh, so you're going to feign ignorance? You've been doing that quite a lot these days, haven't you? Well, maybe this will refresh your memory!" Cecile pulled a note out of her sash with a flourish and held it out.
Christine read it with increasing bewilderment.
If you would permit me the honor of calling on you in your dressing-room during the second interlude.
P. de Chagny.
Christine squinted at it to make sure it really was a P and not an R. It was.
Philippe. Raoul's older brother again.
What on earth? Christine thought. And curse him for being stupid enough to ask Cecile's closest friend to deliver the message! It was hardy surprising that she would open it. Meg would have done the same, if a sweetheart of Christine's was slipping notes to some other woman.
"Let me reassure you," she said.
"What?"
"The Comte de Chagny - in fact, both of the Chagnys - has no interest for me whatsoever," Christine told her. "I don't know what inspired this note, but if he has taken a fancy to me – which I think exceedingly unlikely; he has made no secret of how he despises me – it is not reciprocated. He is twenty years older than me."
"Ha! Cecile snorted. "I can tell you are drooling with lust for him."
"Allow me to compliment you on your remarkably vivid imagination," Christine said.
Cecile bounded toward her and shoved her face into Christine's.
Christine shrank back. Cecile had been known to physically attack her rivals. She was shorter and smaller than Christine, but made entirely of muscle; if she were to attack her, Christine did not like her chances.
She could, if necessary, use one of the jiujitsu maneuvers Erik had taught her, but if she damaged the subscribers' favorite ballerina she would probably get into trouble.
"Just see that you keep your hands off him, you scrawny little Danish whore," Cecile snarled, "or I'll put glass in your face cream!" She sprang down off the dressing-table and stormed out of the room.
"Swedish!" Christine called after her.
She rubbed her aching head.
Suddenly another voice exploded at her from just outside the door – the director's.
"Christine, that's your entrance music!"
It was the second interval. Pierrette had just finished bundling Christine into her next costume.
Christine was trying to take deep breaths; she still felt rather shaken after her encounter with Cecile.
There came another knock at her door.
"Monsieur de Chagny to see you, Christine," someone called, and there was a chorus of giggles that Christine knew must be coming from the younger members of the corps de ballet.
Surely you must be joking! "He has a lot of nerve!" Christine snarled.
Pierrette peered out through the keyhole. "No, not the Vicomte – it's the brother," she said. She turned and looked at Christine with raised eyebrows.
"Oh," Christine said, blinking. "Yes… I had almost forgotten."
Pierrette gave her a look which said 'Well, this is interesting - wasn't he very angry at you for catching the eye of his little brother? What can he be doing here now?'
Christine felt the same. What could he want with her?
"Let him come in," she said with a sigh, and then looked up to find he already had.
"Give us five minutes," he commanded.
Pierrette gave Christine another look, one that said 'I know he's insufferable, but try to humor him; he's important', and then obediently vanished.
"Will you sit down?" Christine asked the Comte when they had exchanged the usual greetings.
"Thank you, no," he said. "I cannot stay long."
There was an awkward pause.
His eyes fell on the green gown. "Whose dress is that?" he said in confusion.
Christine sighed. "Mine."
"I wouldn't have thought you could wear that color."
Frenchmen are unbearable! Christine thought. Has there ever been anyone so obsessed with clothes as they all are? And to think I am marrying one. Or at least… I hope he still wants to marry me… "Nor can I. I know that now."
"I see," he said.
Another pause. He seemed to be trying to get up the nerve to say something.
"Did you, ah, receive my note?" he asked.
"Yes, eventually. But it took some time to reach me. Marie Jammes gave it to Cecile first," she said pointedly.
"Why would she do that? I told her to give it straight to you."
"She thought Cecile should know that you were trying to meet me in my dressing-room."
His eyes narrowed. "Then Marie read it? That was most indiscreet of her."
"I am afraid nothing stays secret here," Christine said. You ought to know that by now.
"Ah," he said, a sound which offered no illumination.
"Cecile is very angry," she pressed. "She practically attacked me."
He shrugged. "She does this from time to time. She is Italian, you see."
This piece of bigotry did nothing to endear him to Christine.
"She will have forgotten all about it in a day or two," he said.
I won't! "She called me a Swedish, ah..." Christine made a vague gesture to indicate that she could not continue.
"Well, I am sorry for that."
"Come to think of it, she called me Danish. I think that offended me more," Christine said sotto voce; sadly there were no Scandinavians about to appreciate this witticism.
The Comte drew in a deep breath. "Mademoiselle, I will not dissemble," he said. "I am here for one reason alone: I wish to revisit the offer I made to you at the New Years' ball."
Christine looked at him in surprise. This was the last thing she had expected, after the way she had spoken to him on that strange, eventful evening. "Monsieur de Chagny," she said after a pause, "I can never become Raoul's maîtresse." Even saying his name left a bad taste in her mouth. "It is impossible. My morals forbid it- and even if they did not-"
"-Perhaps we may come to an understanding," the Comte said.
Christine looked at him, intrigued. "Yes?"
"May I ask you a few questions?"
"Ah… Certainly."
"Am I not correct in thinking," he said, "that the man in your dressing-room was – forgive me – there at your invitation? You may answer freely- you need not fear I will give you away-"
Christine had not a shadow of a doubt that he would have given her away without the slightest hesitation. "-Certainly not!" she cried. The lie came easier and easier, she realized with a stab of guilt. She could even manage to make her outrage sound convincing now. The thought made her feel dirty. "He is a… a scoundrel and a criminal, whoever he is."
"Very well," the Comte said. "Forgive me. Then… You do not have any… romantic attachments at present?"
This was beginning to feel like an interrogation. "None at all," she said with an effort.
"Then… did you only reject Raoul's proposal because that man was threatening you?"
Christine thought. She must play her cards carefully. She must let the Comte think she still posed a threat. "I may still consider marrying Raoul. That man is gone now, surely. Don't you think so? If he has any sense at all he will be far away by now.
"I am by no means certain we have seen the last of him. If you marry Raoul - or form any kind of romantic attachment with him - I am very much afraid this "Ghost" would come after him," he said.
Ah, Christine thought. This explained the Comte's renewed eagerness to separate her from his brother. He had offered five thousand francs before. Perhaps he might be willing to offer more this time. Before, the threat had been merely to the family's reputation. Now, the threat was to his brother's life. "Yes, I suppose that is true. But… The police will find him soon, surely?"
"I imagine not," he said. "They have found no trace of him yet."
Christine had to conceal her elation. Bravo, Erik! "I see."
"Is that not enough to dissuade you from marrying Raoul?"
"I won't be coerced into changing my plans."
"But you will let yourself will be bribed into it?" he said.
This touched a nerve. For a moment she forgot she was playing a part, and sincerely meant what she said. "Monsieur de Chagny, as you are likely aware, I am on the verge of losing my place at the Opéra! I do not have the luxury of refu-"
"-Very well, then," he cut her off with a sigh. "Here are my terms, then. You are never to speak to Raoul again, and furthermore, I would like you to go far away."
Christine had to hide a smile. Nothing could be more agreeable to her.
"That should finally persuade Raoul to get over this infatuation with you," the Comte went on. "And it would also, I hope, draw this Ghost away from him."
"You want me to use me as bait to lure the Ghost elsewhere? That is not very gentlemanlike!" she said.
He sneered. A foreign chorus-girl dares to lecture me about honor? his expression said. "Do you have a better idea?"
"I suppose not."
"Voilà," he said. "If it is any consolation, I can offer you some assistance with finding a position elsewhere. I could speak with the board at any of the major opera houses, you know."
Of course he could, Christine thought wryly. And then, as she realized the full potential of this, suddenly hope rose in her heart. Why, this was perfect. "The Kunlinga Opera - Stockholm?"
"I am not sure that would be wise," he said. "That man was there."
"What?" She stared at him, a horrible suspicion growing inside her. "What man? Where? In Stockholm?"
"Yes, in Stockholm. And who do you suppose? Who else could we be talking of?"
"The… the man who was in my dressing-room? Him?" she cried, struggling to keep her voice under control.
"None other," he said.
"But... how do you know this?"
"He sent you a letter-"
"-What do you mean?" Christine cried.
"-Well, you see, Raoul has…" The Comte stopped, looking uncharacteristically ashamed. "I am embarrassed to say he has been helping himself to your correspondence."
"What?" Christine roared.
His voice sounded like what, if he were not Philippe Georges-Marie Alexandre, Comte de Chagny and the heir to one of the most powerful families on the continent, would have been described as a mumble. "He took your letters and read them."
She let out an audible gasp. "Why- How dare he?-"
"-Be assured I put a stop to it as soon as I learned-"
"-How dare he?" she cried. "The very idea!- I have never been so..." Her voice trailed off as she realized what this meant. Erik had written to her! Did he still love her?
"-And you would forgive Raoul for stealing your letters? Marry him after that?" the Comte said with a raised eyebrow. "You are quite annoyed with him, I see."
"Well… Ah…" With difficulty Christine collected herself, wishing she had not spoken so frankly. "Er… I own I am angry, yes, but… he was… acting in my best interest," she said through clenched teeth. "He was… concerned for my well-being..." Inwardly, however, she added, He was concerned that I might be keeping secrets from him! That scoundrel! "I am angry, but… I will forgive him…"
"He ought to have admitted it to you," the Comte said. "I told him it was important you must be made aware of this. Since this Ghost knows your address, you must take precautions."
Christine was glad he had said something - she had not thought of that. "I shall go and stay with Mère Giry," she said. She paused. "What did the Ghost say in this letter?"
"He seemed to be under the impression that you would want to meet him in Stockholm."
Christine's heart sank. Oh, Erik… What must he have thought when he showed up and found the Vicomte waiting there instead of her? It is probably all lost! He shall never forgive me after this! Even if I can find him... "Then he is indeed a madman," she managed.
The Comte nodded.
"And… Raoul did not capture him?"
"No," he said.
"And you do not know where he is now?" she asked.
"No."
Thank God! "That is… most disappointing!" she managed. "Isn't there any chance of finding him? Didn't Raoul tell the police in Stockholm?"
"Yes," he said. "But they do not have much to go on. And their behavior towards him was most unhelpful."
"Well, what about the police here?"
"I believe they will be giving up the investigation soon," he said.
She drew herself up in her chair, feigning outrage. "Do you mean to tell me after all this time, after having my reputation torn to shreds, they still do not have any trace of him? And why am I always the last to hear about these things?"
"I am sorry."
She nodded coldly. "I am most disappointed," she said. And indeed, that was true.
Stockholm was the only city in Sweden with a reputable opera company. And she could not move there now. It would make Raoul and the Comte suspicious, and she and Erik could not afford that at a time like this, or perhaps ever.
Despair flooded through her. She had never come so close to being able to return home – and now that chance had been ripped away from her. She tried not to be angry with Erik for drawing them into this imbroglio.
"Well, Stockholm is out of the question, clearly," she said. "Perhaps…" She scoured her mind for a city that was far enough away and had a good opera company. The most sensible thing to do would be to emigrate, to go as far away as possible. The United States or South America, perhaps – Erik already spoke Spanish and Portuguese, and she could see him taking to Sao Paolo or Buenos Aires – but she could not bear the thought of being an ocean away from everyone she knew. "What about Copenhagen?" she suggested. Danish was so close to Swedish that she could understand it reasonably well, and the Danes could understand her when she spoke in her mother tongue. That was something, not having to learn yet another new language.
The Comte shook his head. "No. That is too close to France. If you do not put hundreds and hundreds of miles between you, he will not take the hint. I remember what young men are like at that age."
Christine found she had to stifle a cynical laugh. Raoul was not the first man to have pestered her over the years, nor, she knew, would he be the last. "That is true. Ah… how about Warsaw? Or Budapest?" Warsaw, at least, was somewhat closer to home than Paris was… or then again, was it? She perused her mental map of Europe, but could not quite recall.
"St. Petersburg," the Comte suggested.
How flattering that he would like me to go a whole continent away, she wryly.
"I could probably arrange for you to get a place in the chorus at the Mariinsky," he went on. "And they speak French there, you know; at least, everyone worth knowing there does."
"Ah... Thank you, but I do not want to go so far away as that."
"Very well," the Comte sighed. "I daresay Budapest or Warsaw would do. I shall begin making inquiries directly."
I don't doubt you will, Christine thought wryly. His eagerness to get rid of her was almost palpable.
"My attorney has drawn up a preliminary contract-"
"-A contract?" Christine cried. These aristocrats are beyond belief!
"Yes," the Comte said, in a tone of voice that meant there is nothing peculiar about that, so say no more about it. "Meet me tomorrow at noon at this address." He held out a card.
Christine took it, scrutinizing the address.
She wanted to be quite sure she was not walking into a trap. After all, the Comte could save a good deal of money by simply having her kidnapped, hit over the head and thrown in the Seine. She wasn't sure what the going rate was for murdering young sopranos, but some pessimistic impulse in her suspected that plenty of people would be willing to do it for less than five thousand francs. She thought it unlikely the Comte would descend to that - he was obnoxious, yes, but she did not believe him to be an evil man - but it was wise to be cautious. In her brief time on this earth, she had already learned always to expect the worst of people.
The address appeared, at least, to be in a part of the city where law offices were to be found. (And well-removed from the river.)
But she would go and look for herself first, and perhaps bring Meg or Mère along if she did decide to attend.
"I shall need a day or two to find my own attorney, of course," she said. She felt more confident drawing him out now. If he was determined enough to do this to hire an attorney, then a brief delay wouldn't make him change his mind.
"Is that necessary?" he said impatiently.
"I am not going to sign a contract without having someone look over it for me, Monsieur."
The Comte winced, irritated by the delay, and, Christine suspected, by this display of shrewdness from a woman. "Very well," he acceded reluctantly. "Then shall I see you on… Wednesday? One o'clock?"
Christine marveled at the sort of power he had, that he could tell his attorney when to meet him. "Very well."
"Good," he said. "Then I bid you bon soir."
"Ah- Monsieur?"
He stopped with a scowl. "Mademoiselle?"
"Would you be so kind as to take these flowers off my hands?" she said with a smile. She picked up the Vicomte's bouquet.
"Oh." He nodded, understanding. "Very well. I shall return them to the person who brought them."
"Or perhaps you ought to give them to Cecile," Christine said pointedly.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle." The Comte gave a stiff, formal bow, took up the flowers, and departed.
Christine sat back in her chair with a heavy sigh.
Five thousand francs, that was what the Comte had promised last time. Perhaps he might even be willing to offer more now.
She and Erik could live on that for some time. She briefly toyed with the notion that this might have been Erik's plan all along. If anyone could think so three-dimensionally, it was he.
But she could not be glad.
No sum of money in the world could be worth seeing him shot before her eyes. Seeing his bloodstain still on the carpet.
She saw him everywhere she looked. She was wild to know what had become of him.
And there were still two acts before she could speak with Monsieur Khan and see if he had anything to tell her.
Erik, she thought for the thousandth time that evening, What has become of you?
End of Chapter 44. Thank you so much for reading!
*Note: In France, Marie is often used as a boys' middle name, to give them the protection of Saint Marie. Philippe Georges-Marie is the Comte's name in the book. I added an extra name on to make him sound even snootier.