Chapter Three

Amelie's face still haunted my dreams, as did Georges's, even after year back in Paris. The image of their caskets being lowered into the ground lingered. Life had been quiet though draining. At times I simply would not have enough energy to leave my room, even to eat, as much as I hated it. The grief -- or what I allowed myself to feel of it -- was sapping my energy, employing it for its own purposes.

Although I was a bit eccentric, always had been, I was not completely insane, and it had become apparent to me that at least for a while longer, I would need to hire somebody to help with the housework and cooking. I'd contacted an agency; they would be sending a woman tonight for an interview. I doubted anyone would be quite satisfactory, though I would try not to be too critical.

Telling myself I must be suitable for my first social meeting in over a year, I roused myself from my warm bed and dragged myself to the bathroom to bathe and dress. Once that was done I spent the remainder of the afternoon sorting the extensive piles of papers, compositions, and bank statements which had accumulated over the past months, a result of the uncharacteristic neglect of my usual tidiness. I wouldn't want the woman to refuse the post due to my alleged sloppiness, thinking the job would be too toilsome.

As the clock chimed four in the afternoon, a sharp knock came upon my door. I was expecting an older woman, perhaps a notorious old maid or a penniless dowager, but instead there stood a young woman of about eighteen or twenty. Her hair was dark, curly and long, her frame delicate and small. In her hand was a small grip. The agency had obviously been presumptuous of my opinion, advising her to bring her belongings just in case. We shall see about that.

She wore a pale blue frock and an apron, though somehow it seemed this was not what she was meant to do. I supposed the girl had not been at this work very long, an orphan perhaps, required to work for the sake of her survival.

I couldn't help but think of Amelie, never wanting to clean, trying to cook but failing miserably. This eventually led to the hiring of servants.

My eyes finally met her blue ones and due to how wide they were, it occurred to me that she had not known of the mask, as I had not mentioned it when conversing with the manager of the agency. It also occurred to me that during the time I'd taken to study her, she must have also studied me: my black, fathomless eyes, my oppressive, ebony mask, my formidable height. Why, she must have been scared out of her wits!

"You must be the maid they sent over," I finally said, smoothly breaking the silence. "I am Erik Devereaux." I reached for her free hand and brought it lightly, impersonally to my lips. Pretending to just notice where her gaze lingered, I added, "Don't let the mask frighten you, mademoiselle. An unfortunate accident during the war. A bit unseemly."

She was silent a few seconds more, before saying, "How sad for you, monsieur. I am sorry to hear that. My name is Christine Daae."

I invited her into my home and observed her as she set her bag down and gazed around the small foyer in wonderment. Although not large, I had taken care to decorate the room with many expensive paintings, which were now having the desired effect upon this poor girl.

"Have you much experience with living-in?" I ventured to ask.

She seemed bashful. "No, monsieur. This is only my first chance." Her eyes darted from mine to the mask periodically, but she seemed a bit more at ease if I was any judge. "Perhaps you should tell me what my duties would be if you hired me."

"Of course." I paused a moment, wondering how to articulate this. "I moved back to Paris one year ago, and have since realized I cannot run even a small flat by myself when there are other things to be attended to. Your duties would be basic, cooking my meals each day unless I say otherwise and keeping the house in a reasonably clean state. I am a private person by nature, so perhaps it would be in your best interest to stay out of my way."

"As you please, monsieur," she replied quietly.

"Your room" -- I gestured to a door at my left -- "is adjacent to a bath. You may lock it if you wish. Some consider it immoral for a young woman to serve only a man if they are not wed. I will not hire you if you are not comfortable with the situation or with me."

The poor girl seemed surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, but more acutely, embarrassed at my bluntness.

"No, monsieur, it is alright," she replied after a moment, her cheeks flushing. She had such an innocence about her, a quality I'd always appreciated as novel since mine had been stolen from me at such a young age, all because of something I could not change nor had I chosen in the first place.

"Good. Now then, you'll be paid one hundred francs a week." I heard her inhale sharply. "It is negotiable," I continued, suppressing my wicked smirk. "Now then, I do believe I have enough supplies for the remainder of today and tomorrow morning, but after breakfast we shall have to go to the market." I rattled off these items as they appeared on an omnipresent mental to-do list of mine.

"Follow me," I said, taking her small grip and walking to the spare room. "Are these all your belongings?" Upon receiving an affirmative I replied, "Good. I shall contact the agency and tell them this meeting was all that was required, and that you are hired for an indefinite period."

Mentally, I grimaced. They'd predicted my decision correctly.

I opened the door for her and she stepped into the small but cozy feminine room. The walls and décor were a clean white accented with mint green. Lace trimmed the bed spread and pillowcases. I'd added a small set of shelves for personal effects.

The girl turned to me, an obviously pleased expression on her pretty, young face.

"You may unpack now," I said before she could speak. "I will not disturb you unless I am in need of something. I expect you to do the same." I finally looked directly at her, and suddenly I felt oddly nostalgic. Somehow I knew this girl would be a perfect fit for my needs, that we would get along amiably. It was an amusing oddity, of course, a forty-odd year old man with such a young female maid, but I felt sure she would perhaps breathe a bit of life back into my days.

"One more question before I leave you be," I said, my tone softening. "What shall I call you?"

She smiled softly, as if it were a privilege to be given the choice. "Christine will do just nicely, monsieur."