Chapter Five
The holidays were spent nicely, but I found that the New Year brought with it a new phase in mine and Christine's relationship, at least on her part. Although I treated her basically the same, she seemed a bit more careful around me, careful not to say anything foolish or silly; too often she sacrificed our conversation for the sake of seeming sophisticated.
When she thought I did not notice, I could feel her eyes lingering upon me as we ate, or as we sat quietly in the parlor, which we now did rather than stroll in the bitter winter cold. After dinner we would sit together, myself usually reading, Christine usually knitting or mending my clothing or hers. Try as I might to ignore these stares of hers, I could not, and they began to bother me -- not the stares themselves, but the reason why she initiated them. I'd begun to sorely regret the day my lips had brushed her forehead, for at the time I'd had no idea the gesture would create such a dramatic after-effect. Indeed, I was not thinking at all when kissed her.
I missed the days when we would sit comfortably, and I would not have to worry about whether she was looking at me or not, about what she was thinking, or how she could interpret what I was saying. Of course, she never said anything which led me to believe things were different, but those quiet, private gazes were enough for me to realize.
Whatever she felt for me I did not return. I daresay my heart was buried in equal portions with my wife and my son, leaving behind no part for romantic love, or love of any kind, only this shallow, content fondness, nothing beneath the surface. If she expected any more of me she would be discharged. Of course, sometimes late at night when I could not sleep I would wonder why I was so worried about what she thought of me at all. What did it matter what she thought? These questions would only detain sleep further.
Either way, I cared for the young girl, and in the springtime I purchased us two tickets to a showing of Faust at the Opera Garnier. At first she had flat out refused, insisting the ticket was worth far more than she, and that I should never have spent so much on my servant. When I replied smoothly that money was not an issue, she countered that she had nothing grand enough to wear to such an exclusive event. I told her I would advance her salary with no consequences so she could purchase herself a dress. The playful though meaningful arguing went on and on, evolving into a game of sorts, a game which I eventually won, for one week later I was escorting her to the opera house.
I cared not if people talked; I knew they would, though. We were quite a spectacle to them, I suppose, a middle-aged man with a mask accompanied by a beautiful young woman. Normally I would have never put myself in such a public situation without it being a necessity, but having Christine by my side gave me confidence, strange as it seems. A wealthy, powerful man drawing comfort and strength from his servant? It was something I could not explain, something even I did not understand.
She did look lovely, though. With her advancement, (which she'd accepted with a determined promise of "I will replay you") she'd purchased a simple though elegant off-the-shoulder, cream-colored gown and a matching pair of slippers. The soft hue complimented her pale complexion and chocolate-colored hair, which she'd drawn into a tight chignon from which only a few spiraled locks escaped, gracefully framing her face. A plain gold crucifix dipped to her décolletage.
As she was not so wealthy, as we'd walked out of the flat to the carriage, I'd tactfully asked her where it came from.
"It was my mother's," she'd replied quietly. "My father gave it to me after she passed away. I've worn it ever since, though usually I keep it tucked away."
"What of your father now?"
"He too passed away, about a decade after my mother."
From thereon, my heart was softened toward her a further degree, not due to pity, but to pure empathy. She too knew what it was like to be alone.
This was obviously a dream come true for her, to be taken to such a classy, upscale event as a night at the opera. I could see it in her eyes excitement, happiness, and just a touch of anxiety as the grand opera house came into our view. It pleased me to know that I could make her happy so easily, and I found it quite novel that something I considered to be a given could be so special to another person.
The performance was enjoyable, and I daresay Christine's eyes never once left the stage, save during intermission. It barely seemed that she even blinked. I myself found my mind wandering during this show which I'd now seen several times. Although it was a favorite of mine, it felt much different to experience it in the company of someone else, and annoying questions such as, "Is she enjoying it?" continued to pop into my mind.
During the ten minute recess together we explored the grand staircase and foyer of the magnificent structure. I'd been to performances there many times before I'd married, but even the very first time I'd always felt an unexplained accord with the building, much like the one I felt with Christine. As she took in the architecture, eyes wide, I felt as though I'd been there all along. A night at the opera resembled a homecoming for me, though why, I would never know.
The second act went as smoothly as the first, and Christine clapped in an enthusiastic ovation. In the carriage ride on the way home, she recounted her favorite scenes and her amazement at the performance.
"They sang so beautifully, monsieur," she sighed for the third time.
"Indeed. Do you sing yourself?" I asked.
"Only in private. I have been since I was a child, you see, though lately I've become shy of it."
"No need for that. I shall have to hear you sometime, in accompaniment with the piano."
"As you please, monsieur."
"I would have taught Georges to sing…" I said aloud, though I'd only intended to think it. I was suddenly struck with a bolt of melancholy and embarrassment, and turned to the window so my back faced her. Please don't ask me.
"Georges, monsieur?" she asked softly after a moment.
"Georges, my son," I answered gruffly.
A silence. "Oh, I'm sorry I asked."
I said nothing.
"I know it can't have been easy for you," she continued as if I wished to listen to her. "I too have lost my family before, only one by one, and I was younger…but loss is always difficult, of course, monsieur. I only wish you weren't so stubborn, and you'd let me do more for you." I sensed her body tensing, as if she'd said more than she'd intended.
"Forgive me," she said hastily, "but in such times, wouldn't it be best to let someone else care for you? When these things happen, we must first feel them before we are ever able to let go."
"What do you know of this?" I snarled, my temper flaring. "How can you pretend to know everything? I am not a helpless child, you know, not anymore, I can take care of myself! I hired you to clean and cook for me, not analyze me and tell me what I need for my emotional health!"
I felt her turn away from me, and immediately I felt remorse for my sharp words. I could have easily destroyed the bridge of trust and comfort between us just then, with that rude, insensitive speech. I really did need to learn to control my bloody temper. I'd just turned a pleasant night out sour.
I began to apologize, but she spoke first. "I'm sorry, monsieur," she said quietly. "It was not my place."
"No." I sighed heavily. "You are right, of course. It really is something…to be dealt with."
She said nothing, still evidently stung. I realized she'd never really seen this side of me before. More guilt settled in.
"You must forgive me. I can be a bit cantankerous at times, you really mustn't pay me any mind when I am. If it pleases you, I am at your command now." I paused awkwardly. "Do what you think is best." She still remained silent, and I gave up on trying to redeem myself, figuring she would resign anyway.
We reached the flat, and I exited the carriage and held my hand to her to help her do likewise. She accepted it, and to my surprise, smiled softly upon me.
"I will do what I think is best," she said. "Beginning tomorrow, you will experience a good bit of bed rest, meals in your room, long walks, time to think. It's like a sickness, you know, but it cannot be cured, only nursed." She continued on with her soliloquy, and all the while I thought, what have I gotten myself into?