Chapter Eight

From then on I heard Christine sing on a daily basis, coaching and encouraging her to embrace this truly remarkable gift she possessed. Each day her voice grew stronger and more confident, and finally when the time was right, I began to sing duets with her. Initially my voice seemed to intimidate her, stun her even (a fact which I secretly took much pride in), but eventually she overcame her timidity when singing with me and our voices together began to create the most ethereal melodies ever to exist.

Our time for singing together easily became my favorite part of the day, and I cherished each precious hour. It also brought about a whole new dimension to our relationship; now I could not only relate to her emotionally, but from a creative standpoint.

She relished her new privilege of using my first name rather than addressing me as "Monsieur Devereaux" or more commonly, simply "monsieur." She called me Erik at any opportunity she could, a soft smile coming to her lips whenever she spoke the sacred word.

"Good morning, Erik," she'd chirp. "Goodnight, Erik," she'd purr. And the more I heard her caress the name, the more I wanted to hear it, the more I craved to hear this young woman's voice speak my name with such tenderness and reverence. Subsequently, the more I wanted this, the more I began to suspect I felt more for Christine than I was letting on, more than I would ever admit. It was ludicrous, of course, for a man of my age to have any feelings exceeding those of friendship for a girl so young, especially when said girl was a maid.

And besides, I hadn't even loved my wife, hadn't even been infatuated with her, for Christ's sake! How then could I possibly have feelings for this girl, whom I'd scarcely known for a year, and with whom I only held a servant-master relationship, chummy though it was. I was guilty, of course, that I hadn't felt this way about my wife when I could about my maid, though I couldn't blame myself entirely as I recalled the immediate connection I'd felt with Christine from the moment I'd met her, a connection more sacred even than friendship. Yes, this was much different, I knew, much different than it was with Amelie.

Late at night I would toss and turn in bed with my guilty and confused conscience, sometimes my mind even straying to certain idealities involving her. Afterwards I always felt guilty and shameful, though I could not deny that I was intrigued. I found myself wondering every so often when I was not expecting it, how my lips might feel upon hers, how my body might feel against her own. When I would catch myself, especially if she was in the room, I'd turn a deep shade of crimson beneath the mask and clear my throat gratuitously.

Her advances did not help me any. Though they were subtle to the point of being barely noticeable, I could not ignore them, the little signs: her hand lingering upon mine longer than necessary, certain comments which to the unsuspecting listener would seem completely innocent and harmless, but to my sharp ears, seemed ambiguous and suggestive.

Whenever she drew near to me for whatever reason, a primitive impulse would arise within me to either take her into my arms and hold her against me, or take her into my arms and ravage her mercilessly, depending on my state of mind. I sometimes reasoned with myself that it was nothing more than a simple, common case of lust, but why then would I feel such a sensation of tenderness whenever I looked into her eyes, or whenever I caught sight of her dutifully attending to her tasks with decided, unusual devotion, all for me?

The weather turned warm and once again we resumed our nightly walks. Conversation was as interesting as before, but in an entirely different way. This time round we mostly spoke of love, marriage, and what Christine would look for in a man when she should marry. Oftentimes I teased her about the tender subject, causing her to blush deeply and look away until I apologized.

Eventually I'd made a game of asking her either-or questions about a potential mate.

"Would you rather him be boyish, or manly -- light, or dark?"

She stiffened and cast her eyes to the ground. I waited a few moments for her answer. None came.

"Too difficult a choice?" I jested, not taking much heed of her response in my good humor. "Alright, a different one. Should he like wine or beer better?"

She relaxed after that.

Our world was a comfortable one, and one which I enjoyed being a part of. Then one morning at breakfast the dynamic of our days was changed forever.

I sat in silence, sipping tea with lemon and eating a poached egg. She sat across from me, barely touching her oatmeal sprinkled with raspberries. Out of nowhere, she suddenly asked, "Erik, will you ever remarry?"

"I don't know. Likely not," I replied, slightly taken aback by her bold question.

"Why ever not?"

"Dear," I answered wryly, finishing off my tea, "I seriously doubt any other woman would take such an interest in me."

She turned an incensed shade of red. "But what if it was the right woman?" she continued after a moment.

I looked at her in puzzlement. "And just what type of woman might that be?"

"Only you could know that," she replied shyly. "But, say as an example…" Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Would you marry me?"

Immediately I was impressed with how she must trust me and how comfortable she must feel in order for her to ask such an outspoken, potentially embarrassing question. I felt I owed it to her to answer as honestly as possible, and after a long moment I replied, "Only if you would be happy in marrying me, which is a difficult feat, I believe. I am not the most agreeable of men."

My last bit seemed not to shake her, and she spoke no more. She did not need to. Her joyful, gleaming eyes said it all, and once more the resounding question entered my mind: what have I gotten myself into?