September 15th 1892: Erik
Christine gaped at me, swallowing hard, as if there were something blocking her throat. Yet before she could recover enough to speak, I had already gone on.
"What about our kisses?" I hissed. "Did they also only happen because your husband wanted it? Was that the reason why you came after me in the interval? Did he accompany you, hiding somewhere, so that he could watch us? Is he also here now? Or will you merely have to give him a detailed report in the morning?"
I didn't know where all those questions came from. They simply poured out of my mouth like a waterfall. I saw how much they affected her, and yet I didn't stop. If I could get rid of a tenth of the pain that was cutting into my body like a hot knife, it was worth the price of hurting her feelings. For once, I didn't care about her.
And what was she doing? She only sat there, letting me hurl the questions at her without saying a word. Not once did she try to contradict me or defend herself. The only thing about her that was moving was the steady trickle of tears running down her cheeks. She didn't even make an attempt to wipe them off, preferring to let me see what I was doing to her.
In the end it was indeed the image of the weeping woman on my bed that made me come to my senses again. I looked down at our hands, which miraculously still were interlaced. Now guilt had taken its place in the group of negative emotions in my stomach. No matter what I felt, I had had no right to be unfriendly to her. I prided myself with not being like the rest of the human race, and now I had acted exactly like any other man. It was truly embarrassing.
But before I could apologise, she used the chance to speak at last.
"Erik, I'm so sorry!" she whispered. "What a terrible woman I must be if you think about me like that! Is this the impression other people have of me? Then it's no wonder that the Baroness assumed I was having an affair with you. Oh God…"
By now, the tears were streaming down her face like small rivers. Rummaging in my pocket with my free hand I pulled out a handkerchief and wanted to give it to her, but she pushed it away.
"You shouldn't do anything for me," she muttered bitterly. "If that's what you think of me, you should throw me out of your house before I send a message to Raoul to come and watch me seduce you."
"I don't think you're terrible," I corrected her gently. "Nor do I think any of those things I've just said about you. I was so hurt by your words that I had to do something to hurt you as well. I'm the one who has to apologise." I made a second approach, and at last she allowed me to dab at her eyes with the handkerchief.
"No, it's all my fault," she murmured. "I should have told you right away why I had come to you."
I gave her a lopsided smile.
"And what would you have said?" I asked. "´Good evening, Erik! It is nice to see you. My husband wants us to make love, so that we can find out whether there's a difference between him and you. That's not a problem with you, is it?´ ´Of course not, Christine. Do you have a particular position in mind or can I just do it the way I want?´"
I was surprised that I could make jokes about such serious a situation, but it felt strangely liberating. Even she was smiling.
"So you really don't think me to be a bad person?" she wanted to know. She looked at me in a way that made it impossible for me not to take her into my arms. Cradling her head against my shoulder I replied:
"I think you're a kind, warm-hearted person who only deserves the best. I just don't understand why that is supposed to be me.".
"I hardly understand it myself," she whispered, her breath hot even through the fabric of my shirt. "I can just explain it like Raoul did." She straightened up a little, so that she could look into my eyes. "He said that maybe my… well, my fascination with kissing you was nothing but curiosity because… because I had never been with any man but him. And if I made love to you, that curiosity would be satisfied. Unless, of course, it was more than curiosity…" She stopped for a moment, her gaze growing distant. Then she continued: "Anyway, he has given me the time till nine in the morning to find out.".
I watched her, waiting whether more was to come, but it seemed to be the entire story.
"Are you sure that your husband wasn't drunk while suggesting that?" I wanted to know, only half joking. "If you were my wife, I wouldn't dream of letting you make love to other men." I didn't add that this was one of the moments in which I seriously wondered whether the lack of air due to my Punjab Lasso hadn't caused permanent damage in the Vicomte's mind.
"I think he's just desperate," she answered. "He can't understand why I could feel attracted to you. Well, he doesn't know you."
"I guess he knows me more than enough for his taste," I interjected. "But that's not the point. It doesn't matter what his opinion about the subject is. This is about us – you and me and nobody else. So… what do you want, Christine?"
She withdrew from me slightly, and for a moment I was afraid my question had been all wrong, or rather I was afraid her reply could consist of her walking away. But then I realised she had only done it to make eye contact again.
"I wish this was just about you and me," she told me in a small voice. "But it isn't. When I come back in the morning, Raoul will want to know what happened, and I… I swore myself never to lie again."
"That's a very good resolution," I commented. I couldn't help thinking that most people who were caught lying didn't swear never to do it again, but only to do it better in the future, so that they wouldn't get caught a second time. Christine really was something special. "I could come with you, as your witness," I offered. "I wouldn't mind lying to your husband. You just have to tell me what you'd like me to say."
"Thank you, but that wouldn't be a solution," she muttered. "Whatever I do, I have to live with it."
"And what will you do?" I asked.
She shrugged.
"I don't know," she whispered, sounding very helpless. For a moment we were silent. I stroked her back softly. The gesture seemed to have an encouraging effect on her, for she started speaking again.
"What about you? You said yourself that this was about you and me, but all we've talked about so far is me. Would you… would you like to make love to you?"
I hadn't been prepared for such a direct question. Quickly I glanced to the side, hoping she wouldn't notice that I had blushed.
"Well, I… I've never really thought about it…" I murmured.
I heard her give a slight chuckle.
"Oh Erik, you cannot seriously expect me to believe that!" she exclaimed. "You love me for more than a decade, you count the days of my marriage, you watch my husband and me in the… in every situation, and still you've never thought about doing it with me? Forgive me for saying so, but that's ridiculous."
My cheeks flushed even more. I couldn't remember the last time I had been in such an embarrassing situation. Even the scene with the Baroness had been a pleasant encounter compared to it. I felt like running away and hiding, at least till I could come up with a good response. But at the same time I knew I had to pull myself together. What kind of example was I for Christine, who always wanted to tell the truth from now on? An honest answer was the least I could give her.
So I forced myself to look at her again.
"Maybe I do think about it every now and then," I admitted, frantically trying not to think about it at the moment. "And maybe I would like to make love to you now." I took a few deep breaths to distract myself from the feeling of her body pressing against mine, afraid my longing could manifest itself in a physical form. "But it's not my wish that matters here," I hastened to go on. "I'm not the one who will have to return to her husband tomorrow. I'm free to do whatever I please. It's just like you said it: You'll have to live with the decision, and no matter what you do or not do, you could end up regretting it."
"But Erik…" she whispered. "This could be your only chance to ever do it with me. Don't you want it to happen, just to get an idea of what it feels like?"
"There are a million things I'd like to do with you, Christine," I told her simply. "Making love is only one of them. So unless you want to do every single thing on the list in my head – and mind you, it could take the rest of your life – I'll always miss something. I don't want your decision to depend on me."
She looked at me for a moment, then smiled.
"But wouldn't it be better to have done one of those things than none of them?" she asked.