September 18th 1892: Christine
"Look what I've been given, Madame!" Larisse called, waving merrily.
I saw something white in her hand, but couldn't make it out exactly from the distance. Quickly I came down the stairs. I had been about to get Philippe and myself something to drink, when the entrance door had been opened. I had half expected to see Erik, although I now told myself I had been silly. After all, he hadn't even left two hours ago, and it wasn't likely that he'd be back that soon.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, however, I stopped dead, realising that the white object was a letter.
"Where did you get that?" I asked warily.
"A man gave it to me in the street, just outside the house," the cook replied, and I braced myself for the worst.
"You should have thrown it away," I muttered dismissively. "I'm not in the mood to read new insults and accusations." The only good aspect I could see about it was that the envelope wasn't big enough to contain any more dead animals.
"But the man said he was a messenger sent by the Comte," Larisse argued. "I couldn't have thrown a letter from him away, could I?" She handed me the letter, and I accepted it gingerly, holding it by just one corner. "Besides," she went on. "If you turn it over…"
I followed her instructions, and a smile spread across my face as I spotted all the proof I needed.
"The de Chagny seal," I breathed, running my finger over it. "Thank you…"
"Oh, you're welcome," the cook gave back, patting my arm in a motherly way. "I know you've been waiting for news from your husband. It can't be easy, being separated from each other for days at a time. I already miss my husband by noon, and I see him again in the evening… But I should better leave you alone now and go to the kitchen. I've got to put these away anyway." She held up a basket full of groceries. The sight of the food reminded me of something.
"By the way, Erik, Philippe and I have been invited to have lunch with Meg Tavoire and her husband today," I informed her quickly, before it slipped my mind again. "So there'll only be Jacques, Gabriel and you here. I hope you don't mind."
There was a brief look of disappointment on the cook's round face, but she hid it quickly.
"It's all right," she assured me. "I'll keep the roast for dinner and make just a nice broth for lunch. I'll help Gabriel regain his strength."
I couldn't help smiling about her plan, for I knew Gabriel himself wouldn't necessarily agree with it. He'd have preferred a nice piece of meat to a nice broth. Yet since he liked Larisse far too much to offend her deliberately, he'd eat it anyway.
"So everything is settled then," I stated. "Erik will pick up Philippe and me later. And I want you to stay inside this afternoon. I don't think anything will happen, but… Well, there's no one here to protect you, so stay inside."
"I'm sure Gabriel will do his best," Larisse said with a fond smile. "He'll rather enjoy playing the role of the protector."
"But do try to hold him back a little," I advised her. "Two days ago he was still lying in bed, feeling ill, and I don't want him to go back to that state anytime soon. I can't imagine he wants that either."
"I'll see what I can do," the cook promised. "But I should really go now. I don't want to keep you from reading your letter."
"We'll see each other later then," I muttered, turning around. While I had been talking to Larisse, I had almost forgotten the letter. Well, at least I had tried to make myself forget it. But now that was no longer possible. I had to read it.
Yet one thing was certain: I wouldn't be able to do so in Philippe's room, while he was sitting next to me, reading his book. All thoughts of fetching something to drink were forgotten as I went into the living room, which seemed to be the best place for reading the letter. A letter from my husband… But was Raoul my husband at the moment? Hadn't Erik taken over that position?
Well, for the sake of making things easier, I'd have to think of him as my husband again for a few minutes. He had written the letter as my husband, so I had to read it under the same conditions. Yet that still didn't tell me what it meant to me. If that journey had taken place three months ago, I'd have been very pleased to receive a letter from Raoul. No matter how busy he had been, he had never forgotten to send me at least a few lines.
But now… Why wasn't I happy about him writing to me? Why were my hands shaking as I opened the envelope? Why was I so nervous that I could barely read the first lines? Why weren't things simple for me anymore?
Oslo, September 17th 1892
My dearest Christine,
How are you? And how are the children? I spend every spare minute thinking of you. In fact, your lovely face keep appearing in my head in the most unsuitable situations, making me smile, which has earned me many a comment on the famous French gaiety.
Life here in Oslo doesn't seem to be much different from life in Paris. I'm living in a very nice hotel, but I don't see much of it. As soon as I'm in my room for more than two minutes at a time, there's a knock at the door, and I have to leave yet again. The businessmen I'm working with are determined to prove how efficient they are, which is why they've planned every moment of my stay.
In a way, that's good, for it means I'll get over with everything quickly. But on the other hand I'd like to have some time for myself, also to explore the city on my own. Perhaps I'll be able to return here one day with you and the children. I'm sure you'd like it here.
Yesterday evening I was taken to the opera. I had only arrived in the city a few minutes earlier and was rather tired, so you can imagine I wasn't pleased. Yet since everything was already arranged, I couldn't bring myself to refuse. Of course their wish to entertain me wasn't the primary goal of the businessmen. They are planning to buy the opera house with money I'm supposed to lend them. Since they already possess several theatres, which are more or less successful, I might agree to give them the money.
I apologise for the little digression in the boring world of my business. Actually I wanted to tell you about the opera itself. It was a rather dull performance. I didn't like the prima donna, whose voice sounded very shrill. The chorus girls weren't good either. If you see Meg, you can tell her that she doesn't have to be afraid of competition from the North.
Anyway, listening to the singers reminded me of the conversation we had a few days ago and of your wish to take singing lessons again. I think we should start looking for a teacher as soon as I come back. Perhaps Mme.Giry could recommend us someone, since she knows so many people. The question of money is unimportant, of course. I'm willing to pay whatever it takes, if only it makes you happy.
But maybe you've found a teacher yourself by now. I'm sure you know who I'm speaking of. I shouldn't accuse you of such things, but sometimes I simply can't help imagining what you might be doing with him, perhaps in the very moment I'm writing this letter.
You probably think me a bad person because I have such thoughts, and you're right about it. But Christine… think of all the good times we had together, think of our children. You're not going to throw all that away, are you? Perhaps you're merely experiencing the thrill of the new. I know that there hasn't been something new and adventurous in our relationship for a long time. You deserve being worshipped and adored, and maybe I haven't told you often enough how much you mean to me. The thought of you being with him breaks my heart.
Forgive me if all this sounds very confused, but I'm writing it at the only time I truly have for myself: at night. My candle is burning low and I don't want to go and fetch a new one, which means that I'll have to stop soon. I've hired someone who will take my letter to Paris the moment it'll be finished. If Im lucky, you'll have it in the morning.
Oh, I forgot to ask whether everything is all right at home. Have there been more attacks? I tried to get a French newspaper, but of course they wouldn't report about small incidents. I hope that he's at least fulfilling his task. If he lets something happen to anyone of you, I'll kill him or die trying. Yes, you can tell him that.
I apologise for ending a letter on this rather grim note, but some things simply have to be said. Farewell, my love, and don't forget that I love you have much.
Your husband, Comte Raoul de Chagny
Post script: I'm not sure when I'll come back, but it could be soon, maybe as soon as the evening of the 18th or 19th.
The letter fell out of my hand, sailed through the air like a white bird and landed on the floor. I watched it motionessly.