September 18th 1892: Raoul
"Enough of that!" Jean said. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "What I don't understand is why she's trying to hurt you like that," he went on urgently, throwing me a questioning glance. "What did you do to her?"
I shrugged.
"If only I knew it, Jean," I muttered, feeling more miserable than ever. "I don't have any idea of what I could have done to deserve this. Well, I haven't been home very often, but I don't think that can be the reason. It has always been like that, and it never affected Christine in such a negative way before. She was so hostile…"
"Perhaps she just didn't tell you that she wanted you home more often because she was afraid of your reaction," Jean mused.
"My reaction?" I repeated. "But I would have never yelled at her or something like that if she had uttered such a request. I would have understood her. And anyway, that problem no longer exists. I've talked to my business partner, and he agreed to take over more responsibilities. I've also told Christine about it. She knows that from now on, I'll be home much more often. Once we'll have a home again, that is…"
I looked down at the shirt I was holding in my hands. When I had put it on in the morning, it had been perfectly white. Now it was dirty grey, and there were grass and blood stains all over it. The only good thing that could be said about it was that it had kept my undershirt, which I was still wearing, from getting too dirty.
I had just taken off the shirt to examine the damage done, when Jean had come in, pretending to try and help me look for clothes, but truly wanting to talk to me. And once we had started talking, I had forgotten all about the shirt. That was why we were still standing there, Jean a few steps away from the door, which he still hand't closed, and I at the washbasin.
Jean let a few moments pass in silence, then he asked:
"Still… couldn't it be possible that Christine is angry at you because of all those business trips, even though she knows that they won't happen anymore? Perhaps she even assumed that she had the right to… erm, do what she did with the Phantom because she suspects that you… well, did similar things when you were away from home…". He looked down quickly, his cheeks flushed.
I felt as stunned as someone who had just been hit by a bolt of lightning.
"W-what?" I croaked. "But… but I never… I'd have never done that… never even considered it… Do you really think Christine could have such ideas?"
"Well, I don't know," Jean admitted, still speaking to his shoes rather than to me. It was strangely good to see that the conversation was making him just as uncomfortable as I felt myself. "But it is possible. If I came to that conclusion, she could have done the same."
"But it's absurd!" I called, the ability to talk without stammering returning to me slowly. "I would have never betrayed Christine, and she knows it. I love her far too much to do that."
"Perhaps she think you just gave in to temptation," Jean reasoned. "A man in your position and with your appearance does face certain temptation every now and then, doesn't he? I know that I do."
Briefly my thoughts wandered to Narelle, the young woman who had led us to our seats at the opera a few days ago. She had obviously been interested in me, but I'd have never done as much as give her a kiss, even if no one else had been around. It just wouldn't have been right. I could imagine that Jean had found himself in similar situations, though. Money held a very special appeal for some women.
It took me another moment to realise what his last remark could have implied.
"Have you ever… you know, given in to temptation?" I asked in a low voice.
"Of course not," Jean answered instantly, looking up at me in shock. "I'd rather rip out my own heart and eat it for dinner than betray my Meg, and she wouldn't do so either. Not even if the Phantom was involved," he added, an amused smile appearing on his face.
I knew at once what he was referring to.
"I'm sorry about what I said before," I murmured. "I know that Meg or you would never do such a thing."
"It's all right," Jean assured me gently. "You were just angry… Don't you see?" he asked suddenly, looking excited. "You said something, even though you didn't mean it, just to hurt me. Do you still think Christine couldn't have done the same?"
"That's different," I argued. "Meg and the Phantom – or you and the Phantom, for that matter – are an absurd combination.But Christine and he… they're a perfect match. According to the Phantom himself, of course. I'm sure that he has never stopped loving her, not even in all those years when he didn't see her. And now that he had the chance to… do something with her, he must have seized it at once."
"All right, so we've established that the Phantom wanted something to happen between them," Jean acknowledged, settling down on the bed. He patted the bedspread next to him to indicate I should sit down as well, but I was too agitated to do so. I preferred standing, leaning against the wall next to the washbasin. "But that doesn't mean Christine wanted the same," he went on. "She's your wife, Raoul, and she never appeared to be the kind of woman to forget it that easily."
I gave a bitter laugh, which almost came out as a sob.
"Well, it can't have been that difficult for her," I said. "When you see her the next time, have a good look at her right hand. She's no longer wearing the ring I gave her for our wedding, but two of his! She probably couldn't make up her mind which one she liked better, so he gave her both. If that's not a clear sign of who she feels she belongs to, I don't know what is."
"Oh…" Jean made. He had clearly not expected such strong evidence that my theory was correct, but I felt no satisfaction about having taken him by surprise. As long as he had still come up with some kind of explanation, I had been able to delude myself that maybe he was right after all. But that was over now.
"You see?" I muttered. "There's no point in arguing. Christine didn't lie to me. She told the truth. I only wonder why she did so, when I had forbidden her to do so…"
Jean looked at me, puzzled.
"What do you mean?" he wanted to know. "Did you forbid her to tell the truth or to tell her about the Phantom and herself? How could you have forbidden her to tell you something you didn't know yourself? It doesn't make any sense…"
"Oh, it does make sense," I contradicted him with a lopsided smile that made my face hurt. "You see, when I left, I already suspected that something might happen. Christine and I talked about it, and I told her that if she… gave in to the Phantom, I didn't want to know about it."
"You talked about it?" Jean repeated faintly, shaking his head in disbelief. "Then why didn't you forbid her to betray you?"
I walked over to the bed at last and sank down onto it. I didn't feel agitated anymore, just sad and very tired.
"Things aren't always as simple as they seem," I said. "Yes, now it's easy to suggest that I should have done this or that differently. But at that time…" I sighed deeply. "I was almost certain that something would happen between them, and still I had to leave Paris. I didn't have another choice. The only thing I could do was ask Christine to spare me the details… and she didn't even have the decency to do that."
Jean didn't reply, but patted my shoulder in silence. It was a comforting feeling amidst all the misery and deception I had just poured out. It might sound strange after all the secrets I had just told him, but I had never considered Jean my friend. He had always been the husband of my wife's best friend, not more and not less. We had often had long discussions about business or life in general while our wives had been chatting as well, but we had rarely talked about something more private than to which restaurant we took our wives for our wedding day.
Yet as we sat there, staring into space, I realised that Jean was indeed my friend. I could rely on him not to tell anyone what we had talked about. Friends knew when to remain silent. It was a pity that the same didn't seem to go for wives.
I got up from the bed after what felt like a small eternity, noticing that my arms were covered in gooseflesh because I had only been wearing an undershirt all the time.
"I'll go and fetch you something new to wear," Jean announced, standing up as well. Walking to the door, he muttered: "A shirt, trousers, socks… Oh…". He turned around to face me again. "What do you want me to do if I meet Christine? Shall I tell you that you're in this room?"
"No," I replied, making up my mind quickly. "I think it's best if we don't see each other for a while."