Jules carted the dazed fop to his carriage, reminding him that a worksite was far too dangerous a place for a Comte. He told the driver not to bring his master again, since the boy was so clumsy he'd fallen over his own feet and cracked his head open.
I felt wrecked, and I told Jules as much and went home. I needed Christine's comfort, needed her to tell me that everything was alright. I went straight to the library, where I knew she'd be ensconced in her studies. She abandoned her books immediately and came to me, checking my eyes and removing my mask to feel my forehead for fever.
"Reza said you didn't feel well at all this morning."
"No."
"What is it? How do you feel?"
"I told him it's just a mood," I snapped impatiently at the thought of him getting her all upset over me. "Still, I think I'll have a lie down."
"Oh, Erik. I'll send for the doctor."
"No, I just need a rest," I insisted, barely able to meet my Angel's gaze.
"You're working yourself to death over that museum," Christine fussed, tugging at my clothing to ensure that I was safe from drafts and other evil influences. "I wish you'd make a shorter day of it."
"I'm alright." It feels wonderful to have my angel fussing over me; it almost makes me wish I was an invalid. "Christine, come with me?"
"You said you needed to rest. You won't rest if I come," she reminded me.
"I just need you. I feel sad," I confessed. I was quite the pitiful baby; and disgusted with myself as well, begging for her comfort when I'd betrayed her.
"Oh, you poor dear. Of course I'll come with you," she soothed. I saw the worry in her eyes, and it made me feel even more of a dog. She lay close, propped up on one elbow, studying my dreadful face. I stared at the ceiling, frowning.
"Christine, you love me, don't you? Even though I've been bad, you still love me."
"Erik, of course I love you! What do you mean, you've been bad? Oh, my love." She drew my head against her breast, smoothing my hair and making comforting sounds. I closed my eyes, waiting for serenity to descend. Instead, images of other breasts, smaller and darker, flooded into my mind unbidden. I wept with shame, and Christine soothed me, never knowing why I cried.
I wanted to make love to her and say things I couldn't say with words, but that I hoped she'd understand. It was Christine and me, all alone in the world. She was everything I needed, everything I wanted.
"Better now?" she asked at long last.
"Yes. Better. Christine, I—"
"Hm? What is it?" I was beginning to worry her again; I saw it in her eyes.
"I…love you, I just love you."
"And I love you, can you tell?" Better; her eyes were smiling again.
"I can tell, my Angel," I told her honestly.
"Alright, because I'd be glad to show you again."
I did not tell Christine about the Creole Amazon; I determined to lock it away and never, ever, ever think about or have anything to do with that woman again. I did everything I could to be a perfect partner to her.
. . . .>
Gaston had come, ostensibly for another Men's Studies group, but somehow had managed to use his reporter's wiles to get me talking about my life. Currently my chubby friend was incredulous that I did not have a surname; or if I did, I no longer remembered it.
"I suppose I shall have to dig one up. Once Christine is widowed, she'll want to cease living in sin."
"Christine, widowed?" the daroga did not care for the sound of that.
"Settle down, Reza; I will only kill him if he comes around and annoys me. If he stays out of my way, he'll have to die a more natural death. But I can still keep a good thought that I live long enough for Christine to make an honest creature of me."
"Oh, god, Erik," Gaston chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes.
"I adore you, Gaston, you're even better for my vanity than Christine. Have you noticed, Reza, that he dissolves with laughter at every word that I utter?"
"I have indeed. Don't encourage him, Gaston, he is quite bad enough."
"Well, Erik, should the Comte predecease you and you've not come up with a more appropriate choice, I would be honored to lend you my surname, my brother."
"Why, thank you, Gaston, what a kind gesture. 'Erik Leroux'; sounds too dashing for a fiend like me, doesn't it, Daroga?"
"Yes, quite. You need something more sinister, 'Erik Robespierre', perhaps. 'Erik Marat'."
"Reza, I have a delightful idea. Let's demonstrate some of our rope tricks for Gaston."
About this time, the most extraordinary thing happened: Christine joined us. We stood; she glided in.
"Oh, please, gentlemen, there's no need for such formality at home," she demurred, joining Reza on the sofa. We sat in silence, anticipating…whatever she might say.
"Well, don't stop your conversation on my account. I thought I would join you," she smiled. As the, ah, 'husband', all eyes turned to me.
"Ahem, Dear," I opened, "We can't just…continue our conversation with a lady present."
"Good heavens, was your discussion as bad as all that?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"No-oo, but…would you feel comfortable continuing your feminine conversation with a man present?"
"Feminine conversation, Erik? Whatever is feminine conversation?"
In retrospect, I should have realized right then that I was headed for trouble again, but god help me, all I said was:"You know…"
"I assure you that women talk about more than babies and whatever else you think is a suitable feminine topic. I think it would be most healthy for relations among the sexes if we conversed in mixed company regularly," she announced. "Gaston, next time you come, I do wish you would include Madame Leroux."
"But…Madame Leroux and I have not seen each other in years."
"Oh!" Christine exclaimed.
"Yes, my situation parallels your own, actually. As a Catholic, my wife is opposed to divorce, so Jeanne and I are…as you and Erik are."
"Wonderful, then; do bring her along."
"I shall certainly extend the invitation," Gaston smiled—as if he wanted his woman exposed to the sort of intellectual poison that Christine and her co-conspirators were spouting.
"So. What were you discussing, don't let me interrupt," she persisted.
"Actually, we were discussing Erik's lack of a surname," Gaston confessed. "He was suggesting that he'd need to come up with one in case you should ever be free to marry."
"Oh, I don't need his name," Christine chirped, "I have a perfectly good one of my own."
"Darling," I spoke to her as if she was a moron, "it is customary for the woman to take the man's name when they marry."
"It is customary," Christine agreed, "but it does seem rather proprietary, doesn't it?"
"And what name do you propose to give the children of this unnatural union!" I demanded. I was utterly blindsided by this…attack, and I reacted violently to the whole idea. I'd listened patiently to a good deal of suffragette drivel over the past months, but this was far too much for my aching brain. "Or do children remain out of the question?"
Gaston and Reza exchanged sympathetic glances at being on the front line of this conflict. Christine gave me what had become her standard response to any of my outbursts:
"Erik, you're being completely irrational about this." This is delivered in the most superior tone she can muster. Predictably, it pushed me over the brink; not all that difficult if one considers how close to the brink my sanity routinely teeters. I, ah…well, it's rather embarrassing to discuss it after the fact. One has to picture a man in a passionate rage. So, picture me in a passionate rage, only not the face if it bothers you. Right; I grabbed my crotch and roared at her:
"You want one of your own that badly, do you? Simply not content to borrow anymore!"
My friends were trying desperately to remind me about that train. Gaston was even raising his hand like a schoolboy with the correct answer. Christine flushed fiery and leapt to her feet.
"Erik! What is wrong with you?" she demanded.
"No: what is wrong with you, Christine? What happened to that dear, sublime angel who captivated my soul?" I mourned furiously.
"She grew up," she stated flatly. "When will you?"
"As soon as I see a woman to be a man for, I will," I snapped, glaring at her.
"And where are you sleeping tonight?" she threatened.
"Don't trouble yourself, Comtesse." I drained my glass and tossed it in her direction—not aiming to hit her, just for the satisfaction of watching it shatter against the wall in her general proximity. Christine straightened from her frightened crouch and addressed my friends.
"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me." She left us and I turned to pour myself another brandy. Reza gave an exasperated 'Oh, Erik' and Gaston sat, pensive. When I settled back in my chair, they both looked at me as if I was to give a speech.
"WHAT?" I growled.
"You know you're going to have to apologize for that display," Reza replied, his words dripping with disapproval.
"I will not—and why is it that you immediately and unquestioningly take her side? What is it between you and my woman? Do you want her? Help yourself!"
Reza turned away, shaking his head. Gaston cleared his throat.
"I believe what Reza means is that there are two issues; first the content of the discussion, which I believe is what you are taking exception to, and second, the fact that the discussion did not occur in private, which will be Christine's issue, or one of them, anyway."
"Christine's issue, eh? I beg to differ. What does she mean insulting me in front of you? Did I start this? Who said 'Oh, I don't need his name'? Was that or was that not a slap in the fact—a public slap in the face? How would you take that, Reza? Or you, Gaston? Am I wrong?"
"I don't think you're wrong, Erik," Gaston replied.
"I think you might have handled it more skillfully, and that is what you'll need to apologize for," Reza added.
"Well, I won't. I want an apology this time, by god. I've apologized more than enough during the course of this affair. It never occurs to anyone that she may have wounded me with those words; it only matters if I've hurt her. And for all this special treatment, she still wants the vote and to wear trousers and keep her own name, and I deserve whatever abuse she heaps on, because I'm oppressing her. Ha. I'd be gelded if I tried to oppress her."
"You know, Erik, sometimes I find it's not a case of who's right, but rather who wants peace restored. You don't want to continue at war with your angel," Gaston suggested.
Suddenly I felt exhausted and depressed. I bade my friends goodnight, went up to my coffin, and closed the lid all but a crack.
We never made it up, officially. We had an uneasy truce whereby we each understood that the other would not apologize, and we didn't discuss it. After several days, I had sulked sufficiently to move back into our bed. Several days after that, Christine snuggled up and threw her arm over me to sleep. In the morning, mutual need overtook us, and we made frenzied love.
Afterwards, Christine sighed "Damn you, I can't stay away from you." She sounded disappointed in herself.