It is a moment before I can speak. When I am able, I correct her: "No, Christine."
Our faces are mere inches apart. The instant the spell is broken, I see it. She opens heavy eyelids with effort, wearing a whisper of a smile. She looks up into burning, golden eyes: not Raoul. Her eyes fly wide in horror; her face contorting as she recognizes the apparition she embraces.
"NO!" she shrieks. Mad with shame, she throws me away from her easily. I am hollow and weightless, my mind cut adrift; no safe harbors to make for. Christine escapes into the bath, screaming 'What did you do? What did you do to me?' I hear the bath water running and I remember: 'I just want to get clean'. Yes, I remember now.
I must remain very still and concentrate; it seems I have forgotten how to breathe if I do not focus all of my attention on it. Suddenly, sweat is pouring from me, but I'm not warm…I feel nothing. If anything, I must be cold, for my hands are shaking as if I've a palsy. I can scarcely lift my hands to my head, but I must hold it; it may burst. I am so afraid; I don't know why. Oh, if only I had a mother. I lay quietly, thinking about breathing, until I hear sounds that suggest Christine may emerge from the bath. I grope for my mask blindly and run to my little room.
I feel better curled up this small, lightless space. I am shaking all over now, but I can breathe easier. I will remain here tonight and review these events, and I will understand in the morning. Yes, I will.
Raoul…Raoul…He is a handsome enough youth. It is natural for a girl like Christine with so little experience of the world to have her head turned by his gallantry for a time, I realize this. But in her heart, she knows what is truly beautiful and what is merely stage lighting and smoke. She proves it each time she kisses me, each time we sing.
Could her unwavering gaze as I claimed her at the altar have been false?
Or her tearful return to me, slipping the ring into my hand with a silent plea?
What of the lies she told him, pretending to be his fiancée while she waited for me?
Pandemonium all around us in the church, and Christine and I floated in a cool underground lake of peace. Her little hand in mine, her eyes telling me she had all she needed now I was near.
He turns her head; he manipulates her shamelessly, preying on her innocence and trusting nature. The poor angel could never imagine that a friend of her childhood would dissemble. He tried to convince her to betray me, swearing it was for the good of the city that a murderous fiend be captured and brought to heel, but I saw his duplicitous hand in it; I knew his true, dark motivation.
The longer I think on it, the more it comes clear: he tampered with her while she was under his roof. Being something less than an utter debauchee, or fearing for his immortal soul, more likely, he did not press the matter to its inevitable conclusion. No doubt the game was pleasant enough with the liberties he took, and he believed she would be his soon enough, after all.
None of this casts any blame on my Angel. Gullible and trusting in the company of her old friend, she would not immediately grasp the nature of his advances; when she did, she would easily be overwhelmed. It is common knowledge that it falls upon the gentleman to exercise every restraint, the woman being the more passionate creature. He pressed his advantage–though thankfully not so far as he might have done--and Christine possesses a fiery nature. Thus, it makes perfect sense that, not entirely understanding what was happening to her in my arms, she would cry out the name of the only man who had ever elicited similar feelings in her. Yes; yes. I may kill him yet.
My poor darling bride; lying awake this very minute, no doubt, worrying what her husband must think of her, fearing disgrace. She will grow to be more confident in my steadfast adoration with time, but for now, I must reassure her that she is eternally blameless in my sight.
Once the riddle of Christine's behavior is unraveled, I feel sleep overtaking me. I slip into my coffin and drift into dreams of sunshine, flowers, and my little bride singing.
-0-0-0-0-
I wake before dawn, refreshed. I dress quickly, head upstairs, and hire a carriage to Chagny. I will collect my wife's things today, by god. I've brought my sword and lasso; I don't really want to kill him if I don't have to, but he will be unprotected by Christine in this encounter, and I cannot vouch for my temper. I ought to run him through on principle for taking advantage of an innocent girl's trusting nature.
The massive Chagny door is answered by a fat, sour little woman who appears to be smelling something nasty.
"Are you expected, SIR?" she wheezes, clearly giving me full benefit of the doubt.
I have neither time nor patience. It is barely half-seven; who the devil is ever expected at half-seven in the morning? Stupid cow.
"I should be, but perhaps not. Your lord and master is not the shiniest apple on the tree; perhaps you have noticed."
She glares at me, pretending to think. I give her as benign a look as I can.
"Will you come in? I will fetch the Comte." As I suspected; something in the authoritative way I carry myself causes her to rethink her initial inclination to turn me away like a starving, vermin-infested cat.
"Thank you; no. I will await him here. If you will tell him, Erik."
"JUST 'Erik'?" she disapproves.
My sole response is a stare which conveys much less irritation than I feel.
No doubt this will take some time. The master must be roused, a fire lit under his brain…I crouch Indian-style and practice knot tying. Finally the door flies open and His Highness clatters out. He is moderately incoherent to find that it is, indeed, Erik on his doorstep.
"Where is Christine? What do you mean, saying you're expected here? What do you want?" And, again, for good measure, "Where is Christine?"
"She is in our home, likely still asleep. I mean that you should have expected someone to come and collect her things, since you gave her to me with, ah, excuse me, nothing but the dress on her back. I want her things; you know, clothing, shoes, toiletries, ribbons, bows, mementoes, whatever bric-a-brac she brought with her: I want it. Do you understand?"
"There's no need to speak to me as if I'm an idiot!" He is very pink. I have no response.
"You fiend! Why didn't you let her come herself? Where is she? What have you done with her?"
"She did not want to come herself." He looks incredulous at this news.
"Yes," I confirm. "She was very much relieved when I promised her that I would see to it. I already told you, she is in our home, and as to what I've one with her, I shall forgive you your impertinence–this time–and suggest that it is none of your affair."
He goes slightly mad and lunges at me, but he has a full complement of hired sycophants in attendance; they pull him off. I see that he's weeping like a schoolgirl. I feel strangely calm.
"I won't give you a single stitch! You bring her back! You can't keep her; she'd rather die!"
"You'll give me what I ask for; it's not yours to keep from her. As for keeping her, you seem to forget that she came with me freely. If you were so concerned, why didn't you fight for her? I would've enjoyed fighting you," I can't resist giving him a nasty grin.
"I didn't fight you," he shrugs off his minions and steps bravely close, "because I'd given Christine my word that I wouldn't. You couldn't know this, but she's been plagued by nightmares since that night in the Opera House. She dreamed every night that she was pursued, and could never escape. Sometimes she dreamed that I was dead, and still she was pursued. The nightmares worsened as the wedding approached. She knew you would come; she told me."
"I might've known you'd make a coward's excuse and hide behind a woman's skirts," I spit. "She WANTED me to come, you fool. If she was haunted in her dreams, it was the prospect of a lifetime with you that haunted her. Now: get her things; I can't stand the sight of you."
"You're madder than even I imagined! God! Christine! I'll save her from you if I have to kill you!" The boy has far more nerve than brains.
I shoot the non-lethal end of my lasso at him; it leaves a smarting red abrasion where it slapped his insolent cheek. No real harm done, but it infuriates him. He whips out his sword; alright. We scuffle around to no real effect until he kicks at me; this takes me at a disadvantage, and I end up with a decent slice in my thigh for my trouble. I roar indignantly and manage to repay him with a cut from his nose diagonally onto his forehead. Excellent; nothing to it, but it bleeds handsomely and soon he can't see.
I know the police have been summoned, so I tear out for the brush surrounding the estate while I have the chance. I put as much space between myself and the house as possible; I am not sure whether they'll give chase or not. My trousers are soaked with blood. I am forced to spend a moment I don't really have to tear the sleeves from my shirt and do something about the damage the boy inflicted. I should have killed him in the church; hindsight.
I climb a tree and hide easily from the police: morons. Once they've gone, I make a slow trip back to the main thoroughfare in the hope of locating a cab. I'm feeling a bit lightheaded and could surely use something to eat, but I must hurry. I know that Christine will panic if she finds herself alone down there, particularly after last night.