It is more trouble than I imagined it would be to locate a midwife; rather, an accommodating midwife. Finally I locate Madame Cisse. I understand almost immediately that we shall be able to work together. I stress to her my inviolate requirements of privacy and discretion; she assures me that such is often the case with her clientele, and that I may confide in her completely. Naturally I have no intention of doing any such thing.
I explain to Madame that while I do not believe that Christine herself suspects anything yet, my meticulous record-keeping indicates that a certain event is overdue. Given the circumstances, one draws the natural conclusion. Has the girl mentioned feeling ill, or queer in any way, she asks. I reply that she has not.
I attempt to convey the delicate nature of the situation to Madame; that while my little wife is by no means stupid, she has led a closely circumscribed life, and I desire above all else to protect her from any upset. I tell her I fear that, should the child be defective, Christine would never understand the necessity of allowing Nature to have its way; nor could I permit her to bear the burden of raising a monstrous child, after witnessing my dear mother's anguish. Of course, Madame understands perfectly, as I knew she would.
Yet, even knowing what my progeny must surely be, Christine would never agree to a merciful termination. Ensconced in her perfect world of romantic fantasy, she is convinced that my curse will not be passed to our offspring. Demonstrating to Madame how moved I am, I confess that the blame is entirely mine for wishing to shield her from pain and sadness. I know I should not have taken such a blameless, innocent soul for my wife, but what could I do? I ask. I adore her, you see, I cannot help myself. The child confessed her love and I was lost. Madame Cisse assures me that I am a generous and conscientious man, and that any woman would be blessed to have such a husband.
How I hate dissembling to my little darling, Madame Cisse, I cry. Come, my son, she comforts me, your only thought is to protect her. We shall do all we can to accomplish our end without falsehood.
As we travel through the caverns to my lair, Madam offers to prepare contraceptive suppositories which have proven effective. She advises that while nothing but continence is perfectly reliable, it is best to take some precaution, as termination is more taxing to the woman. Alarmed, I protest that I cannot put Christine in jeopardy. Madame explains the entire process to me, putting my misgivings to rest. She will prepare a tea of various herbs for Christine to take; likely once should suffice, since we are applying the remedy so early. The tea will bring on a more copious flow than normal; Christine may experience some discomfort, but nothing excessive.
Christine is immediately distressed to see I have brought a guest home. She is frightened of strangers. Once I introduce her, Madame takes my Angel in hand, guiding her to the sofa.
"Now, you are a married woman, dear. It is up to you to take note of your body's rhythms. You must observe your monthly courses, if they come on time and so on. It is not your good husband's responsibility, child." Christine is mortified that a stranger should speak so frankly to her, but Madame Cisse comforts her like a jovial auntie. "Come, girl, it is nothing to be bashful about; it is the way of men and women!" she chuckles. "Here, your husband has sent for me because he fears something has disturbed your flowers. I want to have a look at you, and then I will prepare a tea to set you to rights. In the future, you must tell your good husband if something is missing, hm?"
Christine nods, having warmed slightly to Madame's forthright, maternal ways. But when Madame directs her to disrobe in the bedroom, it is too much; she faints dead away. So much the better; Madame conducts a hasty examination and confirms my suspicions. She heads to the kitchen to prepare the tea as I revive my little wife.
"Erik, I can't! Don't make me, please!" she wails.
"No, Angel. It is past now; Madame is preparing your tea. But it is rather silly, you must admit. She is a woman like you, after all," I suggest.
Christine is approaching a wild-eyed terror; I drop the subject and sing her a folk song which has calmed her since childhood. She takes her tea dutifully, and I tuck the coverlet around her. A little nap will help her nerves.
Madame and I conclude our business and I lead her back to the street. We will meet tomorrow at half-six so I can inform her of any progress. She is a likable enough woman; I hope she does not turn scheming on me.
Christine awakens from her nap refreshed, but immediately she turns peevish. My Angel has a fearful temper when she is so inclined. Quite a paradox in such a timid girl, but it has always been so, since she was little. By dinner, I cannot stand it; my nerves are wrecked.
"Christine, I will be so grateful if you will tell me what is troubling you."
"Nothing."
"You'll forgive me, but I refuse to believe it."
She slams her fork down with such intensity that it startles me. "I don't understand why you think it's necessary to…to pry into my…personal business! I want you to stop it, right now!"
"Personal business?"
She goes scarlet, sputters without actually uttering a word. I shake my head, baffled. "You know what I mean!" she accuses.
"I do not."
Her heavenly eyes narrow to slits. She's even angrier now; she believes I'm being deliberately obtuse. God help me, she's angry with me!
"What Madame spoke of today. You know," she whispers.
"Oh. You mean your…indisposition," I guess. Her color tells me I am correct. "Christine, it is no great secret. I can assure you that men do understand something of their wives' biology."
"It's none of your affair!" She stomps from the table, slamming the bedroom door so ferociously, my ears ring.
What I would not give for Christine to have had the benefit of an older woman's guidance. I cannot abide her being cross with me, regardless of the reason. I've lost all appetite, and I feel myself getting shaky inside. I long to rush in, fall at her feet and beg forgiveness where no wrong was committed, only to feel the warmth of her love again. I push my plate away and lay my head down. What a miserable creature I am; what can I do if Christine is displeased with me?
"Erik?" She looks so fragile, standing in the bedroom doorway. I am at her side instantly. She reaches for my hand and rests her head on my shoulder. Oh, bliss; am I forgiven?
"Erik, my tummy hurts."
"Come, let me put you to bed, my Treasure."
"Stay with me," she pleads, my little girl again.
Christine passes a restless night, her discomfort coming in waves. When the pain is at its worst, she squeezes my hand with surprising strength. Her bleeding commences in the middle of the night, and by eight the next morning, she is able to fall asleep in relative comfort. I must curl up with her; each time I attempt to leave, she clutches me tighter and fusses wordlessly. I think this is a good sign; perhaps she is not angry with me anymore, but I still cannot sleep. Not until she says she loves me.