Christine awakens feeling much better, and with a good appetite. I would like to be able to report to Madame Cisse about the bleeding, but not enough to remind Christine how furious she was at me yesterday. Madame is pleased with my report and advises that I should let Christine be for several weeks at least. Depending, she says. Depending upon what? This uncertainty is madding; how can I know that Christine is well? Don't fret so, dear man; let yourself be guided by your little darling, Madame counsels me.
My angel is herself in no time, but I am wretched until I am certain that she is unaffected by the ordeal. Then time stops until I can love her again. While I've suffered solitary torments for decades, the forbidden fruit has never been as close as it is now.
Weeks pass; three, four, five, but Christine gives no sign that she misses my attentions. If she was not so obviously healthy, I would not be troubled, but as it is, I fear she will never admit her desires to me. She continues to worry that I will consider her a bad girl. Perhaps she needs still more time to feel completely comfortable with me, but it breaks my heart to think she has so little confidence in my love. Much as I had wanted to leave the initiative to Christine, I come to realize that I must seize it myself. I am dying for her touch. Poor child, I know she suffers, too, waiting in silence for her husband to approach her. I hope she does not think I've grown tired of her, or that somehow she has become unattractive to me.
I decide a romantic evening is in order; I will court her as I did before she was my precious wife. I prepare lamb with a burgundy and rosemary glaze that Christine especially likes, potatoes with leeks, and bread of course. I have never been able to master pastry, so I visit a bakery for dessert. I choose a fruit tart that makes Christine's eyes shine with delight. When she praises me, I am positive that I could live on it and never eat again.
After dinner, we dance just as people do at fine balls. I have devised a way to make the piano play without me; not many tunes, because it is a time consuming process, but it's alright. Christine's laughter is music enough to brighten my cave.
When the evening is late, I give her a bottle of bath salts, lilac for a change, and a new bed gown of palest blue. I would have run the bath, but I don't want to remind her–I don't want to remember–the first night I ran the bath, and hurt her. She sparkles and flies away to soak. I do the cleanup and go to bed with my book. Eventually, Christine pirouettes from the bath, proud of herself in her new gown.
"Pretty as a princess."
"Thank you," she smiles shyly, slipping into bed.
I kiss her hand. She smells divine. "I've missed you, Angel," I whisper, reaching for her.
"No, no, no!" she shrinks from me as if I was a monster. "Stop!"
I am utterly baffled; I only wanted to kiss her. "Christine, what is wrong?"
"I…I don't feel well! Yes, I don't…I don't feel well yet." Her eyes are huge. It almost seems she is afraid of me.
"What is it, Angel? You've said you feel fine for weeks, each time I ask you."
"Well, I do feel fine, mainly. But…" she wrings her hands.
I am beside myself with worry. "Please, Christine, won't you calm yourself?" I reach for her hand, but she snatches the coverlet up to her neck protectively. I prop my pillows up and settle back against the headboard. "Please tell me what troubles you," I sigh. Though I have moved away from her, she is still fidgeting.
"I feel better in the daytime. At night…I mean, at bedtime…I don't feel so well anymore."
"I wish you'd told me, Darling. I'll fetch Madame Cisse first thing."
"No!"
"Christine, come along now, ignoring your health for the sake of this misplaced modesty is absurd. I'm sorry to have to scold you, Angel, but you must understand the gravity of the situation. If you are unwell, you cannot remain silent and hope it will go away." I hate speaking to her sternly, but what else can I do?
"I'm alright, I tell you," she shakes her head. "I don't need her!"
"Darling, a moment ago you told me you don't feel well at bedtime. Now you tell me you're alright. Which is it, Christine?"
"I…want some tea!" She scurries away.
Oh, god. For some reason, I feel weighted down, as if piles of thick blankets were draped about my shoulders. A pounding headache has sprung up from nowhere. Perhaps I should drop the conversation tonight and just fetch the midwife without a word in the morning. Sometimes I worry for Christine's sanity. She seems so fragile emotionally; the slightest thing may send her into a blind panic or hysteria. And then again, it may not; I can never predict it until it's upon me.
Christine returns with tea for us both. We sip in silence; the chasm yawns between us. This is killing me; I must try another approach. "Angel, you know how long I've been alone. Now you've come, and you fill every dark corner of my heart with sunshine. Surely you have an idea of how precious you are to me. Do you realize how I worry when you are not well? Please, tell your little husband what he must do for you."
She says nothing. When she finishes her tea, she turns away and settles down for sleep, without a word. Incredulous, I take her by the shoulder and make her face me. She squeals, horrified, as I expected she would.
"Christine, did you hear me? You will tell me what troubles you!" My stomach churns at having to speak crossly to her.
"Why must you always spoil everything?" she demands angrily. "Why?" She breaks into sobs and hides her face.
"Christine, I don't und–"
"It was a lovely evening! I enjoyed myself so much, but then you had to spoil it with–" she buries her face in the pillow.
I can barely catch my breath. Eventually, I manage to gasp an apology. I stumble into some clothing. I need to walk the caverns so I can weep freely. I don't know how to take this, how to begin to understand.