"Except for me…" she murmurs.
"What did you say, Christine?"
She moves away, shunning my caress. Can it be? She should be overjoyed that I'm ready to forgive her.
"Christine, what do you mean, except for you? I've never hurt you! I'd rather harm myself than ever–"
"When you brought me from the church…remember…" she whispers so softly I can scarcely hear.
What is she talking about? I've never–then I remember our wedding night. God, no; my heart breaks to think she's been holding that against me.
"Christine, Christine, my angel, no," I murmur. I gather her into my arms; she accepts my embrace grudgingly. "No, don't turn away, my Love, there is no shame here. Christine, listen to me. Did no one explain to you before the wedding? Madame Giry? Anyone?"
Still she will not meet my gaze.
"Christine, your loving husband never means to cause you any pain. It is nature, Christine; it is the way of things; every girl feels pain when she is taken for the first time. I don't understand why these things must be as they are, but it is not my doing. Surely you believe this!" I grasp her chin, perhaps too roughly in my anguish, and force her to face me. She nods slightly before dropping her eyes. I press my awful cheek to her smooth, perfect one. "If you knew how I suffered, knowing I was causing you pain; did I not apologize?" I urge her to remember.
"Yes."
"Yes, and I beg of you, Christine, I beg of you to tell me: have I hurt you ever, ever since then?"
She hesitates.
"Christine!"
"Sometimes--"
"Sometimes!" I echo in despair.
"Sometimes…when I did not want it," she confesses, coloring.
"Christine!" I wail, burying my horrible face in her tender palms. "But you love me now; you want me now," I cry, stroking her frantically. "You delight in me as I do in you!" I insist.
Fear darkens her eyes as she rushes to nod an affirmation. I can read her face; she fears I am mad. Does she say yes to soothe the madman, or to comfort her grieving bridegroom? No, no!
"You love me, Christine; I know you love your little husband! I know you love me!"
"I love you now, Erik," she promises. "Please, don't; I'm afraid."
"What do you mean, you love me now?" I demand. The girl is talking nonsense.
"Nothing, nothing. Please, Erik…don't you want me? Haven't you missed me? I've missed you," she smiles, but her expression is distracted. I know it worries her when I am emotional, but I must lay my fears to rest. We must put this behind us.
"Please, Christine, I promise you that I am not cross with you. It breaks my heart to think that you have lived a moment of your married life in fear. How can I ensure that your confidence in me is complete; are you still afraid that I might harm you, my Angel?"
"No," she replies quickly, searching my face earnestly.
"No," I sigh. "And now that you understand the circumstances, it is different, is it not, than what befell that unfortunate little girl?"
"Yes."
"Well then, you are not married to a man who violates children, are you?"
"No."
"Then why did you rush to believe the slander that hateful boy put forward against me?"
"I suppose it is different," she agrees.
"Yes, of course it is," I murmur, embracing her. Her hair is heavenly soft and fragrant.
"I wasn't a child."
True, but there's more to it than that, I think. "You were a newly married woman, my Angel," I remind her, chuckling.
"Still, you did force me, really," she avers, in her tiniest voice.
"I did not force you, Christine!" I am unable to mask my irritation. She cringes. "You were my lawful wife; what would you have me do?"
She traces the large cabbage roses on the bedspread absently. "I was to marry Raoul; you took me away from him. Right on the altar, you took me away."
"No," I draw away, baffled at her assertion. "Christine, don't you remember when you returned to me that night?" I point toward the very place where she stood with pleading eyes. "Right here; you gave me the ring, remember? I'm sorry, my Angel, I didn't realize immediately what you were trying to tell me with the ring, and with your kiss. But I came to understand, Angel, didn't I?" I smile, covering her hand with my own.
"What did you come to understand?"
"Why, that it was me you wanted after all, of course," I smile, kissing her hand.
"Oh."
"Can you forgive your Erik for being so obtuse, Christine? Sometimes he isn't such a clever boy, but you can forgive him now that you're safe at home with your loving husband, can't you?" I ease her back on the bed, suddenly hungry for her. Once again my lips seek out her tender throat, my hands explore her curves.
"I kissed you because I was afraid," she states hollowly. I freeze, my hand hovering at her hip.
"Yes, of course; you were afraid for your little childhood friend, afraid of my dreadful temper and my jealousy, and so you wanted to see him away safely," I reply impatiently. Drawing away slightly, I glimpse my bride's eyes; what is troubling her so? Relenting, I speak more softly. "Of course your Erik would not hurt your little friend, but you could not know that. Poor Christine, your Erik has given you a fright a time or two, hasn't he? I'm sorry, Angel." I kiss her gently. "I know I have a fearful temper, Christine, but I've been better, haven't I, since we've been married? Haven't I?"
"Yes, much better," she agrees.
I reach for the buttons on her dress. "I want you, Angel," I whisper. "Touch me; I need your blessing touch." Her hands move awkwardly, hesitantly, as if she is suddenly afraid of my flesh. "What is it, Christine? What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Why do you tremble, then?"
"I'm not trembling!" She lies like a child, with huge guilty eyes.
"But you are, Christine; look at yourself!" I cry; she baffles me.
"I don't know. I'm cold." Is she cold, or does she grasp at the explanation nearest at hand? I don't know what to think of her anymore. I roll away and sit on the edge of the bed, disgusted. I hear water dripping in this interminable silence.
"You aren't angry, are you, Erik?" she worries. "Here, I'll get undressed." She bustles and rustles behind me, finally slipping between cool sheets and lying still. I turn down the lamp as dim as it will go and undress slowly. I cannot grasp any of the thoughts which skitter around my mind like so many dry leaves in a wintry breeze. Perhaps she is cold; I feel a chill deep in my bones as well.
When I embrace Christine, she is as soft and warm as ever, but there is no yielding sigh, no gentle welcome. My kiss, begun so tenderly, turns frantic as I cajole, beg, urge her lips to respond. Finally, it grows rough and she turns her face away numbly. Still I persist, confident I can make her want me; soon she will warm to my touch. I caress her in all the ways which please her most, waiting for a sign, but she gives none. Where are you, Christine, where have you gone? She flinches when I press inside her. Suddenly, I feel heartsick, and more alone than I have ever felt. I rub my cheek against hers and begin to sob silently.
"No," I gasp, crawling away from her. Now raw and inhuman sounds escape my throat, and words; a prayer for understanding. Because I do not understand at all, God, not at all.
I did not feel Christine leave our bed, but the bath is running. I'm just trying to get clean; that is what she always says.