"Christine, mon cherie, I am so, so, deeply sorry," he gushed. He offered her the engagnement ring that she had shoved in his chest that fateful night.
She shook her head resolutely, not trusting herself to speak, and pushed back his hands which held the band.
He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair that had grown a little more scraggly and long since she saw him. It trailed down his neck and rubbed the stubbly skin. His red bloodshot eyes seemed to stare right through her. "I know what i did was wrong, and it was so terribly out of character. Surely you know that is not how I act?"
She continued to remained silent.
"I knew this wouldn't be easy," he murmured. "Shall we sit down?"
She decided to give him a chance to plead his case.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. "You wouldn't believe how hard I have looked for you," he exclaimed. "No one saw you, heard from you for over a month—you disappeared. I came to your apartment almost every day—but you were never there. I contacted your friends Meg and Jammes, even Mme. Giry and none of them knew your whereabouts. Another girl was using your dressing room. I was so desperate I almost considered going down to the cellars where that lunatic used to live—do you remember him?" She had to bite back a smirk; she did remember him. More clearly than he thought. "I searched for you every day, and I inquired at almost every store in town if they had seen a beautiful girl matching your description. They all replied that such a woman had passed through the doors looking for work, but had not hired you. I was just coming here today to do ask and it seems as if I didn't need to," he finished with a weak smile.
She glanced up at him from her work but didn't say a word.
"Oh, Christine," he sighed, leaning forward in his chair. "Not a minute goes by that I don't regret what I did. It was so unlike me. I'm ashamed that I would ever do that to anyone—especially to someone like you. I don't want to lose you, Christine. I love you. I'm willing to do anything for you to forgive me."
She reluctantly released her foot from the pedal and the machine slowed to a stop. Her eyes roamed over his face and the emotions so openly portrayed on its canvas. Regret, sadness, admiration…
"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said, "but I cannot forget what you did, and as of now, I cannot forgive it either."
His eyes glassed over. "I was afraid you would say that," he whispered softly. She had never seen him look so broken.
Her gaze softened. "Raoul, we were never truly compatible. You never understood my love for music, I never understood high society. Your values are completely different than mine; you were so focused on reputation and I didn't care about anything of the sort. We had completely different backgrounds, families, upbringings—we just never really worked, and I never really realized that until that one night."
"That's not true, Christine—"
"Yes, it is," she said quietly. "You know it is."
He shook his head earnestly. "We were in love, Christine, don't you remember? Almost five years ago, was it not, when I saw you sing in Hannibal? Right then, Christine, you captured my heart. And I have not got it back since. If you leave me without it, I—I don't know what I'll do."
The look in his eyes almost reduced her to tears. He was begging, quite literally, on his knees, for forgiveness.
"I was arrogant, I was rude, I was so ungentlemanly I cannot believe it at times. I have never had a temper like that, but all the stress had mounted and I took it out on someone who means very much to me and did not deserve it at all," his eyes were glassy now. "You were ready to comfort me, and I—I—" his voice broke and he hung his head, ashamed.
"Forgive me, Christine. I cannot bear to think of life without you. This past month has been a torment. All I could think of was you, and how I hadn't the faintest idea where you were, if you were alright…I love you and I cannot imagine living the rest of my days without your presence giving life to them. Say you'll try, Christine, please…"
This was it. She could take his tempting proposal and move away with her childhood sweetheart. She wouldn't have to work in this dark and dreary tailor shop anymore. If she stayed it might be months—years until she would have enough money to leave and find work in an opera house again. But if she married him she could leave right this moment and not have to suffer through these terrible days at the shop…
But she did not love him
Additionally she knew that she would never feel truly comfortable living with a man who had abused her. She remembered that night so clearly—it brought pain just to think about it. The wound was too fresh—physically and metaphorically—it hadn't scarred yet and she was not willing to dive into the offender's territory again. She wouldn't willingly live with someone who had physically hurt her. Erik had never hit her. He had raised his hand to strike her when she had had kissed him—that seemed so long ago, had it only been a few months?—but hadn't touched her. He had killed many men, yes, but he had never harmed her. Raoul, however, had struck her multiple times. That she could not forgive.
This was it. Take him up on his offer and live comfortably in a rich, extravagant home, smothered by the high society, or toil away for an undetermined amount of time before getting to perform again—and it wasn't certain that she would ever even get that opportunity.
It was so tempting…so, so, tempting….to never have to work a day in this horrid place again, leave this place, and start over with him…she had loved him once, why couldn't she love him again? It would take time, yes, and she would never be able to trust him the way she once did. But as she sat there, with an empty stomach, stiff back, bleeding fingers, and a sick body with a failing immune system, nothing had ever seemed so wonderful than leaving this all behind. What if she never got out of this place? There was no garuntee that she would be able to make enough money to leave before her youth faded away. She was already seeing signs of premature aging due to the harsh conditions in the shop. Having limited days on the stage were better than none…
She knew what her diecision was.
"I can't live with someone who abused me, Raoul. I can't accept you."
He took one hard, long look at her before he slowly stood up. "I won't give up, Christine. I can see you need time, and I respect that. but I won't move on—I can't move on. Do you know how horrible this past month has been for me?" His shabby and disheveled appearance explained it for him. "I can't live like this Christine. But I'll give you time. Then I'll be back, yes, I'll be back. If you ever need me, you know where I am. I won't move from there until I have you beside me."
He had delivered this speech while walking with her to the front door and by now they were standing by the door way.
"I love you," he choked.
She was unsure of what to do. He looked so lost, so miserable. And she hated the fact that she had caused this—No, he had caused it. She was being reasonable. He was the one who had abused her. This was not her fault; it was his. She had nothing to feel remorseful about.
But she hated being cold-hearted, and so she wrapped her arms around him in a tentative embrace. He slowly raised his shaking hands and did the same. They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before Christine pulled away.
"Goodbye, Raoul."
He left.
Her head felt very heavy as she trudged back into the back room. The old lady at the other machine had nodded off a while ago, and Mr. Murray hadn't been there to wake her up, so she hadn't heard any of the conversation. She finished the work that was left on the waistcoat and then took the pile of clothes next to the elderly woman's machine and added it to her own pile. She couldn't find it in her heart to wake her up; she had been growing increasingly sick and Christine knew that she would benefit greatly from some sleep. If her work was left undone, however, Murray would fire her and she would be penniless. So she worked as quickly as she could, blistered fingers nimbly stitching, hemming, and darning. She felt herself staring at the clock as much as her work. When the clock finally struck six thirty, she stood up and stretched, then woke up her partner.
She jumped, looking around frantically. "Sleep?" she said.
"Yes, you were asleep," Christine told her slowly. "Mr. Murray did not see you. Everything is fine. Go on home, you completed most of your work and I can finish what little is left," she lied. She had hardly finished one piece before nodding off.
"No," the woman said stubbornly. "Let me."
"Please," Christine said. "Go home and have something to eat."
The lady smiled. "Thank you. You are a good girl."
Christine smiled at her in return and the woman left. She sat back down and started up the rickety machine again.
No one was here now and she felt a strong desire to sing. She knew not where it came from, but she heeded to the feeling and began to sing an old Swedish tune while she did some of the more complicated work by hand. She felt herself smile through the words; this was her father's favorite song. She could almost hear his old violin accompanying her.
She worked into the late hours of the night, with only thoughts to keep her company.
She wondered if this was the last time she would ever see Raoul. He had said he would come back, but she knew that it must be very tempting for him to leave and start over in a new place. Here in Paris everyone knew that the two of them had broken off their engagement. Although it had not been made official, the two hadn't been seen together for over a month and the famous diva was not wearing her ring. It was only a matter of time before he got tired of waiting for her and moved away to find some girl who understood his world and loved him for his charisma and good humor. She hoped he would move on soon and wouldn't be coming back to beg for her forgiveness. The words he had said today were heart-wrenching…she couldn't believe that he had searched for her, an incompetent little diva who was quite replaceable, for a month. "I almost considered going down to the cellars where that lunatic used to live—do you remember him?"
She had almost laughed. It was still unbelievable how he hadn't caught on over the months…she must have been very secretive, or, more likely; he was too self-absorbed to notice.
Those months that Erik had graced with his presence had seemed to fly by. During those few moments when he let his guard down, he had been so kind, polite, and even witty. There had been many of those before she had sprung that kiss on him, and sometimes he was open with her more than when he restrained his feelings. But after the kiss, when he had rescued her from Raoul's wrath, he seemed to have made a very conscious effort to hide behind his façade as much as possible. His feelings and thoughts were a mystery now.
A mystery which she longed to uncover.
She wished that for once he wouldn't hide his thoughts and emotions. She wanted to be able to see them as plainly portrayed as she had before. Why she wanted to know so badly was just as much of a mystery as his thoughts, but something in her was longing to know what he thought of her. Was she just a little pathetic girl in his eyes? Or did he see her as an independent individual? Most likely the former, she thought grimly. It always seemed like she was on the verge of tears, wounded, or blushing and stammering while she was around him. Generally she liked to think she could speak proficiently, but when she was talking to him it was as if half of her vocabulary had vanished. It was quite inconvenient.
She sighed as she continued to work, taking a break to wind a scrap of fabric around her bleeding fingers. She missed Erik more than she would like to admit. When he was not in one of his moods he was very stimulating company, full of witty conversation and kindness, and a faithful friend. She also thought of him as a sort of puzzle; just when you thought you had it figured out one piece would change and you would have to start over again. He was always changing, dispositions constantly rotating, and you could never quite figure him out. She would like to understand him one day, but he was such a complex man with a complicated past and ideas and thoughts it seemed nearly impossible.
But if she could get him to open up, that would become an easy task. She would know what his thoughts and feelings were and be satisfied.
But if she never got to see him again she might never know.
She wondered if he knew where she was. After she had the appointment with the managers they had promised to meet in her dressing room, but Mlle. Langille had been there and had prohibited that. Being too ashamed to face him after giving up at the Garnier so easily, she hadn't sought him out. He would undoubtedly be disappointed in her, with good reason, for not searching for a job in which she could sing, even if that meant travelling abroad with no money. His contempt would crush her; ever since she had begun taking lessons from him she had strived to please her angel. So she had avoided him altogether, and missed him more than she ever imagined possible.
Her head ached and her fingers were beginning to grow numb. Deciding that she had best go home, she wearily packed her things away and trudged though the streets, collapsing oon her bed when she finally got home.