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Ch 80 Absolution
"Good grief, she's fainted!" I cried.
"What did you expect would happen when you pointed the derringer at her and pulled the trigger?" Erik sat up and looked at me.
"On the dressing table you should find a bottle of smelling salts," he directed.
I looked about and spied the mirrored vanity to my left. Huge bouquets of roses surrounded it. Various bottles and lotions littered the top. I fumbled through the diva's cosmetics, managing only to send puffs of perfumed dust everywhere when I knocked over a box of dusting powder.
"What does it look like?"
"About the size of a medicine vial and brown, yes, there it is at your right elbow, Gabrielle. Open it and wave the contents beneath Christine's nose."
Obeying Erik's commands, I hurried to the crumbled heap that was Christine and knelt by her head. I held the small bottle under her nose and found that she was still breathing. Thank God, she'd not suffered heart failure, I only wanted to scare the poodily out of her, not kill the woman. Christine hiccupped and coughed at the smell of the potion. Her eyes fluttered open. She could only muster enough strength to stare up at us from the dressing room floor where she lay prostrate.
"I-I am truly not dead? She rose to one elbow, checked out her gown, and cast an astonished look at Erik, "You're not dead. Christine wore the expression of a princess newly awoken from an enchanted slumber.
"No. Christine, we are very much alive. You see, Gabrielle's gun was loaded with stage blanks."
"But Erik, there's blood on your chest—" she whimpered. Terror seeped from her every pore.
"Beneath my shirt is a bladder of stage blood. When Gabrielle pulled the trigger I simultaneously pulled a string running from my chest to my hand, thus expelling the blood onto my garments."
Christine gaped at us. Her mind grappled with the scene before her. Slowly her features began to change with the realization that the man she loved and his fiancée had hoodwinked her.
"Yes, Christine, I daresay you've been tricked," said Erik.
"B-But, why?"
"You really must ask?" Erik snorted incredulously.
Again, the doe-eyed blank stare.
"Allow me to refresh your memory, dear."
Erik reached into the right side of his coat and withdrew Christine's letter. He shook out the mutilated parchment and held it before her. "Does this ring a bell?"
At first, she affected the innocent gaze of ignorance, but when Erik did not relent, the little diva began to scoot on her bottom across the floor in an attempt to put distance between her and the tormenting letter.
"You think I had something to do with that letter? I could never have—"
"Do not dare lie to me!" Erik clambered to his feet and shook his fist in rage at the terrified Christine.
"Had Gabrielle's mind not been clouded by the physical and emotional fog of her circumstances, she would have figured out you deplorable deception immediately. When I saw this note, I asked myself, 'who owns a typewriter? Of course, Madame Chagny has one in on her secretary.' As for forging my name, it is a simple enough task for a child."
Christine pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and held it to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a sob.
"Cease the dramatics, will you? Thanks to your thoughtful and, I dare say, guilt infused tip, I found my beloved Gabrielle here in England. Fortunately, she had the good mind to hold on to your counterfeit correspondence."
Christine shivered at the realization that her ruse was truly exposed.
"The game you've chosen to play is a most dangerous one, Madame Chagny. Have the years dulled your memory of how difficult it is to trick me? You forget dear, the Phantom sees all, knows all," Erik said evenly.
"I—I meant no harm, honestly. I have always loved you, Erik. Please, have mercy on my crimes of passion," she pled in earnest.
"This woman here, she cannot possible love you as I do. What do you have in common? The woman does not sing; she's not even a French citizen. Oh, Erik, no other woman can know you as I do."
"You know nothing!" Erik spat.
"She could never be to you what I am, your Angel of Music," Christine's impassioned reasoning had little affect on Erik.
"There's where you are correct in your assessment, Christine. Gabrielle is not my angel of music; she is the angel of my life."
Slowly I rose to take his outstretched hand.
"Gabrielle carries my child, Christine. I would never abandon her for anyone, ever. Not even for you. I know your heart is empty after losing your husband, but I am not the one you want."
"But you are. To move forward with my life—it is not so simple a prospect, Erik. I have only my young son, Gustav, of whom I never see for he is away at the academy most of the time. Besides Raoul's steel handed old Aunt Beatrice, I've nothing but my title and wealth left me by my dead husband."
It had only been a short time since the accident that claimed Raoul's young life. Christine did not seem to me the sort of woman who dealt well with loneliness. Having been an orphan, she was certain to have abandonment issues.
"Christine, you have your talent, your beauty and your youth. For you, mingling in society is not so hard. And of all people, you should know that Erik's life hasn't been easy. He's struggled with the inequities of mankind since birth. He and I share more similarities than you can ever fathom. I'm sorry for you, really I am, but you will love again," I said to her.
"W-What, pray tell, do you want from me?"
Erik pulled up a wooden chair and sat down with his legs crossed observing her.
"A simple apology; that is what we want."
"An apology?" she was dumbfounded by the simplicity of his request.
"Why so surprised, Christine? You claim to know me well, yet you do not realize that I no longer kill people for their foolishness." Erik addressed Christine with a chilling sort of congeniality.
"Apologize for stealing my letter to Gabrielle and swapping it out with yours, for the strife you've caused us both, and for making me search five long months for my fiancée who thought that I'd abandoned her for you." This time he growled at her and leaned forward. The cold glint of anger shone in his eyes.
I felt Erik had scared Christine enough for one lifetime; I stepped closer to the frightened diva, and interrupted his grilling.
"Christine, look, you seem like a nice lady, under normal circumstances that is, not one who goes about destroying the happiness of others for selfish gain. Didn't that triangle with the Vicomte and Erik all those years ago teach you any lessons?"
"I suffered the same fate under his hands. He made me love him." Her arm trembled as she lifted it to point an accusatory finger at Erik.
"Guilty as charged, Madame. I was in the wrong. I did not know that I could not force you to love me." I was relieved to see him backing off a bit form his angry Erik routine.
"Christine, I make my sincere apologies for introducing such torment into your young life, but I cannot go backward, only forward, which is what I have endeavored to do these past six years. And I suggest you do the same," said Erik.
Christine had managed to squirm backwards across the floor and now sat wedged up against the front of an enormous trunk. Being able to go no further, she bent her knees, scooped up her skirts and attempted to stand, but found her legs undependable. I broke away from Erik to lend her an arm to lean on and helped her to the chair at her dressing table. Christine's face, already made up for the stage, bore streaks of mascara through the greasepaint. She definitely needed a touch up.
A sudden, loud knock hit the dressing room door effectively yanking the three of out from our state of inquietude.
"Comtess, the performance has begun, you'll have one and one half an hour before you go on," a man's voice advised.
"Yes, thank you, Spector," she called back to the voice at the door.
"Please, Erik." Christine's request was charged with ambiguous emotion.
"Apologize to Gabrielle and we shall take our leave," Erik reminded her. "As for me, I've no need of your regrets."
"Yes, yes, I only thought of my loneliness and my love for Erik, for our memory. I thought that since he had become a respected composer and architect, perhaps he had made peace with his hatred of society. Therefore, we would have an excellent chance of living a good life together." Christine implored me with her eyes, then set about studying her hands.
With a quiver in her voice, she continued. "The idea that Erik had found another never entered my mind. I wish you no ill will Madame Thomassen. I have done a deplorable thing. Forgive me, forgive my selfish deeds."
Great tears of regret flowed from her pretty eyes. I was not certain if it was fear or true regret that urged on this emotional display, but I was pleased for the personal apology."
"I beg for merciful forgiveness for my grievous actions. I fear I am in dire need of absolution for my sins." Christine hung her head.
"Apology accepted, Madame," I said gently.
I felt sorry for her. Christine was not by nature a mean creature, she was simply distraught with grief and confused. In her mind she saw Erik pining away for her to return to him, another woman never entered her thoughts.
"I should not wish to cross paths with you again, Madame." Erik addressed Christine with the solemnity of a priest giving last rites.
He extended his arm and smiled at me lovingly. "My sweet? Let us take leave of Madame Chagny."
I came to him like a dove returning home, softly, willingly, entwining our gloved hands together.
"My lover," I said.
"Adieu, Madame." Erik bowed briefly to Christine then ushered me out of her dressing room.
That night we considered returning to Hastings, but I convinced Erik to stop by Mary Ann's town house first. Calling unannounced was considered poor taste by most of polite society, but I knew Mary Ann would be delighted to see me.
Begrudgingly, Erik acquiesced. We found the author and her husband in residence. Fashionable Europeans take supper at an hour much later than I preferred, but tonight I welcomed the practice. Erik and I had arrived on Mary Ann and George's doorstep just in time for the evening meal, and although I was excruciatingly tired, we'd not eaten since leaving for London and I was famished.
Anxious to hear the juicy details of our love life and of our ensuing comeuppance upon the Comtess de Chagny, they graciously invited us in for supper and insisted that we stay the night.
Between bites of a deliciously prepared quail à la orange, I recounted the evening's activities with Erik interjecting a comment from time to time.
"Oh horrors!" May Ann exclaimed with glee. "I cannot imagine the Comtess' considerable fear when you brandished a weapon at her. The dear must have peed her unmentionables
"No doubt of it," I chuckled.
"Ladies, please," Erik protested, shocked by the vulgar turn of our conversation.
"Well, all I know is she was humiliated on top of getting a good scare. Having to face the man, she'd claimed to love and his fiancée enceinte. Poor thing probably thought, 'great, now Erik has a woman as devious as he.' Paris beware!"
"You two Machiavellian characters should consider yourselves fortunate that an opera house is rife with noise, else someone would have heard the sound of your gun and come nosing about," said Mary Ann said, admonishing us for our chancy shenanigans.
"Erik knows the ins and outs of opera life, Mary Ann." I winked at my lover sitting next to me and imagined that Erik knew every nook, cranny and mouse infested corner of every theatre in Europe.
After hearing the sordid tale of Christine's evil doing, Mary Ann forgave Erik for his previously loutish dealings with me and welcomed him back into the fold of her artistic circle. Not that he cared a whit, but her graciousness put me at ease as I cherished both her friendship and the love of my soon-to-be husband
"So, now you have reconciled your differences and the wedding is on once more. Splendid for you both. Have you set another date as of yet?"
"The moment our train pulls into the station in Paris, we'll make our way to the registry office. I have with me the papers from before," Erik replied.
Taken aback by this amazing bit of news, I cast him a sideways glance. "You brought my papers and the marriage license with you to London? Confident I would say 'yes' were you, monsieur?"
"That or I would kidnap you, drag you back to Paris and marry you anyway." Erik flashed me a smile loaded with fiendish intent.
Mary Ann and had a jolly laugh at Erik's droll humor. I wasn't so sure he was joking.
My adrenaline rush had abated long ago and by the time dessert and sherry were served, I was wilting in my chair.
Exhausted, I turned to Erik. "I'm really very tired. Do you mind terribly if I turn in for the night, darling?"
"Of course not," he replied, rubbing my back affectionately, and addressed our hosts. "I too think I shall call it a night, if you'll excuse us from your fine company, Madame and Monsieur."
"Please, take your rest dears. You've had quite a journey of emotions this evening. You may occupy the blue guest room again if you like. Gabrielle knows where it is. I expect you'll wish to occupy the room in tandem."
Erik, not accustomed to gracious consideration from others, much less the suggestion that we, an unmarried couple, sleep in the same bed, blinked, stiffened and turned a rosy shade of red.
"Beg your pardon, Madame?" The words fell from his mouth a little too fast.
"Gabrielle and you will wish to be together, will you not?" said Mary Ann with the nonchalance of a woman still not legally married to her dear George.
"You'd have to pry me from his side tonight, Mary Ann."
Speaking softly, I curbed my amusement at my fiancé's modesty, rose from the divan and cocked my head at Erik. "Come, sweetheart, it's been a long day and I'm exhausted from our opera drama."
He nodded, stood, bid his hosts good night and trailed behind me up the stairs to the same guest room where I'd spent my first nights away from my lover last fall.
No lovemaking occurred that night, it wasn't even attempted, a phenomenon for my ever randy Erik.
The morning dawned sunny and unseasonably warm for an English spring day. Waking early from slumber, I crept from the bed and dressed so Erik could sleep. Poor dear, every time I got up to use the water closet in the night, I caught him snoring; a sure sign of his exhaustion.
When I arrived at the breakfast table, Mary Ann sat alone, spectacles perched on her nose, reading the paper and sipping a cup of tea. Plates of crumpets, scones, marmalade, butter and other breakfast goodies dotted the sideboard behind her chair.
"Good day, my dear. I trust you slept well?" she said cheerily.
"As well as this little guy allowed me to," I smiled, patting my belly.
"Breakfast?"
"Absolutely." I was always hungry these days.I chose the seat directly across from her.
"Our maid is out today, so were forced to fend for ourselves, I'm afraid."
"Pity," I answered with a wry smile. I knew Mary Ann and George were not addicted to the usual ceremony of high born British life.
"Has George headed out into the day already?" I asked.
"Actually, he is still in the bed and feeling rather puny."
"Gall stones again is it?"
"I'm afraid so, poor dear." She frowned.
"Have him drink red wine and plenty of tea with lemon (cranberry juice was preferable for dissolving gall stones, but one could not simply run to the market for a jug of the acidic juice).
"Red wine you say. I must relay your advice to George, but tea with lemon rather than cream, he'd never agree to that—not very British."
I smiled. "I understand, but do have him drink the red wine. When I lived in America, a doctor friend of my father's recommended it for his gall stones and it worked wonders."
Mary Ann's long time love and common law husband, Georges Lewes, would live only another six months before succumbing to gallbladder disease. I knew this historical fact, but would never tell my famous friend as there were no cures for it at that time.
"Oh, here, my dear," said Mary Ann, switching subjects. "I've taken the liberty of saving the front page for you, dear." She plucked the front section of The Times from her side of the table and handed it to me.
"Why, how thoughtful," I said, receiving the paper from Mary Ann's out stretched arm. My assumption was that, as a journalist, she imagined I would be interested in the day's news.
I lay the paper next to my plate so I could butter a scone as I read.
"Whoa." I placed the half eaten scone on my plate.
A third of the way down the front page, a headline blared, 'Noble Diva's Performance a Royal Disaster at Her Majesty's Opera House.' Beneath the caption, a grainy picture of Christine peered out at me. She wore an exquisite evening gown and from the smile on her lips, I deduced that it was from a previous occasion, what journalists called a stock photo, not from last night.
The gist of the article was that she had suffered a hideous headache and was unable to even stand, much less push her vocal prowess to the heights of a gifted, celebrated soprano. The demanding crowd grumbled loudly following the evening's performance, many demanding a partial refund of their admission.
"Loyal bunch of blue nose, s aren't they," I snorted disdainfully.
When I looked from the paper, Marry Ann was smiling. "What else can I fetch you for breakfast, dear?" she asked sweetly.
"Nothing, thank you, I believe I've had my just deserts."
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