Chapter 5: 'The Rose' Returns to Paris
The coach lurched suddenly, sending Christine across the seat, straight into Raoul's lap. He stiffened, but made no attempt to push her away; instead, he looked fixedly out the window. She began to push herself away from him, but as she slid her right hand back, she saw his left hand swoop down on it, holding it prisoner.
She closed her eyes and swallowed with difficulty. Then she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. She began to straighten herself up, and attempted to pull her hand out from under his. He suddenly pulled her hand up to his lips, and brushed a feathery-soft kiss over her knuckles, his eyes still on her. She forcibly jerked her hand out of his grasp, and moved back to her side of the coach. Turning away from him, she gave all her attention to the swiftly moving scenes outside her window. He did not pursue the issue, but sighed, and moved his head back against the seat, closing his eyes.
There was a tension-laden silence inside the coach for many miles thereafter. The landscape went by outside the windows, the light from the sun changing gradually as it traveled across the sky.
Keeping her eyes closed, she forcibly thrust Raoul's pain from her mind, focusing on the dream, instead. Again she saw herself on the rooftop. Again she slipped her hand easily into Erik's, and he turned in surprise to look at her. She returned his look calmly, without fear. She hungrily took in his masculine beauty.
"Christine," Raoul said, interrupting her thoughts. "We have arrived at our destination."
She turned slightly, and, opening her eyes, looked around. She avoided meeting Raoul's eyes again. She said nothing in answer.
"Christine, my love..." he began, but seeing her downcast expression, stopped.
Sighing, he opened the door on his side, and nimbly alighted. He took a second or two to straighten his cravat, and pulled on his jacket, then went around to open the door for her. Reaching inside, he offered her his hand. Still without looking at him, she took it, and carefully descended.
They had finally arrived in Paris, after several days on the road. Christine slowly lifted her hand to her throat in sudden apprehension. Had the secretly hired messenger delivered her letter to MadameGiry? Would her eagerly anticipated reunion with Erik go off as planned?
"Christine, are you all right?" Raoul was speaking to her.
"Yes, yes..." she answered, nodding slowly, her eyes unfocused, as if she were in a trance.
"Come, then," he said, offering her his arm, ever the gentleman. Her mind instantly flew to Erik. He was just as much of a gentleman as Raoul, but when he held out his arm to her, she perceived a subtle sensuality in the gesture, a sensuality that was palpably absent when Raoul performed the same gesture. His had more of a brotherly air to it.
Therein lay the contrast between the two men. One was the soul of gentility, with centuries of aristocratic lineage and breeding behind him. The other was a soul on fire, an aristocrat of the mind and heart.
Raoul led her toward the steps to their hotel. She followed, as if with no will of her own. "Come, you must rest, and then we will talk, later, or tomorrow, perhaps. I perceive that you are overwrought." He glanced at her, his brows knitting together in worry.
At these words, she came full tilt back to reality, and snatched her arm from his grasp.
"No, Raoul," she said, softly but firmly, directly focusing her eyes on him. "I cannot rest. Not now. I must go directly to him. I ask you to order a carriage for me, at once."
His sharp intake of breath told her that he was striving to control himself. He did not, after all, intend to fly into a rage the way Erik probably would, in similar circumstances. He decided to try to reason with her.
"Christine, this is madness, my love. We have only just arrived. Come and rest, at least until tomorrow. I assure you that I shall not disturb you unless you wish me to do so. You have my word as a gentleman."
She began to shake her head vehemently, from side to side. Her eyes clouded over with tears, and she turned away from him.
"Raoul, Raoul," she cried out. "Please...for the sake of the love you say you feel for me..."
He stiffened visibly at this, and stepped back from her.
"I do not say I feel this love for you, Christine. I do indeed feel it, with every fiber of my being. I believed you felt it, too, but now...You have become a stranger, and yet, my feelings for you remain the same."
She lowered her head as the tears slipped down her face. The burden of guilt his pained words laid on her was overwhelmingly heavy. She was suddenly conscious of passersby staring at them, of carriages full of gaily laughing passengers, pulled by smartly stepping horses. Life was going on around their little tragedy.
She looked up at him again. "I am sorry, really I am, Raoul. I must go. He is in terrible pain, as I have told you. Please order a carriage for me."
Raoul bowed his head. His heart was furiously beating in his chest, and a terrible hatred for Erik arose in him. His jaw clenched.
"Very well, I shall call a carriage for you."
She turned away, unable to speak, attempting to stifle a sob.
"Wait for me here. I shall return presently." He turned on his heel, and climbed the steps leading into the hotel.
Christine turned around, looking up and down the busy street, twisting a scented handkerchief over and over in her hands. The late afternoon sun was sending its golden rays through the thinning foliage of the autumn trees, and a slight breeze picked up some fallen russet leaves in front of her, depositing them on the ground again just a few feet away. People of all sorts were strolling about, as the temperature was quite pleasant. Aristocratic gentlemen in their top hats and immaculately-pressed suits, accompanied fine ladies whose dresses reflected the latest Parisian fashion rage, with long, puffy sleeves and form-fitting skirts. The ladies' hats were true masterpieces of the hatmaker's trade, with wide, dipping brims done in black and white stripes, or brilliant, Impressionistic colors.
There were tradesmen, too, hurrying home from work, and it was quite easy to spot the occasional university professor or governess, the latter usually walking with at least one child beside her, as well as the child's mother.
Christine noticed all these things, and yet she did not notice them. She would previously have derived great pleasure from the ordinary art of people-watching; now, however, this whole moving landscape of humanity held little interest for her.
In her mind, she could see Erik standing stonily before her, with those piercing golden eyes that never missed anything.
'Please believe that I truly do love you. How can I not, when you are the other half of my soul, which you have so slyly stolen away? I was afraid of you, yes. I was so confused...I truly believed that you would hurt me, you who have been my Angel, who have breathed life into my soul...That is why you gave me to someone who would protect me, even if my true self was stifled in the process...My love, I have now seen who you truly are. I am no longer frightened, Erik. In my mind, I have kissed your eyes, your cheeks awash with love's tears, your lips that have yearned for so long to feel the taste of love. Your face held no terror for me when I took it between my hands, looking into those eyes that see into my very depths...I want to look into those eyes again...I want to savor the feel of your tongue in my mouth, mixed with your tears...I want your arms, those arms that hold me with such tender passion, to encircle me with a strength that will not, cannot, crush that which it loves...Erik...I am coming back to you...your rose will soon be with you again...and you will never, never, be alone again...not ever. Believe this, my love.'
A couple of minutes later, a carriage drawn by two splendid Andalusian geldings pulled up in front of the hotel. Christine quickly looked around, hoping Raoul would not decide to follow her, and approached the coachman, calling out to him, "Have you been instructed to pick up a passenger, Monsieur?"
The coachman smiled down at her, nodding. He alighted from his seat, and, walking over to her, assisted her into the carriage.
"Where shall I take you, Mademoiselle?" he politely inquired.
"To the Opera House," she replied, firmly.
"Very well, Mademoiselle." He snapped the reins, and the horses took off at a smart trot.
Another coachman drove up, and, seeing no one waiting, resigned himself to sitting for a long time. Several minutes went by. The coachman was getting impatient. He turned around in his seat, and finally decided to climb down and inquire as to how much longer he was to wait. At that precise moment, a young man who appeared to be greatly distressed came out from behind a side entrance to the hotel, leading a fine white Arabian gelding. Walking over to the carriage, he was in time to see the coachman climb down.
"Monseiur," he addressed the coachman, his voice taking on an alarmed tone, "Where is the young lady that you were to take as a passenger?"
The coachman raked his eyes contemptuously up and down his figure. These aristocrats! Sacre bleu!
"Now, then, young sir," he answered sarcastically. "As you can see, there is no young lady to be found. Nor did I know I was to have such a passenger. I was merely told to bring the carriage around, and wait." With this, he spat at the ground.
"Well, yes, those were indeed your instructions," answered Raoul, becoming more agitated. "Did you not see a young lady standing out here just now?"
"Mais non! I think that you are crazy, my boy!" Swearing profusely, he took off his hat, shook it, and walked away, shaking his head as well.
Raoul felt a cold anguish sweep over him. He had no way of knowing what had become of Christine. Had that man somehow known where she would be staying, and come for her? He turned the horse around to walk back to the hotel stables. He had enough money to make sure the very finest of hired detectives would get information for him. He simply had to act as quickly as possible.