Chapitre Trente-Trois: La Accalmie avant le Orage
Two days later found Christine again sitting on the chaise in her room. Though the wallpapers, the silk pillows, the plush carpets, expense and glamour were all there, just the same as they had been a week ago, she couldn't dredge up any of the frantic excitement or enthusiasm that had possessed her at the beginning of her stay. The room was strewn with beautiful gowns and glittering jewels, but she didn't feel like playing dress-up; she'd long grown tired of wandering the halls admiring statues, and besides, she didn't want to run into any of the servants; and she'd eaten and eaten until she'd given herself a monstrous stomachache. There was really nothing else to do here, and she wasn't allowed to go outside—she wasn't even allowed to walk in the garden for fear she would be made off with. Philippe had offered her the use of his library, but most of the books were in other languages, and the French ones were all about philosophy; she hadn't made it to the second page of any book she'd tried.
She'd resigned herself to spending her time in her room, but it was unbearable—she loved her soft, silken bed, but she couldn't spend all her time sleeping. She also loved the pink porcelain bathroom attached to her suite, with all its marvelous modern conveniences, but she'd counted the tiles over and over until she feared she'd go mad.
Christine glanced towards the shuttered windows and bolted balcony doors, wishing she could at least feel a fresh breeze, but Raoul would be furious if she disobeyed him.
She sighed; she'd always had too much to do at the Garnier. Between practices and lessons, she'd barely had any time for herself. But having nothing to do—absolutely nothing—and with no purpose to guide the long hours, she felt drowsy and pointless.
Thinking of the Garnier made her think of Erik, and though she quickly pushed him out of her mind, it left her with an idea: she would go downstairs to the piano in the parlor, find some sheet music, and create her own singing lesson. She wouldn't learn anything, and there wasn't any point in keeping up her vocal talent now that she was a vicomtess (or going to be, at any rate), but at least she'd have something to do. It was a marvelous idea.
She was on her way down the stairs (she was beginning to learn her way around ever since Philippe had kindly furnished her with a rudimentary map) when she saw Raoul headed down a hallway. "Raoul," she called, "come back!"
"I'm rather busy, my blossom."
"I won't keep you—but would you come get me when Mamma comes? I'll be in the parlor."
Raoul appeared from around the corner. "Don't wait around for her, precieuse—I already sent her away."
"You—you what? But why?!"
"Her visit was unnecessary."
"But I wanted to see her! I even invited her!"
Raoul frowned. "How did you do that?"
"I asked Philippe to have a letter sent—"
"Philippe," muttered Raoul disgustedly.
"—and you had her sent away! Who gave you the authority to—"
"My darling, my darling," interrupted Raoul, the endearments carrying none of their usual adoration, "don't be so flustered." He seemed almost annoyed, but as he drew near, raising a hand to touch her face, he smiled. "I love you so much, I can't bear to let anyone else even see you. Now be a good girl and I'll send the chef up with some pastries." He turned to walk away, but Christine, refusing to be bribed, spoke again:
"But—"
"No buts," he said, his authoritative tone returning. "I have a lot on my mind right now—you wouldn't want to burden me with unnecessary complaints, would you?"
"No, but—"
"Good. Now go back up to your room like a good girl."
Before she could decide what to do, he had left the foyer. She bit her lip and walked unhappily back up the stairs.