Ch. 32
How Erik had risen to the heavens above in his motives to profess his undying love for her; how his heart had soared at the small glimmer of hope that he might have, and then it had seemingly dropped to the inner depths of the earth when she had not answered his call!
He could see the glow eminating from beneath the door, dancing upon the wooden floor and taunting him with the fact that she was, indeed, occupying her room but had not answered. Perhaps she had fallen asleep at such a late hour? Or was it an early hour? In all of his urgency, he had lost observance of the time.
It would have to wait for another day. But how could he suppress his emotions, calm his beating heart? Had history and experience not taught him that he should not wait, lest he be too late and regret it? Or had it taught him that hastiness had always led to disaster?
He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and waited a few more moments in one last desperate attempt to elicite a response from the other side of the door. Suddenly, he noticed the light fade until it had been extinguished completely, and he felt the dread grip his chest with the cold realization that he now faced. She had been ignoring him.
His optimism that perhaps she had not been awake had been shattered, for he knew that she had been the one to turn down the oil lamps and it would have been impossible for her not to hear him knocking on her door.
Perhaps she thought him to be a servant and wished not to be bothered? Perhaps she did not know that he had returned? No, he shook his head. He could not create excuses for the clarity of her behavior. She was avoiding him.
He retreated to the familiar coldness and solitude of his private quarters, but the ivory keys of his piano did not greet him. The temptation of composing, of putting ink to paper, was not to be found within himself. Even the silkiness and comfort of his own bed did not welcome him. Instead, he sat down before his fireplace, poured himself a glass of brandy, and stared into the flames through the length of the night, wondering if the time that he had spent with her had only been the wildness of his imagination, and if he had been alone in missing her these past few weeks.
One night turned into one week. Erik had returned to his estate for seven whole days, and yet he did not see her. He had knocked on her door once more after that night, concerned about her well-being, only to be answered with silence. His defeat had dulled his motivation to continue to try, though he did pass by her door on occasion. All hope was lost the morning when he happened to hear the muffled voices of Estella and her Lady's Maid, and while he did not know what was being said, he felt the bitter betrayal of having been ignored in his endeavors.
Depression had transformed into bitterness in his heart, until he found himself taken with anger. What could he have possibly done to deserve this treatment? He thought that she might have been allowed the time to reflect on her circumstances during his absence, to realize the true monster that she was living with, but then why would it be brought about so suddenly, when only weeks ago she had kissed him?
It wasn't until he noticed the carriage sitting outside when he had truly become concerned. He kept himself hidden in the shadows as he crept down the stairs to see what was transpiring. His ears caught a man's voice inside of the foyer, and he felt the lump begin to form in his throat.
Ah, so this was to be his destiny once more! A secret lover had stolen her heart and taken her away from him, only to leave a woman who did not wish to see her own husband!
Erik felt himself consumed by rage, and he would cease to exist before he would allow this to happen. It was terrible enough to have had to watch it in the Opera Populaire, but in his own home? He would murder the man upon the spot!
Or perhaps he would send the both of them away? He could banish her from ever stepping foot into his house, again, but of what benefit would that be? She probably never cared for him, anyway. She would probably be overjoyed to be rid of a husband such as the likes of him.
His fists clenched and he was reminded of the cold leather gloves that he wore as he silently inched his way closer to the door. He quickly removed them, for he had no desire other than to feel this man's neck with his bare hands. He would gain satisfaction from the contact.
The voice came closer to the door, and he knew that the intruder would be exiting; this was his opportunity. He could hear the knob being twisted slowly.
"I assure you, Mrs. Destler, that if you rub the salve on regularly and maintain a clean bandage, the infection will go away quickly. Do not hesitate to contact me if there are further concerns."
Erik hardly had time to hide himself before the door opened, and so he darted into the closest doorway that he could find-one that was just beside the foyer. With a racing pulse, he listened as the Doctor saw himself out.
He now felt entirely foolish for thinking that Estella had been cruel enough to take on a lover, an overwhelming feeling of relief, and a newly-born fear of what had happened to her.
Estella nearly gasped when she saw him standing in the doorway moments later, and she quickly turned her back to him in order to compose herself. She felt the tears sting the corners of her eyes and threaten to fall, both out of having not seen him for nearly one month and being unprepared for their encounter.
She was not ready to speak with him, and she was uncertain as to if she ever could be. She felt herself confronted with the situation that she had intentionally avoided, and she hated how simply his presence could upset her so much, especially so far as to make her wish to seclude herself in her room once again.
Erik felt her coldness and his temper had returned when she turned away from him. Still, he would not relent. He had every right to know what was going on inside of the confines of his own estate, let alone to his wife!
"Why was there a doctor here?"
Out of anything that he could have said or asked, he cursed himself at such a poor choice of words. Estella did not answer him, but she turned around. He attempted to search her face for any emotion, though he could see none, and she would not bring her eyes to look at him.
It was so unlike her; she was not the sweet and gentle woman that he had come to know. There was no happiness or warmth in her eyes, no smile upon her lovely features. It was as if she had been robbed of these qualities, and now stood an expressionless and empty version of herself.
He then noticed her bandaged hand.
"What has happened?" he asked. He could not prevent the worried tone of his voice, though he thought it better to have not revealed the fact that he cared.
"I fell. It is nothing. I do not wish to speak about it," she said, barely above a whisper. She could hardly contain her emotions a moment longer, and so she attempted to leave the room, but he stepped in front of her.
"I think that you meant, you do not wish to speak to me," he replied dryly.
He could see the tears in her eyes, the pain that had now spread across her face, but his own cruel emotions would not allow him to behave mercifully.
"You will not look at me, let alone say anything since I have returned!" his voice rose. "What have I done to deserve this?"
He wanted to grasp her by the shoulders and shake her as he asked this, but he decided against it. The way in which she cringed and seemed to cower from him was enough to set his nerves on fire, and he was not certain that he would not bring harm upon her if he should touch her in his hateful state.
What a weak and pitiful creature she had become! She had always been one to show courage and boldness, even defiance, for the most part, and yet she was mirroring the image of Christine before him. She pulled away from his touch, and when her eyes had met his, he could see how she trembled. He almost had the urge to take her gently into his arms, but he settled upon feeling the tiny bit of remorse for his harshness in the back of his mind.
"Have you finally realized what I am? Do you regret the way in which you have behaved towards me, because you know that you could never love me?"
When he saw the tears, it crushed him. They were not tears of regret, or sympathy. They were not there because he had misunderstood her and she felt sorry for it. She was not in pain to think of how he was feeling.
She was afraid of him. Was her fear because of his reaction, now that he knew the truth? Was it because she now knew what he was, and the veil of ignorance had been lifted from her eyes?
He wanted to break her. He wanted her to feel the pain that she had just inflicted upon himself, but he knew that he could never lay a finger on her. How it caused his stomach to churn and the self-loathing to consume his thoughts once more! How weak he had become to allow her to have such control over him, and to be unable to repay her in revenge for what she had done to him!
Despite the rage within himself and the tears that threatened his own eyes, he stepped aside and waited for her to pass. He did not prevent her from leaving; he watched her ascend the stairs as quickly as she could without even turning back to cast a glance in his direction.
And all the while, he wondered if he had only dreamt of the loving and kind woman who had once placed her lips upon his.