Despite the onset of spring, the air sends a chill up Christine's spine as they disembark from the carriage. Linking her arm in his, she presses close to Erik.
"Are you alright?" he asks. "While not sea air, we are still close to the Seine."
"Just a little weary. I shall be fine once we are inside," she says, pulling away when the drive jumps down from his bench and unloads their bags. Without saying a word to either of them, the young man climbs back up and drives off.
The train ride proved to be inconsequential – most people just going about their business, taking little notice of them. They had a private compartment, so there was no interaction with other passengers.
"Are you concerned about Phillippe?" she asked once they were situated.
Roused from whatever thought had his attention, he replied, "Phillippe?"
"His claims…about Raoul and me."
"They are false, are they not?"
"Yes, but he can be quite rigid."
"Can he? Well, I can be as well – in any event, the daroga is quite the most obstinate of men."
"So that is not what is occupying your thoughts?"
"No. I was actually just watching the scenery, recalling seeing this land for the first time," he said. "Appreciating my freedom. Look at the cows."
For the rest of the journey, they enjoyed looking out the window or dozing. Their conversation limited to their observations about the scenery – avoiding any talk about the meeting with Nadir or what they might experience once they arrived in Boscherville. All in all a pleasant journey.
It was only with this coach driver did she see what Erik experiences when outside of his home.
"Another hundred francs?" Erik asks. "Your sign says two hundred."
"The roads are still wet from a rainstorm we had yesterday," the young man replied. "Another hundred or find another coach if you can. Not many wish to travel outside the city."
"I see," was all Erik said, removing an additional note from his money purse, handing it to the man.
The streets showed no evidence of rain, but she noticed the man averting his gaze. Despite keeping his wide-brimmed hat pulled over his face, Erik's mask was still visible.
Picking up two cases, Erik asks, "Can you manage the small case?"
"Of course," she says. "I am sorry."
"For what?" Following her gaze to the departing carriage. "Do not waste your anger on him."
"How can you say that?"
"My dear, the man was actually kind…I assumed it was because of you, so I thank you for that. Had I been alone I doubt he would have agreed to drive me at all."
"He cheated you out of a hundred francs."
"But at least he drove us," Erik says with a gentle laugh.
"How can you laugh?"
"I am quite accustomed to this sort of behavior." Nodding his head toward the house in front of them, he says, "I am more anxious about what awaits us within."
They stop to take in the two-story, stone structure in front of them. Six-paned windows – the green wood shutters open - look down at them from a gentle rise. A copse of trees borders the wild land grasses beyond the cultured garden surrounding the house.
"It is like something out of a fairy tale," Christine murmurs.
"I hope not one of those written by the Brothers Grimm," Erik says.
"Wicked witches, you mean?"
"This house is quite similar to the home of my youth." A note of sarcasm in his voice. "I only saw the outside once – when I left."
Grabbing his arm, she lifts herself up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "Well, it is not the same house and I am here with you."
"Quite so," he says, patting her hand. "Shall we?"
"Yes," she says as they proceed up the semi-circular gravel driveway leading to a carved oak door…and Erik's uncle.
Erik and Christine sit in the first of two pews to the left of the altar in the small chapel. There are four pews total, two on each side, leading from the altar to the doorway to the foyer of the main house.
Erik clears his throat, his own pale brown eyes take in the quiet room. Light comes through two floor to ceiling stained glass windows – one centered by a bouquet of calla lilies, the other a display of poinsettias casting red, green and yellow shadows on the oak floor. The scent of sandalwood is redolent, but not oppressive.
So, this is what churches are. Of course, he is aware the Madeleine is considerably larger…most real churches would be. However, the sense of this room is what he imagines most churches are like. Throughout his life he has avoided houses of the Lord as they are often called. Despite his mother's devotion, attending Mass every Sunday, she never brought him with her and so he was left to feel he did not belong. Nor did he wish to later in life when he understood how hypocritical her behavior was.
The irony of having a priest as a relative whose first instinct was to invite him into a chapel was not lost on him.
"Come in. Come in," Pere Charles said in a mellifluous voice. "Just leave your bags here and follow me. We can attend to them later."
Erik's first thought was the man might be a singer, so musical were the first few words he spoke.
"He sounds like you," Christine whispered as they followed the priest through the entry into what they discovered was a chapel.
"I do realize you have had a long journey and I promise to make it up to you. However, I thought we might offer a prayer before any sort of discussion. I find including God in difficult situations helps soften harsh feelings…and I suspect you have many, my son."
Glancing around, he does not find an organ…even a small one. As a home chapel, he suspects there are a number of elements missing that might be found in a church, In fact, with the exception of the windows…and the outlandish cross, his music room is quite similar. An unconscious smile crosses his lips at the number of candles – again seeming excessive for this small room.
The idea gives him a sense of calm, easing the nagging anticipation present in the back of his mind since deciding to contact this stranger and claim him as family. Claiming the house itself – neither large nor small modeled in the Tudor style – is one he might have designed had he followed that path – is another matter entirely. Pere Charles obviously lives here…but that is a discussion for later…after this inclusion of God is completed.
As for the man – he can easily be the same person in the daguerrotype he carries in the pocket of his jacket, albeit aged forty or more years. However, the likeness in the picture wears a pale jacket not the black cassock of the man in front of them. A tall man, past his prime, his face although carrying the creases of age, is calm – the pale brown eyes are soft, pure white hair is tousled as if rebellious to the command of a comb give him a boyish air.
Christine insisted he not wear black on their visit. The two of them are in gray, the only touches of color being a multi-colored floral cluster in the band of her black bonnet and his own pale blue pocket square and cravat.
Seeing his uncle…strange to consider this man of the cloth as a relation…he can see why she was so adamant about the color of his suit. Even so, were priests the only men allowed to wear black? That color suits him and his nature as well – some of the newer plaids and other patterns he observes when out seem quite ridiculous.
Pere Charles wears what is essentially an ankle-length coat – he assumes this is his normal garb, much like the robes worn by the Buddhist monks he met in India…a uniform of sorts. His own charcoal gray is quite dark and, more importantly, Christine is happy with his choice – something more important than his sense of fashion at the moment.
Once inside the chapel, he led them in the Lord's Prayer…or rather led Christine who followed along in what he assumed was Swedish. His own recollection of the prayer from childhood rang through his mind, if not from his mouth.
Weariness from the long train then carriage ride radiates through his bones. Despite his desire to deal with the business issues, a bit of rest would be most welcome. It is with some surprise; he believes he can rest in this place. Perhaps the "inclusion of God" is working.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spriritu Sancti, Amen." After completing the sign of the cross Pere Charles Saint-Rein genuflects in front of a small altar dominated by a crucifix seeming more suited to a cathedral than a small chapel. Pressing a long-fingered hand on the prie-dieu, to help him stand, his knees give slightly as he stretches to full height.
Christine follows suit, crossing herself, murmuring, "I Faderns och Sonens och den helige Andes namn." Erik assumes her words are in Swedish. For himself, he keeps his hands in his lap and his lips still.
"There, I think now we might have some tea," Pere Charles says. "I am so anxious to speak with both of you…but you, especially, Emile…or I expect you prefer Erik. Your letter took us quite by surprise, we believed you died shortly after birth."
Who constitutes the "we," Erik wonders. Expecting to find out soon, he takes Christine by the arm, both of them getting to their feet. "Erik is fine. This is my fiancé, Christine Daae," he says. "I can honestly say, I join in your surprise. Thank you for welcoming us."