And here we go with the end of this section! The story thus far can be regarded as "Volume 1," but don't worry, there is lots more, and much of it already written! The germ of this story was a short piece that I started in 2008, and it was 2013 when I began seriously working on turning it into a longer work. "Lessons" has been with me for a long, long time by now. What's been posted so far is perhaps a third of the complete story, if that. I'll be continuing to post as time and family commitments allow, but there might be a bit of a break, as I'm about to have a baby any day now. Although with the last one, writing helped keep me sane afterward, so I guess we'll see. Thank you to all who have been reading and sticking with this story.

Here, then, is Chapter 41. In which the author had to do a bunch of research on the state of paleoanthropology in 1887...

Chapter 41. July 1887.

He could not, however, control the physical evidence of his thoughts. Christine pressed herself deliberately back against him, showing that two could play at the game he'd started by slipping his hand under her dress. He drew it back out again, hoping she would leave off, but she did not. Instead, she said archly, "I see you were telling the truth earlier. You are indeed fully rested."

"I would not advise you to tease your husband, my dear. Remember, he can return the favour tenfold." He lowered his mouth to her neck, and nibbled gently at the nape of it. She shivered, and said, "You are far too good at that. Perhaps you ride double with ladies often?"

"Certainly not. In fact, today is precisely the second time I have done so."

"Indeed? And did you…have the same reaction last time?" she asked, pretending innocence.

"I decline to say. It would be most improper."

"Oh, so you did," she said, with great satisfaction. "I suppose I should congratulate you on your having remained a gentleman that time. No doubt it was difficult for you?"

"Let us just say that it was a good thing that that first ride with you did not last any longer than it did, or my ever-precarious sanity would have been done for."

She reached back and put her hand on his thigh. A frisson of sensation ran straight up from where she was touching him, and he clenched his jaw. "Well then, no wonder you are much more reasonable now. You no longer have to have such…fortitude."

"I suppose you could say that fortitude of a different sort is now called for," he responded, his mouth once again inches away from the tempting curve of her neck, so that goosebumps rose on her skin when his breath blew across it. "The sort required of any middle-aged man who takes on a…demanding young bride."

"You manage well enough," she said, sounding a bit breathy herself, and he wondered just how long it would take her to finish looking at the menhirs, so that they could head back.

He took Cesar through the trees and down along the dried-up creek bed that was the only way to get to the structures, overgrown with brush as they were. Christine asked, "How did you find this path?"

"Oh, years ago, when I first started coming to this forest. I looked about for possible hiding places, should the need arise, and found these," said Erik offhandedly. "Given how difficult it is to get to them, they seemed a good spot for Cesar and me to conceal ourselves, if we ever needed to. There are other people in the forest, and though I could easily avoid the more popular trails, there was always the chance that some enterprising explorer might come too close for comfort."

"I thought you came here for relaxation, not to exercise your paranoia," said Christine.

"One never knows," answered Erik. He kept his arm protectively around his wife, and at length it occurred to him that he was also cradling their unborn child. He felt a strange quivering feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, but did not have time to dwell on it, as he was also needing to manage the horse and watch out for branches.

At length they came to the tiny clearing where the menhirs stood in a rough half-circle around a tree. It was not easy to work one's way through the brush to get to it, but once arrived, there was enough room for the horse, and for its rider to move around a small amount. Erik got down and lifted Christine off.

"Can I buy a new dress to replace this one?" she said ruefully, holding out the remains of her overskirt. "Even though it's my fault I wore it?"

"Of course," said Erik absently, busy tying up Cesar. The horse reached out to nibble some leaves, which Erik ignored. Christine was stepping slowly from one structure to the next, looking at them interestedly. There were three which were each composed of three parts, two large stones standing upright and a long flat one laid across them, like a table but far too high off the ground to be used for that purpose except by giants; and a fourth which was simply a monolith, a large rectangular stone set up vertically, its jagged end pointing toward the patch of blue sky which was showing through the tree tops. The ancient rock was deeply pitted and grooved, and moss grew over it in patches.

"How old are these?" breathed Christine, fascinated.

"Perhaps ten thousand years," said Erik, shrugging. "Perhaps more. Science is not sure."

"Ten thousand years! Why, I can't even imagine it."

"Most people can not."

"What do you call that time?" she asked, turning her gaze to him.

"Ah, you have touched on a topic which scientists are utterly incapable of agreeing upon. Some time ago they settled on a workable system of dividing prehistory into three ages, based on the materials used to make tools: the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, and the Iron Age."

"Oh, yes, I think I've heard of those," said Christine.

"These did well enough for a time," continued Erik, "Until men thought it necessary to begin arguing about how many subdivisions each age should have, and what they should each be called. They first divided the Stone Age, the time when these structures come from, into the Palaeolithic and the Neolithic eras; but that ignored the fact that there was a period of transition between the two."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Some twenty years ago French archaeologists realised that there was a gap between those two stages, and concluded that that time needed a name as well; the term "Mesolithic" has therefore begun to be used on the Continent. But the English do not agree and a number of their scientists have attempted to repudiate the use of the word. Fools; they seem to think that prehistoric man was bringing down game with stones one year and farming with bronze ploughs the next." He thought to glance at Cesar, and saw that the horse was standing placidly behind them with one hind foot knuckled under, waiting for his riders to finish what they were doing. Reassured, Erik went on, "There was a big archaeological conference back in '71 in Brussels, as a matter of fact; the International Prehistoric Conference, it was called. There was considerable argument over this very question, and it has yet to be decided. Some are now using other systems of names altogether, just to complicate the matter, such as Palaeozoic, Mesozoic and Cainozoic."

"Really?" said Christine, frowning. "It all seems so confusing."

"It all seems quite stupid to me," said Erik. "Why can they not agree on a set of words to be used for the time being, and then get to the business of investigating the evidence and increasing everyone's knowledge, so that in time the answer to the correct classifications reveals itself?"

"You always know what's best to be done," said Christine, sighing. "If only the world could be made aware of it. You would be feted above all other men."

He looked at her, taken aback and more than a little flattered, but she was studying the stones again. "What were these put up for?"

"No one knows for certain," he replied, enjoying explaining things to her. "A good many theories have been proposed, some sensible, some not. A couple of years ago, a man named A. L. Lewis, a devotee of stone monoliths and circles, began publishing papers exploring the possibility of an astronomical function of some kind."

"Oh? How so?"

"Monsieur Lewis feels that there may be important alignments between the stones and the topography surrounding them. Others have noted certain astronomical correlations which may be of significance, and posited that perhaps there were festivals held at times such as Beltane."

"As what?"

"Beltane; the ancient Celts' version of May Day. It seems to have been a fertility festival."

She turned her head, caught his gaze and held it. He hadn't actually meant any innuendo, but the unspoken communication that only exists between lovers passed between them, and he felt a slow warmth spreading through his body that had nothing to do with the late afternoon sun.

"Fertility," Christine repeated, her bell-like voice music in his sensitive ears with each syllable.

"Yes," he answered, and heard the answering rumble of his own voice, the burgeoning desire making it low and smooth even in that one word.

She kept on looking at him, and then said, "And tell me…have your extensive studies revealed how one conducts that type of…celebration?"

"I should think that would be obvious."

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "Our child was conceived around that time."

Erik hadn't thought of it in that way, and wondered whether she was right. He supposed the ancients had conducted those particular rites outside under the full moon, though, not deep underground. Thinking momentarily of what Christine's naked form might look like in the moonlight, he began to hope that she would enjoy such an experience.

He felt like a man, a normal man, thinking of getting his woman with child in the same fashion which people had been doing for millennia. The sun rose and set, the world turned, and human beings lived out their lives through the generations in much the same way, century after century. And now, after his long exile, he was finally included in that great cycle. He had a wife, and a child coming, his own flesh and blood magically combined with hers to carry on their essences to the next generation. For the very first time, he felt a tiny bit of anticipation as to what his son or daughter would be like, and the beginnings of excitement over how much of his talents it might inherit. And there stood Christine, right in front of him with her lovely eyes turned adoringly up to him, and her sweet body harbouring his child. She had not married the Vicomte; she was not carrying his offspring. Erik had won, and he was the one who would enjoy all the fruits of marriage to this marvellous woman. He took the single step forward which was required to embrace her.

She stretched her own arms up around his neck, and drew his head down to hers. Her mouth was soft and enticing, and the womanly scent of her even more so. He wound the fingers of one hand into her hair and the other arm firmly round her waist, bent her over it, and kissed her thoroughly. He felt powerful and masculine, and thinking of the man whom she could have married had made him want to have her as soon as possible, proving to himself again that she was his. After some minutes, they came up for air, and Erik announced, "Unless you want me to claim my marital rights up against these stones, I suggest we return to our previous location."

"My, my," she answered, smirking. "How impatient we are. Anyone would think you were being deprived."

"I am; it has been at least six hours." He ran his hand down below her waist, squeezed ardently, and then turned tender again and caressed her hair, and breathed "I love you," in her ear. "Let's go back, and let me prove it to you."

She sighed, her eyes drifting shut dreamily, and he regretfully stepped away from her and turned to Cesar, who was still standing patiently, flicking his ears and swishing flies away with his long white tail.

When they returned to the little pool, he took the horse's bridle off again and staked him out for the third time that day. Cesar philosophically began to eat grass again, and Erik spread the quilt invitingly out on the ground once more.

Christine ran her hand over her skirt. "This dress is utterly ruined."

"Take it off, then."

She looked at him, and held his gaze. "Should I?"

"Yes. In fact, I am quite certain of it."

She smiled, slow and full of promise. "You're sure that no one will pass by?"

"No one ever has, and I have been here dozens of times."

She began undressing. Well, that had been easier than he'd expected. He reclined on the quilt and observed, till she asked, "How deep is that pool?"

"More than my height by the waterfall. Less so elsewhere. Why?"

"I want to go for a swim." She turned her back to him, bent over and reached for her discarded skirt, causing his breath to nearly stop, and then drew her hair pins out of its pocket and put up her hair in a messy knot. She walked away from him and down toward the water, her hips swaying tantalizingly. It would be difficult for him to wait still longer to fill his hands with them, but he could, if she wanted a dip first; hopefully she wouldn't take very long.

Erik lay back on the quilt, and watched his wife. She was a good swimmer, it seemed, and did not appear to need any assistance. So he could just lie there and look at her, standing up now in a spot where she was only in to her waist and moving her arms through the water, her lovely breasts gleaming white and their nipples hardened from the chill of the pool, and the graceful line of her neck exposed by her pinned-up hair, a few curls of it falling part-way down. He felt his desire for her coursing through him, and became more impatient for her to come back. With considerable presence of mind, he stood up and removed his own clothes.

When she did finally get out of the water, she pushed as much of it off with her hands as she could, and then walked back up the slope. She stopped halfway to him, and pointedly looked down. "Goodness. And where did all that come from?"

"Watching you," he answered, and held out a hand. "Come here to me, Christine."

She came, and leaned over him, her hair coming down as she unpinned it again, and the remaining water droplets gleaming on her skin as he lifted up a corner of the quilt to rub them off. She kissed him, her mouth warm and sweet, and there was absolutely nothing else in the world he wanted just then. What more did he need when Christine was with him like this, her soft breasts right there for him to take in his mouth, and her round womanly thighs for him to run his hands over, and her musical sighs in his ear? They embraced and caressed each other, their desire unhurried and tender now, instead of rushed and rough as it had been before. Christine pressed gentle kisses over the scars on his chest, and then ran her mouth down lower. He groaned as he felt her lips on his all-too-sensitive flesh, and when he could not bear it any longer he wrapped a hand round her arm and drew her to straddle his hips. She leaned forward, and took him inside her.

Intimacy between them simply…worked. When they were engaging in it, everything went right – at least once they got past the disaster of their wedding night and the fight which had resolved it, and the next few awkward efforts when their mutual inexperience had made the business more of an ordeal than anything else. But after that…there were no misunderstandings, no hurt, no blame when they joined. No fear, no repulsion, no recrimination. Just a man and a woman who wanted each other in this most primal of ways. His ugliness and his cold flesh, his violent past, and even their miserable excuse for a courtship seemed not to matter a bit, incredibly, for Christine now desired his touch as much as he desired hers. He had no notion why this should be, but it was, and he could not do anything but believe in it.

Initially, his passion for her had been entirely and torturouslyone-sided; he had known that she suffered none of the frustrated arousal which he laboured under during her lessons, which made his temper short and the muscles of his thighs ache dreadfully with unreleased tension. He'd thought he'd managed, with age and isolation, to move beyond such base urges, especially ones this all-consuming, but evidently not. There had of course been other women from time to time whom he'd found attractive; the first time he saw Christine, he told himself that this was merely an unusually strong occurrence of that. He'd retreated back down underground, taken matters ruthlessly into his own hands, and considered the subject closed.

But it hadn't been. The next time he saw her, it was just as bad, if not worse. The lush curve of her hips called to him, driving him mad, and the sweet line of her mouth begged to be kissed. His fingers itched to run through her hair, and he wondered if it were that curly all over. His whole body tingled and burned when he gazed upon her, and he thought he was finally, thoroughly losing his mind, bombarded as it was with sordid images of spreading her thighs and sinking into her. He was utterly revolted by himself, but nevertheless he had been unable to keep from following Christine, longing for just one more glimpse of her, though it tortured him. Finally, in a moment of near-complete insanity and desperate need, he'd sung to her, through the wall behind which he was shamefully hiding, too cowardly to approach her like a man. When she ran off, he thought he'd ruined everything, and bitterly cursed his folly. But the very next day, she'd come back, and guilelessly asked if he were the Angel of Music.

And he'd impulsively claimed that he was.

Leapt at the chance, however tenuous, of regular contact with her. At first he was able to tell himself that there was no possibility of anything resembling a proper courtship, let alone marriage, with her. Erik was under no illusions about the revulsion he caused in women. But the longer he went on teaching her, the less he was able to restrain himself, and soon the shameful thoughts of having her body, which he was unable to repress, had been joined and augmented by fantasies of having her as his wife. He had longed, decades ago when he was a young man, for a wife and a normality which he had told himself he could never have. And now, at the age of fifty, that yearning came rushing back and he could not stop himself from picturing her at the foot of the table in his dining room, sitting and embroidering in his parlour, walking with him in the park on Sundays – and then retiring to the bedroom when they came back home. When the Vicomte, blond and young and handsome, re-entered her life, Erik's fantasies threatened to shatter, and he'd panicked and abducted her, right under the all-too-perfect nose which his rival did not know how lucky he was to own.

And then she'd insisted on seeing his face. Curiosity, the fatal weakness of women. Lilith, Pandora, Salome. All bringing about destruction by their lust to know what they should not. His desires had seemed more hopeless than ever, immediately after she'd torn off his mask, but when she'd come to him and told him that he was the most sublime man she'd ever known, they returned, stronger than ever. The more time she spent in his house, the more he adored her, and the more realistic it became in his disordered mind to marry her. She could look at him unmasked now and not avert her eyes in disgust; she could touch his hand and not recoil. What other woman had ever possessed the strength to do so? He was convinced that she was perfect, a woman surely made just for him, beautiful, sweet, feminine, possessed of a splendid voice, and above all, willing to come back when he let her return aboveground! He simply had to have her. And so he had not scrupled to behave appallingly toward her, terrifying her, stalking her, and finally, kidnapping her a second time and laying a horrifying responsibility for the lives of everyone else in the Opera House on her. It had all seemed well worth it at the time, when any vestige of reason or decency was long since lost to him.

And then she'd shown her strength in a way he'd never have expected by that point. Sunk deeply into his madness and despair, he'd given up any hope of physical relations with her by then, thinking that the most he could hope for was to have a wife in name only. It would have been better than letting the Vicomte have her. But then, when he was at his very worst, threatening to destroy a quarter of Paris and the thousands of innocent lives within it…she'd kissed him. Him!

And his façade of tyrannical domination had collapsed into the dust like the house of cards it was. He'd let her go, seeing all at once how dreadfully, how unforgivably he'd treated her. He'd seen that…this was not love.

But she had forgiven him. And she'd come back to him, and saved him from himself, and she'd blessed him with her love and yes, with her body. The bizarre and twisted bond between them had changed, like the reforging of Siegfried's sword, and solidified into something far finer and stronger than it had been before. Now she returned his ardent desire tenfold, and he was happier than he had ever thought possible – if he could only manage to remember that fact when he was angry as well as when he was not.

He was fully aware of it now, as the hot, tight depths of her enveloped him. She writhed with delight as he reached between her thighs to stroke her to completion. Her splendid breasts jutted forward as she arched her back, and the setting sun made a burning halo around the rippling curls of her long hair. She was rimmed with fire, the light outlining her beauty so that he gasped to see it.

They were one flesh, as the priest had told them to be, and moved together in the glorious dance of love which they would only ever share with each other. He revelled in her cry of pleasure when her crisis came, and watched the flush of ecstasy suffusing her face and her body as long as he could, until it seized him too. He squeezed his eyes shut, colours flashing behind his lids, as the rapture overwhelmed him. A burst of brilliant sensation, another and another, and then the beautiful oblivion.

They lay together in the sweet aftermath of passion, as what had seemed briefly to be one heartbeat slowed and became two once again. The sun sank below the earth, and the light faded. They got up reluctantly, knowing they needed to dress before it was gone altogether. Erik had to help Christine, as she had no mirror. Then he resaddled and bridled Cesar, tied the quilt on behind the pillion seat, and got them both back on the horse. With the last of the evening light, he began to thread their way back through the trees, heading for the main path, on which he would be able to navigate easily by moonlight. It would not be safe to go at any more than a walk; but they were in no hurry. Christine needed to get sufficient rest, but she had slept for a while during the day, and he would see to it that she stayed in bed as long as she wanted to the next morning.

She was leaning her cheek against his back, and after they had been walking for a few minutes, she said softly, "Tell me a story."

"A story? Hmmm…about what?"

"Something to do with the forest."

"From which country?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Do you see that big tree over there?" he began. "Look closely, and, if you are very lucky, you may see the elf peering round it. And just over there, where that little section of flowers is; can you spot the fairies dancing on them? It is just the time of night when they begin to come out, you know. They won't want us to see them, but they are curious little creatures, and they'll be peeping round the trees and bushes to watch us. If you watch carefully, you might catch a glimpse of one who gets too bold for his own good. Once we are gone, they will come out and have their night-time revel. Oberon, the Fairy King, is on his way here right now, with his attendants all clad in leaves, and his beautiful wife Titania in her glittering robes shot with moonbeams, and their faithful servant Robin Goodfellow."

He threw his voice, so that it seemed to come from a stand of trees which Cesar was just passing, and, translating the original English into his own language, said sneeringly, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

Christine jumped, and then said accusingly, "Oh, that was you!…Wasn't it?"

"I?" he said, filling his voice with false innocence. "Of course not. It was Robin himself, waiting for us to pass by so that he can come out and play. Oberon will be expecting him."

He continued, making up the story as he went along, and Cesar plodded calmly through the trees, unperturbed by the eerie sounds and comments his master made from time to time to embellish the words. Christine listened, turning her head from side to side to look at the things Erik told her to, occasionally trying to kick him when he attempted to scare her. He stopped that after a bit, and told her a marvellous fairy story instead, all about the adventures of the Seelie Host and their counterparts, the evil Unseelie Host. And Cesar carried them safely out of the dark forest, and toward the lights of Paris, sparkling in the distance.

Christine had been quiet for some time, and Erik wondered if she were tired. When they reached the Opera, Erik swung down, lifted Christine down as well and opened the Rue Scribe door, which she started for with alacrity. "Did you enjoy the day out, Christine?"

"Yes – "

He gave in to temptation, drawing her into his arms and kissing her, but was unpleasantly startled when she abruptly shoved at him and twisted away. The reason for this became clear when she turned her back to him, dropped to her knees, and retched violently into the gutter.

When she finished, she set clenched fists on the cobblestones and let her head fall, panting for breath. Erik looped the reins over one arm, dug hastily in his breast pocket for a clean handkerchief, and held it under her nose. She took it and wiped her mouth, not looking at him.

"I'm sorry…" she mumbled, coughing and dropping the piece of cloth.

"Do not be," he said unhappily. "This is Erik's fault, not yours. He should not have made you ride so far in your condition…which is his fault too." The good mood he'd been in had completely evaporated.

"Not your fault," she said wearily. "I'm just…sometimes it's like this for pregnant women."

He kneeled then, and picked her up bodily. She struggled feebly.

"Put me down. I'm all right."

"No."

"You have to put Cesar away. I'll be fine."

Erik refused to answer, but shouldered the door the rest of the way open and took both her and the horse inside, Cesar following along without argument. And none of them had noticed the man watching from further along the street, carefully concealed in the shadow of a building.

O-O-O O-O-O