Chapter Twenty-Four

Coda

The curtain fell to moderate applause and several loud calls of 'Bravo!' from one or two enthusiastic gentlemen. Christine resisted the urge to dab at the perspiration on her forehead as a stagehand hovered in the wings with a lush bouquet. Seconds later the curtain was raised again revealing an audience of politely satisfied patrons. Christine stepped forward with her leading man curtseyed as he bowed low with a hand over his heart. Pedro smiled brightly at her and took her hand, raising her up and presenting her to the crowd for approval. The audience responded with a few more hands raised in applause and the stagehand hurried on stage, presented Christine with the bouquet, and quickly retired.

"Will you be joining us at the cafe tonight?" Pedro asked when the curtain calls were concluded and they were battling their way through the melee of artists and stage folk back to the dressing rooms.

"Thank you but I cannot," Christine called over the squeals of laughter of a ballet girl no older than twelve it seemed.

"Oh come now, you must!"

"No, really, I promised my daughter I would be home in time to say goodnight to her."

They reached the hall where doors led off to each of the artists' dressing rooms. "Oh yes, your daughter," Pedro smiled. "Does she dream of becoming a great singer like her mother still?"

"Yes," Christine laughed. "But I wish she would take more trouble with her mathematics. Sophie has been teaching her household budgeting and she doesn't care for it I'm afraid."

Pedro chuckled good-humouredly and was just then accosted by Carlotta who demanded to know what his plans were for the evening. Christine smiled and ducked quickly into her dressing room. Her dressing maid was there, waiting to help her remove her costume and wig. Christine was glad to be rid of the long blonde braids which had made her scalp itch all evening.

"Another bouquet!" the maid gasped in mock astonishment, taking the flowers from Christine. "Not that you don't deserve it. And who is it from, I wonder?"

"I haven't a clue, Jeanne" Christine shook her head, sitting down at the dressing table and laughing.

"Not from the Opera Ghost, leastways," Jeanne said.

Christine stiffened.

"You probably don't know that story," the maid continued, removing Christine's wig and placing it on a stand.

"No, in fact I remember it well," Christine cut in. "I'm so glad people don't talk about it anymore."

"Oh, to be sure!" Jeanne agreed. "Sends shivers up my spine! So you've been here long enough to know the story? I thought you'd have been too young."

"It was only nine years ago," Christine said, and stopped.

"Really? Nine years?"

"It feels like nine years," Christine amended.

"Your daughter's age," Jeanne noted, brushing Christine's shoulder-length hair with a shell-handled brush.

"Yes, I suppose that's why I remember it."

"My, she is such a sharp thing though!" Jeanne chuckled. "The last time she was here I told her that God has an angel for children and do you know what she told me back? God watches children himself because angels have too much work to do in heaven keeping all of the good folks up there happy."

"Oh dear," Christine laughed.

"She was adamant on that point too! No angels for children, and none for the rest of us neither."

"I suppose she misunderstood something I said about her father," Christine hastened to explain. "I once told her that her father liked singing more than anything else, and considering how much time I have to be away from home because of the Opera..."

"Oh yes, she thinks the angels are busily singing for him night and day! Oh, how funny children are!"

With her hair brushed out and redressed, her makeup removed and costume put away, Christine took leave of Jeanne and hurried home. It was now quite dark but the streets were well lit. In half an hour she was approaching the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires having threaded her way along the honeycomb of intersecting streets. Every few yards she passed great carriage doors in the stately Parisienne buildings. Some were open, letting her glimpse the activity in the courtyards beyond. Little hidden worlds in themselves, right in the heart of Paris.

Not a day had passed in the first three years after that terrible parting during which Christine did not think at least once of Erik. It had been a relief when she realized that several could pass by without bringing him to mind, and that her memories were losing their poignancy. Tonight however she thought of him every step of her way home. Every step that he had traced from her house to the Opera on that last night. Why had she not followed him? Why?

Her thoughts turned to the day that had followed. Descending to the fifth cellar, finding him laid out in that hole near the dungeon, where the only light was her lantern. She wondered now how she had borne it. The smell, the mouldy smell of the cellars and the sweet, pungent smell of decay, seemed to have embedded itself in her nostrils for days afterwards. She had done her best to check his breathing, lying next to the grave and reaching down to feel his chest and parted lips. She had called to him. He was silent and still. She had stroked his icy cold cheek. His hands, resting on his chest, were stiff. There was a bundle of papers tied together with string hugged to his chest and a note pressed between his fingers which she had prised free. She had read it within her lantern's pool of reddish light.

"Christine, everything I have is yours. You will find it all in these papers. Take them. Give half of it to your child, if it lives. Do not go to the house on the lake. I forbid it. Never go to that place again.

Your little Vicomte is buried five yards from here. I have marked the spot for you. I did not kill him Christine. It was an accident. Believe me, it is the truth.

God bless you for your kindness to me. Farewell.

Your loving husband."

Christine had taken the note home with her, along with the collection of papers which she tugged free from his fast embrace. The papers were business letters of some kind, records of accounts and bank notes. She had put them aside to sort through later. Only months afterward had she noticed that Erik had not signed his final letter by name.

Filling in the grave had not been difficult. Not physically difficult at least. The first shovel of mud had been the hardest, the finality of it, the decision that he was indeed dead. She had wept bitterly with each clod and when it was done, had kept her word and sung Psalm 23 for him, her voice echoing in the catacombs. It was all she could do to finish it. After saying a silent prayer, which she had hoped God would understand and forgive, she had gone in search of Raoul's burial place. Erik had not said in which direction to find it and casting her lantern around the space, Christine had not been able to see anything like a marker anywhere. At length she realized that the shovel left for her work may have been the marker, for it had been stuck into the mud about the distance from Erik's grave that he had indicated. Just like him to have played such a cruel joke on her, she had thought. She then had searched the ground in the vicinity where the shovel had been standing until she found a place where the mud looked recently disturbed. There she had knelt down, setting the lantern down beside her.

"So, my dear friend," Christine had then sighed, gazing at the uneven ground before her. "I did not think it would ever come to this. I am so sorry for everything that happened to you." She had tilted her head to one side, lost in the calamity of all that had happened since the infamous gala night. "I am so sorry for thinking that you could ever have abandoned me. You were better than I deserved."

She turned the corner into her street and treaded the last few yards to her door. Madame Valerius had passed away quietly two years ago and left the house to her ward. It was a consolation, though Christine had at first desired to quit the house with its memories altogether. Perhaps one day she would. Nevertheless, there was Lucie, Lucie with her raven black hair and piercing eyes constantly set in a serious gaze. The house on the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires was her home since birth and she was attached to the room that used to be Christine's. Sometimes Christine wished that her daughter had belonged to Raoul so that nothing would remind her of Erik ever again. The girl had his wit and imperious temper, also his brilliance and artistic nature. Raoul's daughter would have been a golden-haired angel, Christine supposed, with an even temper and generous heart. To compare them was quite unfair, she admitted to herself. Besides, she loved Lucie for herself. She was a perceptive, loving child.

Christine arrived at the house, let herself in and climbed the stairs. Sophie met her on the landing.

"The young mistress is still awake, Madame," she said.

"Thank you Sophie. Oh, Sophie, tomorrow would you please order some more coal? I think you asked me about it this morning."

"Yes, Madame, I placed the order today and also I ordered a goose for Sunday."

"Oh yes, I had forgotten, Dr Marchant is coming to dinner."

"I thought a pie might also do nicely, Madame."

"Are you hoping to impress the doctor Sophie?" Christine smiled.

"But of course," Sophie nodded. "He is a good man."

"Thank you, Sophie," Christine concluded, choosing not to discuss Sophie's hints further. "I'm sure the doctor will appreciate it."

Sophie went downstairs and Christine knocked at her daughter's bedroom door. Only after hearing the girl's voice bidding her enter did she open the door. Lucie had once lost her temper when her mother had entered without express permission. Looking round the door, Christine saw the girl sitting up in bed, her nib pen poised over her open journal.

"Mamma!" she exclaimed. "I've been waiting for you. How long you are getting home!"

"Lucie, I've told you it isn't good to write in bed. You might get ink on the sheets."

"No, Mamma, I am careful. Besides I had so many thoughts to get down."

"Then you ought to have sat at your desk," Christine chided.

"Read this," Lucie commanded, holding out the book to her mother.

Christine shook her head ruefully and took the book. It was open at a page of verse that Lucie had scribbled. The girl had lately taken a fancy to poetry and amused herself by stringing together rhymes which were occasionally witty, and at other times rather too profound for her age.

"Do you wish me to read it aloud?" Christine asked, bringing a chair to her daughter's bedside.

"Yes, if you please," Lucie instructed. "I think it's rather good. Sophie says it is sad though."

"Oh," Christine said, bemused by her daughter's confidence. "Well, then, let me see. It has no title," she noted, sitting down.

"It's not supposed to have one."

"Oh, I see."

Christine held the book open at an angle to better catch the light. She began to read aloud.

"Did you know that I loved you
When I gave you my name?
Did you know that I loved you
When I smiled at you?

"Did you know that I loved you
When I turned you away?
Did you know that I loved you
When I avoided you?

"Did you know that I loved you
When I shared my nightmares?
Did you know that I loved you
When I needed you?

"Did you know that I loved you
When I beat you with my fists?
Did you know that I loved you
When I screamed at you?

"Did you know that I loved you
When I finally let you go?
Did you know that I loved you?
Did you know?

"I was never sure.
And now you're gone."

"There! What do you think, Mamma?" Lucie demanded as soon as Christine was finished. "Sophie thinks the beating with fists part is not fit for a lady to write. But I think ladies might beat with their fists if they want."

"It is sad," Christine hesitated. "And it's very good," she assured her daughter who was now frowning at her. "I like it."

"Good," Lucie smiled, and held out her hands for the book. "I like it too."

Christine returned the journal to her daughter and folded her hands in her lap. "Sophie is correct about the beating part of it though. A lady ought not beat people if possible. Especially not somebody she loves."

"You're crying, Mamma," Lucie sternly observed.

"Am I?" Christine put a hand to her cheek and struck away a tear. "Well, it is only because your poem is very beautiful and I'm proud of you."

This made Lucie nod sagely. "You can have it when I'm dead, Mamma" she said, very seriously. "I've made a will you know. People must have wills, Sophie says so."

"Well, I hope you won't need yours for a long time," her mother smiled in spite of herself. "Now it's time to go to sleep. Give me a kiss and say goodnight."

Lucie kissed her mother's cheek and Christine turned down the gas before closing the door. She paused by the door before walking to her own room. The hall was dark.

"I was never sure. And now you're gone."

She stood for some moments reflecting on those words, letting all of her blackest memories arise one by one in the darkness surrounding her.

"A lady ought not beat people with her fists...especially not somebody she loves."

"You have ruined my life!"

"I HATE YOU!"

"I tried SO HARD!"

"You love me too much. I am only a woman."

"You don't run from me."

"I am going to have your child."

"Did you know that I loved you? Did you know?" Christine repeated to herself softly as her reverie disolved into the present. "I was never sure. And now you're gone."