Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  “Oh, Christine, I was so glad to get your note, and I’m so glad to see you. I was worried about you. Where have you been?”

  Raising her hand and running it across his boyish cheek, she replied, “I’m glad to see you also, Raoul.”

  He placed his hand over hers and then turned his head and kissed her fingers, whereupon he felt the ring. “You still wear this? Why, Christine?” he demanded.

  “Raoul, please don’t speak of this, not now. I only want to spend time with you. I need to spend time with you.”

  He sighed and ran his fingers and eyes over the back of her hand. “How can you expect me to simply ignore this visible token of love?”

  “Because this is not what it seems. I wear this as a favor to the one who gave me my courage and my voice. I owe him so much, so this is the least I can do to repay him.”

  “Is that all, Christine? Are you sure you don’t love this man?”

  She was quiet as her eyes fell to their entwined fingers; then she looked at the mirror. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  They got up and left, with me following them. Thankfully, she took him to the huge prop room, which was packed with large and small items. If she planned to speak to him in private, that room, other than her dressing room, was the best location for me to listen in. It was crowded with lots of places I could hide while being close enough to them to listen in on their conversation.

  “Christine, why are we here in this place?”

  “Because this is a private and safe place for us to talk.”

  “Safe?” he questioned while looking around. “Are you afraid of him?”

  “For me, no. But . . .” She stopped and also looked around before finishing her thought. “I don’t want to hurt him, and it would hurt him if he saw me with you. So this is a good place to talk.”

  “Why do you care if he’s hurt? Do you love him?”

  “I care deeply for him, Raoul, and maybe I love him, but it’s different than the way I feel about you.”

  “I knew it!” he exclaimed, while putting his hands behind his neck and turning in a circle. “I knew you loved him. What happened while you were with him, Christine? Did he . . .”

  “Raoul, please don’t do this again. He never touched me in that way. He was a perfect gentleman.” She took one of his hands that was still behind his neck and held it in hers. “We can love many people and all in different ways. You loved your father and now your brother and your aunts—right?” After a moment, he nodded. “Well just because you have love for an aunt doesn’t mean you don’t love your brother. I love many people, but what I feel for you is special in one way, and how I feel about Erik is also special in another way. You don’t need to be jealous. It’s not a becoming quality.”

  “But can you answer this one question, Christine? The love you feel for this other man, is it a romantic love?”

  “I don’t know how to explain what I feel for him, Raoul. He’s a very complicated man and my feelings for him are just as complicated. But, please, I don’t want to talk about Erik. I want to talk about us. In less than a month you’ll leave again on expedition, and I want to enjoy the time we have left. So can we not think about anything serious and just have fun?”

  Raoul nodded, and they were quiet as they walked hand in hand through the props for Juive.

  After a bit, Raoul asked, “Christine, will you still be a free woman when I get back, that is, if I get back? This expedition isn’t going to be easy, and I may never return. I could die out there.”

  There was quiet again, so I moved and looked between two pillars and saw Christine with her head down. Then she spoke so softly that I could barely hear her.

  “I could also die.”

  I don’t believe Raoul heard her, because he lifted her head with his fingers under her chin and asked, “Christine, will you wait for me? Will you not marry this Erik before I return? If you wait for me, then we could be married.”

  She shook her head, turned from him, and started walking again. “Raoul, you know we could never marry. You’re brother would never permit it.”

  Then, as if a bright light of inspirational thoughts flooded through her, she quickly turned back toward him and clapped her hands in front of her chest.

  “Oh! Raoul! I know what! We could have a pretend engagement, a secret pretend engagement and no one would have to know but us. People have secret marriages, so why can’t we have a secret engagement? It would be fun to pretend—don’t you think? We could be engaged for a month until you leave. This would make us happy without hurting anyone else. It’s perfect!”

  Raoul stood there, shaking his head and smiling at her. Then he went down on one knee and spread his arms out from his sides.

  “Very well then, my lady. Will you marry me, Christine Daaé?”

  She laughed, handed him her hand, and responded; “Why, yes, my good Monsieur.”

  He jumped to his feet and grabbed her, and then they began twirling in circles and dancing around the props. Their hearts were happy, but mine was beginning to bleed. I was only into the sixth hour of the first day and my heart was bleeding. I questioned if I could withstand two weeks of that kind of torture.

  For an entire week they did just as they said they were going to do, they pretended they were engaged. Whether they were somewhere in the opera house or at a restaurant, they pretended. They talked about wedding plans, who they’d invite, what they’d have to eat, where they’d go on their honeymoon, and where they’d live after the wedding. They even talked about how many children they would have.

  Raoul was at every performance and sent large bouquets of flowers to her room every day, and every day he would take her in his arms and kiss her, and every day she would kiss him back, and every day my heart broke, and every day I cried, and every day I questioned my sanity and my strength to see through to the finish what I’d originally thought was a necessary scheme. The only good thing that happened every day was that Christine would return to Madame Valerius’ and sleep in her own bed.

  The first day of the second week brought with it an unexpected bit of news, not just for me but more so for Christine. As usual, Raoul showed up after rehearsals with a basket of biscuits and wine. They spread out a blanket on her dressing room floor and pretended they were in a park with birds singing and white clouds passing overhead. Christine was laughing at something she herself had said when Raoul reached for her hand.

  “Christine, I have something important to tell you.”

  “And what would that be, my sweetheart?” she asked with a large smile and a giggle. “Are you going to add a cruise to our honeymoon, or are you going to buy me that fur coat I saw as a wedding gift?”

  “No, something better.”

  She grabbed his other hand. “What, pray tell, could possibly be better than an adventurous cruise?”

  “Seriously, Christine, I’ve decided not to go to the North Pole on expedition.”

  She instantly dropped his hands and lost her smile. Then, just like a turtle retreats into the safety of its shell when threatened, she retreated into herself. Her face lost all color, and I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing. She stared at Raoul, whose expression was also changing. He looked confused.

  “Why this strange reaction, Christine? I thought you’d be happy to hear this good news.”

  She got to her feet, looked around, and landed her sight on the mirror and me. She was breathing hard by then, and her fingers were at her waist and twisting the ribbon of her bodice. I recognized that gesture all too well, and the terrified expression on her face.

  I had to clench my teeth to keep my compassionate reaction to her silent cry for help from escaping my lips. The fright in her eyes was truly great, and I believe she was finally realizing the truthfulness of my words about playing such a dangerous game. She looked up toward the latch for the mirror, and I believe she was considering escaping through it right then and there.

  I was holding my breath by then, not sure just how to play
out the scene, in which I was only supposed to be a spectator and not a participant. Raoul rescued me when he stood behind her, taking her shaking shoulders in his hands.

  “What’s wrong, Christine?”

  She was holding one arm at her waist and her other hand was at her throat when she answered breathlessly, “I don’t feel well. Perhaps I had too much wine. I think I need to go home.”

  Raoul took her by the arm and gently sat her in her chair. Then he gathered everything up, put it in the basket, and took her by the arm again, leading her out of her room, as if she was an elderly convalescing patient. From there he took her home, went inside for a few minutes, and then left.

  I was down and across the street from the lady’s home when I told the driver I wanted him to wait until I gave him new instructions. We were there for over two hours when a carriage pulled up in front of the house, and Christine came out and got in. She’d changed her clothes and looked in a hurry.

  They headed back toward the opera house, and once she got there she was nearly running as she entered and started through the passageways. She was moving so fast that I almost lost her a few times. Once I knew she was heading for her room, I took a shortcut and headed for the mirror. I was barely behind it when she came rushing in. Within a second, I knew what she was doing. She placed her chair by the mirror, and I quickly turned and ran down the passage, knowing she would soon be in the passage with me.

  Naturally, my longer legs and arms gave me the advantage, so I was in my music room, had a moment to catch my breath, spread out my score of Don Juan on top of my organ, and was playing it before I heard the door move on its pivots. I stopped playing and turned to watch as she entered, completely out of breath.

  “Christine,” I said, with wide-eyed innocence. “What are you doing here? It hasn’t been two weeks already, has it?”

  I rose to face her as the door closed behind her. Her fingers began twisting the lace on her skirt and she whimpered, “Erik, I . . .”

  I frowned at her. “What is it, Christine?”

  She walked slowly toward me, stopped right in front of me, looked up into my face, and then the tears began filling her eyes.

  I placed my hands on her trembling shoulders and spoke words that were only partly an act. “My dear, what’s wrong?”

  She lowered her forehead against my chest and sobbed. “Erik, please hold me.”

  I needed no further invitation. My arms went around her, I closed my eyes, my face went into her hair, and my entire body melted against hers.

  “Oh, my Christine,” I whispered. “What happened?”

  She shook her head slowly and said softly, “Just hold me.”

  We stood there holding each other, and I felt so bad for her and the stress I’d put her under. She’d always been so soft, but right then I could feel bones that I’d never felt before. She’d lost weight, so her health was being compromised, and I questioned if I should put a stop to the entire affair. Was what I was doing that important?

  Before I could answer that question, she said, “I’m sorry, Erik. I know I wasn’t supposed to come back for another week, but I had to. I was so frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  She looked at me intently but only shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I only want to stay for a while. Please let me stay.”

  Although her request in no way fit into my plans, I couldn’t refuse her, so she stayed the rest of the day and night. She had me deliver a note to the managers giving her apologies for missing the performance along with assurance that she would return the next night. We talked only a little and then she asked me to read to her, which I did until she fell asleep. The next morning I had tea and toast ready for her when she woke.

  When she sat down across from me at the table, she again apologized. “I’m sorry for ruining your plans, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Plans can always be altered, my sweet. They weren’t written in stone. It’s obvious you’re in serious distress, and I can imagine it’s about the decision that’s facing you. Am I right?”

  She lowered her eyes and nodded.

  “Christine, I’ve discovered that you can’t please everyone. You have to pick your battles. You’re a wonderful and caring woman, and, as I’ve watched you these last months, I can see you’re always trying to make everyone around you happy, perhaps to your own detriment.

  “While that’s an admirable quality for anyone to have, it comes with a cost, and, from the looks of you, that cost could be your health. I suspect you’re trying to please too many people at once. You need to step back and ask yourself what it is you want and not what those around you want.

  “While others may be pleased with your efforts to make them happy, you can’t keep it up forever. Something will break, and I fear that something will be you. If you aren’t happy, my dear, then those who love you won’t be happy either, so all your efforts will be for naught.”

  She looked at me soberly for a moment and then asked, “But what if any decision I make will hurt someone I love, Erik? How can I think about what I want when what I want will hurt someone I love?”

  I knew she was talking about either Raoul or me, and I had to remove myself from the equation before I could answer her with truth.

  “Will the decision make you happy, Christine?”

  “It would if it didn’t hurt someone I loved,” she replied with a slight shake of her head.

  I sighed. “Does that person you love also love you?”

  She looked me directly in the eyes for a moment before she answered, “Yes.”

  “Then tell that person the truth, and that person, because of his love for you, will understand. Nothing lasts forever, Christine. Time moves on, and, with its movement, it soothes our pain. Nothing lasts forever. Whatever decision you make won’t stop the sun from rising, and it won’t stop life from moving on. Don’t take so much on your delicate shoulders. You can’t please everyone.”

  Her eyes filled with tears again, and she placed her hands over her face and began to sob.

  “Oh, Christine. My poor, Christine,” I whispered. “Pease don’t cry.”

  I reached across the table and took both of her hands and held them between mine. Then I told her what I would tell myself.

  “Pour yourself into your music right now. Take your disquieting thoughts and set them aside for a few days, and place your heart between the notes on a score. Perhaps things will look differently once you’ve given your heart time to rest.”

  We talked softly for a while longer, and then our conversation moved on to the current production and questions she had about parts of it and how she could improve them. I gave her all the direction and encouragement I could, without actually making the decisions for her.

  When she was in better spirits, I reminded her, “The eighth of July will be here soon, and I’ll be in the audience to see how you handle that segment. Will you still sing for me that night?”

  She blinked slowly and responded as before, “I sing for you every night, Erik. No one else—only you.”

  I squeezed her hand briefly before she left for rehearsals, and I continued with my observation of her encounters with Raoul. I believe my suggestion about pouring everything out in music must have helped, because she did wonderfully during both the rehearsals and the performance that night. I was watching from my box, and I couldn’t have been more proud of her, especially considering I knew the emotional trauma she was going through as she sang. The audience went crazy with their applause. She was truly superb.

  The main downside to the evening was that Raoul was also present and just across from me, and after the performance he ran to her dressing room. I was also there behind the mirror as he came in and took her in his arms, congratulating her on her wonderful voice, and then kissing her. She didn’t turn away from his kiss, but the air around them was different, and Raoul knew it. His voice wasn’t totally sincere when he said she’d sung the best ever.

  She
smiled softly, turned toward the mirror, with one hand at her throat, and replied almost under her breath, “Yes, I felt it.”

  I watched Raoul closely as he watched her. He scowled at the mirror and at her. I could tell he understood her tone and her expression. He knew she was silently talking to me, and it then became obvious to him how deep her feelings were for me. He was jealous, and that pleased me.

  His next words were slicing as he took her left hand in his. “You still wear his ring—this common band from a commoner.”

  “Not much longer, Raoul, and it’ll be finished,” she replied softly and yet with conviction.

  “What do you mean, finished, Christine? What will be finished?”

  She took her hand from his while shaking her head. “You must go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He argued a bit more about not wanting to leave, but she held her ground and he left. The expression they both had when he left told me that the make-believe was over, and he knew it. There was a different and unexplainable air around her when she sat at her dressing table, taking off her jewelry and gazing right at me. I was curious. Had she finally made her decision?

  “Erik, are you here?” she asked softly.

  Even though I was curious, I didn’t answer. She had to believe I was never watching her or she might not be true to herself, or Raoul, or me.

  She got up and headed for her curtain, then stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Erik?”

  When I didn’t answer, she continued on. Once she was dressed, I followed her back to Madame Valerius’ home.

  For the next three days, everything went much the same as it had before Raoul announced that he wouldn’t be leaving, with the exception that the make-believe was gone. Christine was real, and, while she still continued to drag him all over my opera house with constant chatter, she wasn’t playing. She showed him everything in my domain, with the exception of the cellars.

  On many occasions she’d stop talking and gaze at something, becoming very still. She acted as if she was listening for something, and I knew that something was me. Raoul would ask her what was wrong; then she would start up again and they’d be off in another direction.