The Heart is Slow to Learn

Chapter Five

          Christine de Chagney sat at her mirror, brushing her long thick hair.  Her nightmares had returned with a new ferocity and not all of Raoul�s assurances, or the laudanum that she occasionally took could elevate them.  In addition, as of late, there was more to the dreams than her experiences at the hands of her Angel of Music.

          Shaking her head, Christine looked at her reflection.  The young, na�ve woman of months ago was gone, and now a new sense of poise glowed in her eyes.  She wondered how she could have ever been so na�ve as to believe that a single man had been an angel.

          She shuddered as her thoughts turned to the man that had so influenced her voice.  Now, whenever she sang, she could hear his demanding voice in her mind, still calling out instructions.  �Andante, Christine!  Molto Tranquillo� And somehow whenever she was around India�s friend, the nightmares became worse.  There was something about the man; the way he looked at her that unnerved her. 

          Once when out of curiosity, she had tried to sing a simple rift, there had been the sudden slam of a hand on the piano.  It had been Erik, looking at her with his eyes ablaze.  �Softly Christine, do not sing over the notes . . .�   It was as if for a moment, she could see a white mask partially covering his handsome face, heard the same impatient tone that she had once feared.  Staring at him, her hands had begun to shake, as they hadn�t in months.  

        Christine thought again of her restless dreams.  She thought of the memories that jabbed at her consciousness.  Now there was the scrap of paper that she had found on her dresser.  Just a scrap of black cloth and a torn piece of paper with the words �Remember� on it.  In her head, a slow ache became a savage drumming.  Suddenly, Christine felt stifled, choked.

Terrified.

       She turned white faced, desperate to escape.

* * * *

      The fog seemed to come from nowhere, drifting in little pools that hung in hollows near the pond.  Christine ran blindly, uncaring where she stepped, as the white layers grew thicker.

        All the while, the word �Remember� danced before her eyes.

        Remember?

        The pond was below her now, a shining pool of green that ran along sloping banks of moss, streaked now with fog.

        Fog.

       Darkness.

       Water . . .

        She shook her head, shoving her hair from her face, trying to separate the dream from the reality.  Mud clung to her shoes and branches scraped at her arms and face as she plunged blindly forward into the fog.

        �Christine!  Stop damn it!�

        It was Raoul�s voice, but to Christine it was somehow unfamiliar, like the voice of a stranger.  Wildly, she pushed through the thick bank of flowers, her pulse ragged in her ear.

        �Christine, wait!�

        Her breath caught.  Memories again � a lifetime of memories.  Too many to hold inside of her throbbing head.  Then dancing before her eyes was the image of a woman that seemed filled with light and laugher.  With flaming red hair that coiled around her face and eyes the shade of jade.  Cosette.

        In her eyes, Cosette dipped and swirled on pink ballet shoes, whirling around and around in a continuous pirouette.  Then she remembered, Cosette was a doll.  A very special doll that her father had given her as a child, but never allowed her to play with.  She had sat in a place of honor next to Christine�s bed, and every night her father would wind the mechanism that made the doll whirl.  �Remember my darling.  This is a very special doll . . . and one that holds your future in it.  Guard it well.�

       Suddenly, the image vanished as hard fingers grabbed her shoulders.  �Don�t run from me, darling.�  She was shoved around, caught in Raoul�s chest.

        �Christine?�  Callused fingers traced the tears on Christine�s cheeks.  She shuddered, her mind on fire, her thoughts a tangled blur, past and present no longer separate.

        �Sweet God, love, what happened to you?�

        �Let me go!�

        �No.�  Raoul�s hand dug into her waist.  �Not until you tell me what�s wrong.  You�re here, Christine, you no longer are fleeing from a madman,� Raoul growled.

        She caught a wild breath, shoving at fragments of memory, fighting to hold apart the two worlds still superimposed in her head. 

        �Fight it, Christine!  I need you. I need you here with me.�

        Sweet words.  Dangerous words.

        She choked back a sob, hammering at his chest.

        �Stop it Christine!  Stop fighting and listen to me.�

        But she didn�t.  She only fought him, twisting and furious, the empty place in her head, suddenly too full, too heavy with memories each more shattering than the last.

        Around them, the fog drifted higher.

        Christine wrenched free of his hands and stood facing him, her skirts playing about her, her hair a wild cloud.

        She pressed her forehead, fighting the rush of images.  �Do you want to gloat?  Do you want to laugh at the little girl whose father told her such fantastical stories?  The little girl that still is as crazy as she ever was.�  Her shoulders slumped against an aging overhanging oak.  �You were gone when my father finally died.  You didn�t know that I was the one who found him, did you?  The little silver pistol that he always carried still in his hand.�

        Christine faced Raoul, her eyes blazing.  �They said that I went crazy.  I was taken to the good Sisters and they nursed me.  Then one day, Madame Giry came looking for my father.  She heard the news of his death and found me.  She was the one who brought me to Paris. �

        Raoul�s jaw clenched at the idea of the pain Christine had suffered.  Quietly, he listened, inching closer until his body was next to hers.  Gently, he took her in his arms, holding her tightly.  �I�m sorry, my love.  I wish that I could undo all the pain that you have suffered.  I remember your father�s gentleness and kindness to a young boy more interested in his daughter than learning to play a violin.�

        Gently Raoul turned Christine�s face to his, �perhaps we should return to the village?  Perhaps if we went back for a while . . .�

        Christine shook her head sadly, remembering how her home had looked the last time she had been there.  It had stood bare and skeletal, the furniture all sold, along with everything else to meet the bills that had come to light after her father�s death.

        Christine sighed as a wave of weariness swept over her.  If only her father had not died when he did.  If only he had left her a hint about the inheritance, he spoke of.

        If only.  If only . . .

        She barely felt Raoul lift her into his strong arms and carry her back to the mansion.  �Really Raoul, I can walk on my own . . .�

        But sleep overtook her before she could finish.  And as she slipped away, Christine felt his lips brush across her forehead.

* * * *

            It had been a long, restless night for Raoul with too many unanswered questions.  He had examined the scrap of paper that Christine had told him of.  Remember.  What in the deuce did that mean, he wondered silently.

       There were numerous gaps in Christine�s memory after her father�s death.  Shock, he assumed.  Goodness knows finding her father dead at his own hand would have shook her to the core.  But who had sent the cryptic note, and why?

       He was also dealing with the rather awkward situation of his sister�s romance with Erik.  Raoul had known, of course, when they had became lovers, but seeing the happy glow on his sister�s face, had forced him to keep his objections silent.  And slowly, the two men had built a quiet and peaceful truce that Raoul was willing to keep as long as Erik never allowed Christine to know his real identity.

       �So what has you scowling so early in the morning?�

       Raoul turned to see Erik in the door, leaning casually against the doorframe.  Shrugging, he handed Erik the note, surprised to see the concern instantly cross his old enemies face.  �I know that handwriting.  I�ve seen it before.�

       The two men crossed to the veranda and stood in its open doors.  Quietly, Erik assessed Raoul.  �How much do you remember of Christine�s father?�

       Raoul looked at the man who had once saved her life.  �I remember that he was a dreamer whose skills never could quite earn him a decent wage.  Then, I heard that he had acquired a benefactor that paid him well enough to for he and Christine to live comfortably.  Why do you ask?�

       Erik scowled at the morning sky, his hands flexing in agitation.  �When Madame Giry first brought Christine to Paris, she was a thin, frightened girl.  Afraid of her own shadow, really.  There was a man who always seemed to be at the rehearsals . . . but no one knew who he was.  When he continued to show an interest in Christine, I made it my business to find out who he was.�

       �And?�  Raoul, desperate for any information that might lend a clue to Christine�s past, quickly killed a small flair of jealousy.  �Did you discover who he was?�

       �I did.�  Erik swept back his dark hair, feeling tension grip him.  He had tried hard to forget the loneliness of those dark days behind him.  �It would seem that the mysterious benefactor dealt in smuggling information in and out of France.  I wasn�t much interested in those days as to what kind of information, only that Christine�s father was unwittingly involved.  Somehow, musical manuscripts that he composed for �foreign students� hid very important information.  Obviously the man was in way over his head and I assumed that when the implications became obvious, he tried to remove himself.�

* * * *

      Erik paused to reach inside of his jacket to pull a silver case that held long, thin black cheroots.  He smiled a bit as he struck a match against the balustrade.  �Your sister absolutely detests the smell and refuses to allow me to smoke in the house.�

             Inhaling, Erik continued, �I often doubted over the years that Monsieur Daaes� death was indeed suicide.  He was said to be very devoted to Christine, and Catholic to boot.  I wondered how he would endanger his beloved daughter, and his immortal soul to commit an act of suicide.�

        Erik saw the look of surprise on Raoul�s face.  �Did you think I was born a heathen, young man?�  Chuckling, Erik flicked an ash carelessly to the ground.  �Yes, I can see why you would.  The truth is that as a child, I was taught every day by the village priest and attended Mass in my home each Sunday.  I believe at one time my Mother prayed that I would find a calling to the priesthood where my face would be hidden behind monastic robes.�

        Sighing, Erik crushed the cheroot under his boot.  �But life turns out quite differently than what any of us plan, yes?�

        Not waiting for an answer, Erik turned to face Raoul.  �I have respected your wishes and will continue to do so, but I beg you to reconsider telling Christine of my identity.  It may become a matter of safety for both Christine and India for her to know the truth.  In the meantime, a few men in Paris and in London owe me a favor.  I will see what I can find out.�

        As Erik turned to leave, Raoul caught him by the sleeve.  �I will . . . reconsider my stand on your identity . . . perhaps it will become necessary.  As for the men that you say, owe you a favor. . . I suspect you saved their lives also.�

         Gently, Erik patted Raoul�s hand, �As you say, Raoul, as you say.�