Reality Issues
Six: Raoul and What Followed
Dear Meg,
I could probably go on for pages about how much I miss you, but I
have very little time to write. So, please, know that I miss you very much and,
even though I don’t write often, I think about you every day.
Now I don’t know if you will understand this, but I will explain
everything later. But just tell me this—and please hurry in your response—do
you know anything of the Phantom? It is very important that I know—my sanity
depends on it!
All will be explained when I have more time to write. Please
address your response to Madam Marguerite Lenfent. She will give it to me.
With all my love and gratitude,
Christine
quickly slipped to letter into an envelope and addressed it, her hand moving as
fast as nature would permit. She handed it to her friend and, just as their
husbands entered the parlor, Marguerite pressed it between two books on the
side table.
"Hello,
my dear," Frederick’s voice floated lightly on the air as he quickly walked
over to receive Marguerite’s awaiting embrace. Christine saw him whisper
something into his wife’s ear as she smiled, closing her eyes. Christine’s own
husband came over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek.
"Hello,
darling, how are you feeling?"
"A
little tired, dear, but I’ll be fine."
"Who’s
ready for a game of cards?" Frederick asked, pulling himself away from
Marguerite.
"It
seems we will be leaving now," Raoul said harshly. "Christine’s tired."
The
eyes of the three other people in the room expanded greatly and Christine
cried, "Raoul!"
He
turned to her with an aesthetic smile. "Pardon me, Christine, did you not
say that you were tired?"
"Frederick,
can I talk to you?" Marguerite asked with a wary eye in the de Chagnys’
direction. "In the other room, please." The two quickly left the
room, leaving Christine and Raoul in molten anger.
"I
can’t believe you…" Christine started.
"What,
Christine, what?" Blood rushed through his veins to his temples, causing
them to stick out in a very unattractive manner.
"How
could you stand there and start an argument in front of our friends like
that?"
"It
wasn’t me who started it! You are the one who wants to leave!"
"I
never—"
"You’re
always tired! What is happening, Christine? Something is wrong and
you’re not telling me! Trust me! Tell me! What is your secret?" Christine
looked into her husband’s eyes and saw the anguish that lay beneath them. How
had he known something was wrong? she thought to herself and then, for the
first time, she contemplated actually telling Raoul about the dream. But if he
knew she was continually escaping into a world where Erik was her husband… Why,
it would cause him more pain than he ever needed! If she told him anything
about the dream she would have to tell him everything—and imagine how he would
react if he knew Erik was the reason she wanted to sleep more than usual. No,
she would say nothing of the dream. Not now, or ever.
"There
is no secret, Raoul," she said softly, placing her hand on his cheek.
"I am just a little sick and I sleep frequently so that I might get better
faster." Her husband’s face softened a little.
"But
what about the whispers between you and Marguerite? I saw her hide something as
we came in."
"Oh
that!" Christine cried in false enthusiasm. "She got Frederick a
present, that’s all. She was showing me when you two came in
unexpectedly."
"Oh,"
Raoul said, color rising to his cheeks. "You must forgive me for being so
rude and untrusting. I am sorry that I embarrassed you and myself."
"Think
nothing of it, dear," she replied. She was happy that she had fooled him,
but once again she felt deceitful and traitorous. This was her husband she was
lying to after all! "Let’s just go home."
"Yes,
I know, you’re tired," he repeated. With that he quickly led her out of
the room, his hand placed protectively around her waist. They said their
good-byes (Marguerite promised to send the letter to Paris that evening) and
began the short ride home.
When
they arrived, Christine (as she so often did these days) went directly to sleep
after giving Raoul a small kiss. And when she opened her eyes a minute later,
she found herself looking at a different ceiling than the one she closed her
eyes under. She looked around, expecting to see Erik; so far he had always been
near when she began the dream. But this time he wasn’t, or at least nowhere in
sight.
She
stepped out of bed hesitantly, still turning her head from side to side in
anticipation of Erik’s entrance. Still he failed to appear. So Christine walked
over to the wardrobe, pulled out a robe that she assumed must be hers, and put
it on over her nightgown. She had no idea what time it was or if it was proper
to be fully dressed by now, but Christine had no time to ponder these things;
she wanted to find Erik. His absence worried her; she did not know why, but a
knot was continuously growing in her stomach with each minute that she didn’t
see him. She felt immensely vulnerable because she didn’t know where he was,
like something horrific would happen if she didn’t find him soon.
She
opened the bedroom door and stretched her neck beyond the frame.
"Erik," she called. "Are you there?" No answer. Christine
stepped cautiously into the living room and looked around. She softened her
footsteps and slowly made her way to the door of the parlor, which she softly
pushed open. Again she called for Erik and again there was no reply. She could
feel the tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she stopped them before
they fell. Erik was not here but he would be back. All that she could do was
get dressed and wait.
******************
The
sun had shone brightly as Christine awoke into a beautiful Parisian morning.
Flowers stretched their necks toward the sun, who showed his gratification for
their worship by beaming harder and making their petals sparkle with color.
Laughter bounced off walls on every street as children flooded their nannies
with their spring cloaks and played freely in the sun-drenched streets. Lovers
embraced openly, rejoicing in the rays. But of course Christine could not have
known this, for she was five stories below the pavement where these lovers
walked, opening her eyes in the windowless room. It was Erik who had seen this
morning’s sights as he was bringing fresh bread back to the house. He described
all these details and more (there were just the prominent images she could
remember) after he arrived home and found Christine nervously waiting for him
in the parlor.
Her
anxiety departed with his return and she found herself feeling incredibly happy
that the dream had once again taken her to the bedroom in Erik’s house and far
away from her won house, where no doubt Raoul still sat, upset. Christine had
decided before she went to sleep that, should the dream come again, she would
enjoy it full-heartedly. After all, she did not know when this dream would end,
and she meant to experience it as best she could. She decided to forget about
Raoul while she was asleep, and do whatever she wanted to, whatever that means.
Above all, she refused to think about their argument. It made her furious to
remember how he embarrassed both of them by starting the argument in front of
their friends—and in their home, no less! And it made her even more upset to
know that, for all the excuses she had made up, he still knew something was
wrong! Was she not—or had she not been—an actress? But she resolved not to
think about him any more; she had to remember not to let her angry thoughts be
thought, confusing as that may sound. Just as she thought this, however, Erik
ironically said:
"I
found out about this Raoul you were asking about."
Christine
nearly choked on her breakfast. "Oh?"
"Yes.
He was a Vicomte, right? And his brother was Comte Philippe de Chagny?"
She nodded her head in awe. No! she thought. He can’t come into the
dream now! "Then I have the right boy. He took violin lessons with
your father when he was young and I was told that you and he were very good
friends."
"Yes,
we spent a lot of time together when we were children. But how do you know all
this?"
"His
brother is a patron of the Opera. It was very easy information to get. Do you
want to know what happened to your friend?"
"What
happened?"
Erik
laid his hand on hers so lightly that Christine would not have known it was
there had she not seen the movement. "When he was eighteen, he accompanied
an uncle on an expedition to the North Pole… Have you ever heard of the
D’Artois expedition?" Christine shook her head and Erik sighed. "The
ship has never been heard from since. I’m very sorry, Christine."
"He
died?" Christine stared unbelievably at Erik. "Six years ago?"
He nodded. "So… I wasn’t even in Paris, was I?"
"Yes,
you were; you had just entered the conservatory. What I don’t understand is…
Christine, you were at the funeral."
"I…
I was?" she stuttered. "I don’t…"
"Remember?
Christine what is it? A week ago you were fine, you were singing again and
then… Then what? It was like you…you didn’t… you were the same but
different."
Christine
looked at him, at his longing to understand her and his pain at not being able
to. She knew, as surely as she had known that she should not tell Raoul of the
dream, that she could not tell Erik. So, since it had already become second
nature to her, she once again lied to her husband.
"It’s
true, I have been having trouble remembering things. But not…everything."
"What
do you remember?"
"Well,
you," Christine stumbled, "and the Angel of Music and…" She
stopped. That was where Raoul began to be an important part in their…story.
Without him, events must have been different—of course they were; she was
married to Erik after all, wasn’t she? "And that’s all," she concluded.
Erik’s
shoulders slumped over and she could feel more than see his face falling. For
the first time in a long while, she thought that he looked old.
"You
don’t remember anything else? Not even why you’re…ill?" Christine shook
her head. He paused to think. "Well, let’s clean up breakfast and I’ll
tell you everything after."
Chapter Seven, The Real
Story, Part One