Raoul turned his attention to the rue and looked at it as she must see it, with its occasional closed carriages and caped men in tall hats driving them. Women and men walked along the brick streets too, both garbed in subdued, but fashionable, clothing for the messy winter months, holding umbrellas as they did in nearly every season—to protect them from sun, rain, or snow.
Raoul noticed the street vendors calling out to sell fromages and fruits and bread, dressed in clothing not much better than what Christine herself wore, and dodging a trio of scruffy dogs that bothered them underfoot.
When they turned along the Left Bank, the icy Seine lay unbroken in a long stretch of white. They were flanked on the other side by a rough wall that separated the street from the road, and the river. And then he saw the spidery, wrought-iron atrocity that was just beginning to take form on the riverfront ahead of them.
Christine must have heard his snort of disgust, for she turned her attention away from the sights to look at him. "You do not like this new tower that is being built?"
"Indeed not," he replied. "Monsieur Eiffel will destroy the Parisian silhouette, with this tall, gangly monstrosity. I have seen drawings of what it will look like when it is finished, and I cannot believe the mayor has allowed such an affront to take place in our beautiful city."
Christine gave him an innocent smile that eased some of his annoyance. "But it is for the celebration of the centenary of your Great Revolution. And there is no intention that they shall leave it standing after, is there?"
"I certainly hope not, but we will have to look at it for at least two more years. And you might recall that it was not my revolution," he chided gently. "My family were some of the ones who lost more than our land during the Reign of Terror. But being Swedish, perhaps you are not as well versed in our history. At any rate," he said, determined to steer the conversation away from such unpleasantness and toward something more personal, "I hope you aren't angry with me for taking you away from your admirers."
"No, of course not, Raoul. I am pleased that you would care to be seen with me in public."
"Of course I do, Christine. I told you that I intend to court you."
She looked away. "I know that's what you said, but… well, that was last evening."
"You think that I might have changed my mind overnight? When all I could think of last night was you?"
"I was not suggesting that you would have changed your mind, but that perhaps you might have had some assistance."
"You speak of my brother, the one who himself had a widely known attachment to none other than La Sorelli." Raoul laughed, but it felt hollow. He hadn't spoken to Philippe yet, and although he had every intention of courting—and, if the truth be known, marrying—Christine Daaé, he acknowledged that it would likely take some convincing of his brother.
But he would do it. Philippe never denied him anything he truly wished; for he was twelve years older, and had always thought of Raoul as more of a son than a brother, since their mother had died when Raoul was born, and their father less than a decade later.
It was true, however, that Raoul did not like to think of angering or disappointing Philippe. That was why he'd gone to sea: to make something of himself that the comte would be proud of.
Christine didn't reply, and they rode along in silence, broken only by the shouts of street vendors and the scrabbling of carriages along the cobbled street.
Raoul struggled to put his thoughts into words; he wanted to talk to her, to find out about her, to learn her… but one could not just suddenly delve into a woman's life with personal questions. Yet, he felt almost as if he had earned the right to do so, all those years ago, that summer. After all, he wasn't just a young man who'd suddenly noticed her glorious voice and lovely person… He'd known of it for years.
Perhaps he would start there. Where they'd left off. "I didn't realize your father died that winter after our summer together. It must have been terrible for you."
She nodded next to him. "It was the coldest winter I'd ever known. I felt frozen, Raoul. Numb and slow. He was all I had. Father and his music. And then suddenly, it was gone. It was worse than losing Mama, for I was so young and I barely remember her. But Papa… but you know. You lost your parents too."
"Yes, but… well, it was different for me. I had my brother, who became like a father to me, and my two sisters, who were all so much older than I. And my mother's sister, who raised me. Of course, I have her to thank for living in Brest, for that is how we came to be in Perros and how you and I met." He flashed her a quick look. She had a sad smile on her face. She must be remembering.
"I had no one. No one except the Valeriuses, and they were wonderful to keep me on, but it wasn't the same. For a long time, I didn't want to even hear the violin. Do you still play?" she asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.
"I haven't in many years, but I believe if I picked up the instrument, I would remember what your father taught me that summer, after I rescued your scarf."
"Those were lovely days by the sea, with the gulls calling in the distance behind the notes you and father were practicing."
He chuckled. "I would not have called them notes, Christine… I was only a passable player, not talented like your father. And you."
There was another silence as he considered his next move. He needed to ask; he needed to know… but he was afraid. So at last, he tightened his fingers on the reins, looked straight ahead, and said, "Christine. How… how was it for you all these years in the Opera House? What I mean to say is… Sorelli and my brother have been together, and other singers and dancers have had protectors, and… I just wish to know… Have you been treated… well?"
When she didn't respond, he gripped the reins tighter, but didn't look at her. This was so much more difficult than steering a massive ship in a storm and planning and executing voyages and training for ship-to-ship attacks. There, one could learn one's way with the lines and the sheets and the navigation, and even use the weather and myriad weapons.
But this was a woman, and she did not have a helm.
At last Christine spoke, her voice barely audible over the soft crunch of hooves on a portion of the rue that was still covered with snow. "I was lonely. I didn't fit in with the other girls, because for a long time, I didn't want to sing. I barely danced. When Papa died, I lost the music and I still don't know how Professor Valerius convinced the conservatoire to take me. Perhaps because I was the daughter of the famous violinist, they believed I would rise to the occasion."
"But you have, Christine. You did! You were magnificent last night."
"Last night. Yes, I felt it. But there were many months and years where I didn't belong and I didn't believe I would ever have the chance to be… to be the beautiful lady, who stands onstage in the limelight, and garners all of the applause and admiration. I longed for it, Raoul… but it was out of my reach."
"You have arrived there, Christine. No one will contest it now." He wanted to reach over and take her hand from beneath those furs and press it to his lips, to comfort her. How he wished he'd been there during her lonely days.
"I made friends with one of the other dancers and Franco, a young Italian man who was brilliant at organizing the props docks. Franco and I… Raoul, he made me feel not so alone. We were clumsy and furtive, but we needed each other."
Raoul swallowed. He'd hoped, but he really hadn't believed she might have still been untouched, living in an environment such as the Opera House. "Did you love him?"
When she shrugged, the furs shifted and fell away, exposing her shoulder to the brisk wind. She busied herself, trying to pull the fox and rabbit skins back up over her as she answered. "I don't know. But whatever it was, it did not last long, for he soon had his attention caught by one of the older chorus girls, and they ran off to join the theater in Marseilles."