12The Gift Exchange
Erik was wrong.
It was a rare occurrence, in Christine's experience, but even geniuses don't know everything about everything, and he certainly didn't seem to know much about anything when it came to love.
He had insisted that the distraction of a suitor would interfere with her studies — it had not. She hadn't missed a single one of their covert lessons, but had continued to put in the endless hours of practice he demanded, with irreproachable focus and without complaint.
He had been adamant that a man of nobility could not be trusted to do right by her, yet here they were, six months on, an engagement ring on Christine's finger and a gift in Raoul's hands, carefully wrapped in bright red paper trimmed in gold.
After all those summers at the seaside, this was their first Christmas together, the first of what Raoul promised would be a lifetime of many. Christine chewed at her thumbnail — a nasty habit, Erik would say whenever he caught her — as her fiancé ripped open the paper, a smile twitching on her lips.
"Oh, Christine!" Raoul exclaimed as he pulled a little ribbon-wrapped bundle from the box. The spicy-clean scent of peppermint filled the air. "Polkagris? Wherever did you find this?" He pulled a candy stick from the bundle, the glossy swirls of red and white glistening in the dressing room's soft lamplight. "I haven't had polkagris since we were children! I can't believe you remembered how much I used to love them." A smile beaming on his face, he tucked the candy back into the box and pulled her into an embrace. "Christine, you truly are the most thoughtful person I've ever known."
"It's just a little thing," she replied, her cheeks glowing a warm rosy pink. "I remembered how you used to beg Papa for them, and I happened upon a candy shop run by a Swedish family."
"Well, I'm afraid mine will seem rather uninspired compared to yours," Raoul said, speaking up over the sound of rustling paper as he dug into the bag next to him, "but I do hope you'll like it anyway. I've hardly been able to stand having to wait all week — I had to hide it away in a closet so I wouldn't be tempted to give it to you early!" He placed a box on her lap and rubbed his hands together, nearly bouncing in his seat.
The package was large and flat and covered in thick, heavy paper printed all over with shining silver arabesques, topped with an elaborately tied white satin bow. "It's so beautifully wrapped, I almost don't want to open it," Christine said, trailing her fingers over the soft, shimmery ribbon before tugging it loose. Gingerly, she slid a nail around the edge to loosen the paper.
"You needn't be so careful with it, I have plenty more of the stuff back at home. It's all yours, if you like it so much," Raoul laughed, his eyes lit up with anticipation.
"Good," she smiled teasingly back at him. "Then I'll expect you to wrap up everything you ever give me just like this from now on." The paper fell away and she lifted the lid.
Layers of impossibly thin tissue paper covered the contents, and she peeled them back, one by one.
On top was a fine linen handkerchief trimmed in lace, embellished with intricate embroidery. "It's lovely Raoul!" Christine breathed, lifting it from the package and letting her fingers glide along the underside of the smooth fabric, all the while wondering vaguely if she'd ever stop feeling uncomfortable with such fine things.
Raoul's casual displays of wealth, though never snobbish, were evidence of the privilege he'd been raised with, so different from her early life of scraping by, of simple meals of bread and cheese and rough muslin against her skin. And even now, she was acutely aware of the gulf that lay between them. It was impossible not to, when she was occasionally mistaken for a shop girl while they strolled Le Bon Marché together, an experience he found much more amusing than she did. Even once they married and she went from Christine Daaé to Vicomtess de Chagny, she doubted she'd ever truly fit in amongst the fine ladies who'd been raised with finishing school and balls, who sat and enjoyed operas from velvet-lined boxes rather than performed them, sweating under the hot lights for a modest salary. And though Raoul was insistent that he loved her just as she was, that certainly didn't seem to stop him from trying to outfit her like somebody else.
Unfolding the handkerchief which likely cost more than her entire dress, Christine spread it open to admire its details. "I've never seen such gorgeous lace!" she gushed. "And are these our—"
"Yes, our initials!" Raoul finished triumphantly.
Christine's brow furrowed. "Actually…" She brought the handkerchief up to her eyes and squinted at the letters. Her heartbeat began to quicken. "It says R, and..." She blinked, but the letter stubbornly stayed the same. "And...V."
"What? Let me see!" Raoul's hand shot out and yanked the handkerchief from her slack fingers. Turning it over and over, he examined every inch of it, shaking his head. "There must have been some mistake! Perhaps the girl at the shop heard me wrong — I suppose the letters do sound the same." He looked up at her, eyes anxious and searching. "I'm so sorry, my love, I can't believe I didn't notice! I can have it remade right away."
"Oh no, it's fine," she said, her lips forming the words automatically. A formless sense of unease was slithering its way into the back of her mind, but, with a firm shove, she pushed the feeling away; there was no reason to let a simple mistake ruin their first Christmas. "Really," she insisted, arranging her lips into a smile that was only a little forced.
Beneath the next layer of paper, enclosed in its own small, shallow box, was a pile of silk, white as snow and with that same incomparable look, as though it were delicate enough to melt under her fingertips. This new luxury unfurled as she raised it up between them, the folds falling, forming the shape of...a pair of ladies' drawers?
The breath escaped from her lungs in a sharp gasp. Heat flamed at the edge of her ears as she dragged her eyes up to where her fiancé sat, stock still.
A red flush was creeping up from under his collar.
His voice wavered. "That— that's not a shawl?"
"No, Raoul," she replied evenly, despite the queasy fluttering in her stomach. "It is not."
"Are those…?" He dropped his gaze to the floor.
"Yes, they are."
"I—" Raoul squirmed in his seat. The flush was working its way up his neck, spreading across his face, leaving beads of sweat in its wake. "It was meant to be a shawl. I would have never—" His words fell away and he looked up at her with pleading eyes.
"I know you wouldn't have," said Christine quickly. She jammed the drawers back into their box and shoved it all to the side, eager to leave the subject behind.
And it was true, she could not think of a less likely thing for him to give her. Their relationship had been quite chaste, almost to the point of frustration, with nothing more than sweet, sinless kisses, always broken off far too soon. He'd never given any indication that he so much as even thought about what lay under her skirts, let alone considered the subject enough to buy her such intimate garments. The mistake would almost be funny in its outlandishness, if it weren't so mortifying — and such an unpleasant reminder of her most secret insecurity: the fear that though he undoubtedly seemed to love her, perhaps he did not desire her. That perhaps he held her up against those lovely ladies of high society he'd been pushed for years to accept, with their bosoms spilling from their silk dresses and their ample hips swaying beneath their skirts, and found nothing inspiring about her waiflike frame.
But no, he was just being a gentleman, wasn't he? He wasn't like the other men of the aristocracy, who took mistresses and visited brothels — no, no, he would never. Raoul, that sweet, brave boy from the salt-kissed seaside was now a respectful and honorable man, and he loved her for herself, not her body. There was nothing wrong with that.
But of course this was the last thing she wanted to be thinking about right now; Christine shook her head to fling away the thought and refocused the entirety of her attention back on the box in her lap.
"Oh, look! There's still something left," she said, infusing her tone with much more enthusiasm than she felt, and she lifted a red velvet pouch from where it lay, heavy, at the bottom of the box.
Raoul sprang forward. "Actually, why don't you just give that back to me," he said, his voice tight and trembling, reaching to take it from her hands. "This has turned out horribly so far, and I—"
"Darling, please." Christine pulled the object out of his reach. "Certainly one of the three will be as you intended. Your luck can't be that bad," she laughed, though in the pit of her stomach sat a sour, sick feeling.
Grasping the pouch in one hand, she reached in with the other and slowly began to pull out a thick pillar of ivory, sculpted and polished, heavy as a candlestick — but not shaped like any candlestick she'd ever seen. It was too irregularly formed, the contours somehow too carnal, and her cheeks were already inexplicably burning before she'd even finished withdrawing it from its velvet enclosure.
It couldn't be…
She'd heard that such things existed, but she never—
Too late she realized she should stop — not that she was sure she could have — but her hand kept moving, pulling the thing free from its covering to stand tall and proud in her clenched fist, absurdly large and luridly detailed — each vein, each curve of ivory flesh on display as she held it high, an obscene trophy.
Not a sound could be heard in the room. Not even a breath — not from her, and not from Raoul, who was looking at her, slack-jawed, with complete and utter horror written in every line of his face.
A minute passed, and then time unfroze.
Gasping as though she'd surfaced from deep underwater, Christine's fingers flew open, loosing their grip on the vile thing; it hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Then she was on her feet, groping blindly for her cloak and gloves.
Raoul didn't move from his seat; pale and trembling, he sat staring at the now empty gift box. "I don't understand..."
Christine rounded on him, hot tears pricking at her eyes. "You don't understand?" That formless unease had now taken a sinister, serpentine form, snaking itself around her heart, which spasmed within its crushing coils. "What was all that, Raoul?"
"I don't know! It doesn't make any sense. I wrapped it myself — that wasn't in there!"
He stumbled to his feet, reaching for her hands; she pulled them away, pressing her clenched fists against her turning stomach. "What's the explanation, then? Are you implying that the contents of the box were just magically replaced without you knowing?"
"No of course not! I mean, I don't think so…"
One desperate, near-hysterical sob wrenched itself from Christine's throat, and she fell silent. The painful throbbing of her heart had ceased. That place within her chest was cooling, hardening until it was as cool and hard as the piece of ivory which lay on the carpet, that disgusting thing which forced her to admit the truth to herself, a truth she'd been trying to deny since the moment she saw those embroidered initials.
How could she have been so stupid? This never could have worked out. He was highborn, she was practically a peasant. Perhaps he did love her, but likely it was a love born of nostalgia and pity, the love of a brother for his sister — and even if he had been willing to marry her, that kind of love isn't the only kind men need. And perhaps...perhaps he really wasn't different from other men, after all.
Christine gathered her cloak and gloves into a bundle and shoved it under her arm. "Goodbye, Raoul," she said with finality, and steeling herself, she turned her back on the man she thought she loved.
"Christine!" Raoul gripped her arm in a wide-eyed panic. "You can't believe that I would ever give you such a thing!"
Shaking off his hand, she held her head high. "No, Raoul, I don't believe you would." She could not look at him, not if she wanted to hold onto the last scraps of her tattered pride. "Do you know what I believe?" Despite her best efforts, tears were beginning to leak from her eyes, making the words thick and strained. "I believe that gift was intended for another woman."
"What?" he cried, nearly choking on the word. "No!"
"The wrong initials," she sobbed, no longer able to hold back the tide; bitter tears flowed freely down her cheeks. "I may be naive, but I'm not stupid, Raoul! Who is she? How long has this been going on?" Christine tugged the gold and diamond band off her finger. "Is she wearing one of these, too?" she demanded, brandishing the ring in his face.
"Christine…" Tears welled in Raoul's beautiful blue eyes, but she would not be swayed by the obvious ploy meant to prey on her sympathy.
She flung the little piece of gold at him, and it bounced off his chest and fell to the floor with a pathetic clink.
"I should have listened to Erik!" she cried, and slammed the door behind her.
...
Erik was right.
But then again, he usually was.
It was never going to work out between Christine and the boy; affairs between the nobility and the bourgeois rarely do, she had to know that. Really, it would be a mercy for it to end sooner rather than later. It was inevitable. And hadn't he tried to warn her?
Still, he pretended surprise when she showed up at his door, red-eyed and sniffling, her ring finger blessedly bare.
Wordlessly, he brought her inside, wrapped her in a blanket and sat her down by the fire, brought her hot tea and let her pour out her heart — along with a steady stream of tears. Eventually, she slept, and Erik carried her to her room, tucking her into the bed he'd readied for her. He brushed the curls away from her face, now so hot and raw from crying, but no less beautiful.
He hated to see her in such pain, but someday she would understand, and she would have to agree that it was for the best. Erik always knew what was best for her.
Just like he knew that idiot boy would never notice a few feet of missing wrapping paper.
You're never wrong if you make it so you're always right, right?
Written for TimeBird84's PotO Advent Calendar 2020 on Tumblr.
Thank you to Aldebaran for coming up with the perfect title! Happy Holidays! xoxo Flora