My dear friend,

You cannot be in earnest—I forbid it, I say it cannot be true!  Oh, for the atrocious, elderly admirer!  He would be welcome, by comparison to your suggestion, which... which seems so very unlikely!  You say that you wonder if it was not—my former instructor—who sent the box?  Bah, I say, it is nonsense—nothing else!  He was trapped, Mr. Wetherworth, between an inferno and a wroth horde, which is surely a situation wherein all attempts at flight must fail.  Ah, but I can hear your remarks:

“Very well, Mlle. Daae, but do you not think that one so clever as he might have foreseen just such a situation and so accounted for it in his plans?”

I suppose that he might have done so, and I accordingly concede the point.  Thus, let us say that—he lives.  In all probability, he is solitary and avoids all interaction with the world in general; in all probability, he sits in bitter brooding through the daylight hours, until there comes to him the relief of night and darkness.  This is not the man to produce the box, not the man who would—would court—a girl with lovely gifts!

Oh, your image is quite evocative of high Romance, all chivalrous words, with locks of jet and eyes of that eternally becoming grey—but dear Author, see this instead: a drooping figure, with hair of grizzled grey, eyes bloodshot... for, as you have likely noted, I do not trust to the longevity of my desperate act, those years ago.

And in what do you find evidence for this suspicion?  There is little, indeed!  Ah... but the Muses.  Euterpe—music.  Clio—history.  Melpomene—tragedy.  Terpsichore—dance.  They do indeed appear to have been chosen with intention—but I will not allow it to be!  I would sooner burn the lovely box than acknowledge that HE is its creator, would sooner lose my powers of speech than tell Estelle, “HE made it—it was fashioned by the hand of my erstwhile master, my captor—”  No!  It is too unsettling to think that I have held in my hand what was held in his; furthermore, when I consider the implications of the gift, assuming this maker... I want no favor of his, nothing which might unfurl the very vaguest cloud of his influence over me, for it is a power stronger than steel, as sly as a cat, a terrible thing!

Perhaps it is only a mark of gratitude—for what?

— Your mystified

Christine

Dear Mr. Wetherworth,

I have most a most neglectful surrogate granddaughter to you... but there is another rôle in which I have not been at all neglectful.  It has been... four weeks, I believe, since last I wrote to you?  It is a shocking absence for me, yet how could I help it, in such a strange, strange time?

You know the secret which I discovered several months ago, for we have discussed it, in brief intervals... but allow me to tell you the story in greater depth, that you may better appreciate it.

One afternoon last autumn, I went to call on Madame Giry and Meg, as was my habit when I had an extra hour or two, when Marie and Estelle were preoccupied.  They were not in, but the doors were open and so, knowing my place in the household to be a very familiar one, I entered to await their return in the parlor.  Imagine the scene: a comfortable, if slightly worn parlor, belonging to a lady with some resources, but not enough to give her luxury.  In this room I sat, dividing my time between a book and the front window, with an occasional, conscious smoothing of my white muslin skirts—the white muslin is of great aesthetic importance, not merely for the sake of vanity—there I sat for nearly a quarter of an hour, at which juncture I, hearing someone at the doorknob, looked in that direction.  Presently, the door opened and admitted a figure—and with a shriek of alarm I leapt to my feet, clutching one hand to my bosom, while I thrust out the other to ward off the approach of the intruder, who, evidently no less astonished than I, exclaimed, “Chr—Mademoiselle!”

Statuesque, I stood where I had risen, unable even to guess at what was to follow.  He was no less still until, perhaps a full minute later, he stepped toward me—my knees then grew weak as I recalled what formerly had occurred.  To him, however, their sad condition was unknown, or perhaps he thought it of little importance... compared to his purpose, I imagine it was.  For this was his purpose: he came toward me, holding his shoulders straight yet approaching with a hesitating, uncertain gait; paused about five feet from me; and, looking steadily into my eyes, spoke, saying,

“I have done you heinous wrong, Mademoiselle Daae; I know mine to have been conduct most odious and reprehensible; yet—will you forgive me?”

I hardly knew what to reply; I believe I was most greatly inclined to swoon, but as that was inadvisable, I had power enough only to ask that inane question, “Who are you?”  An awkward reply, but one must pardon my discomposure!

There was a challenging tone in his voice as he replied, “I am Erik Lange.”

“M. Lange,” said I, quietly, “I forgive you.”

Instantly he came nearer, sinking to his knees before me as though I were a Medieval monarch, he a vassal.  In M. Melliot, the gesture would have been one of highest and most laughable melodrama but in M. Lange, it was a fitting response to forgiveness.  He knelt at my feet, took both of my trembling hands into his own, bowed his head over them for several moments, and rose, releasing me, his silent tribute paid.  Then, he turned and went to the door, pausing once there, glancing back to me to say, “Mademoiselle—I thank you for your sacrifice, these years past.”  Though they were simple words, which could so easily have sounded flippant, they were more effective than the most flowery speech of thanks which any orator could deliver.

“One moment!” I called as he opened the door.  “One moment, if—if you please!”  Whence came my audacity, I know not, but somehow I managed to utter, “Tell me—does Madame Giry treat you well, and does Meg?”

As he turned once more toward me, his features were plainly shown in the mist of light from a lamp, and I cringed, and wondered whether the expression which I saw conveyed disgust, because I sounded as though addressing a servant; or curiosity, because I showed an interest in his circumstances.

“She is a beneficent woman.”

She was beneficent, she was generous.  More information, he would not give.  Now, I know the reason for his reticence, but I could then only conjecture that he must believe his meaning to be clear.

Without another word, he left, leaving me in a state of some confusion.  Evidently, the change wrought by my desperation was not merely of short duration, but had been cultivated to produce this new attitude.  It was strange, I thought; what reason was there for the change?  And what peculiar behavior—the plea for forgiveness, the wordless thanks—and he had dared to clasp my hands in that old-fashioned manner, yet had not concluded by kissing them in the old style, signifying some degree of understanding and respect for which I am grateful, for had his lips touched my skin, I should have felt that I must there cut my flesh away, or burn it off, or else carry that brand for the remainder of my earthly existence.  And so I was intrigued, rather than revolted.

I was moved, too, to continue the acquaintance which, a week before, I would almost have given my life to avoid.  The aspect of my character whose task it to nurture longed to show mercy, to give life greater variation, to offer conversation—to one who was once my oppressor, who once tormented me unmercifully!  My excuse lies in the extraordinary difference between the mad tormenter and the rational personage whom I had seen that day, or perhaps there is no justification, but only the fickleness of a naïve girl.

You know which path I chose to pursue: I humored the nurturer, forcing myself to ask after M. Lange, which surprised Mme. Giry greatly, although she was willing once I had explained the situation to tell me more, confiding,

“He said that I am beneficent?  Ah... by which he means that I am materially kind, and kind in principle, for I give him room and board in my house, but my kindness is lacking with regard to companionship, where I more often keep my distance.  I am reluctant to encourage further acquaintance; I have no logical reason.”

It seemed to me that she had all the logical reason in the world—for what could be more logical than to give companionship to one who has known nothing of it?  But I nodded, as if in agreement with her, though resolving to myself that I should take to calling at her house for the purpose giving companionship to her protégé.  And we shall see if I can’t persuade him, by degrees, to make the acquaintance of Estelle, and Marie, and yes, Jean, too, for it would surely be desirable for him to have male company, as well.  To be ever surrounded by petticoats would be a burden on any [sensible] man’s constitution.

Wish me all the luck in the world!

—Your crusading

“Milady”

Oh, Mr. Wetherworth!  You will pardon the unconventional opening, I hope, for I simply cannot pen anything else—too wonderful!  Oh, this dear, dear, DEAR life!

As you know, my acquaintance with him continued thus for nearly a twelvemonth, during which time I learned the character and the mind of the man Erik Lange: a man who, were he able to enter the world, would have been known as the presiding genius of the nineteenth century.  Then, entering the twelfth month... I realised that I had begun to give worth to Erik's offhand comments anent my personal attributes, remembering them from time to time, wondering—whether he was merely polite, or whether he intended anything particular by them.  To be certain, he never slipped and called me “dear,” or took up my hand—not once—and I was rather disappointed.... and felt at times slightly ridiculous, as any sensible female would.  And as he spoke, I watched the changing of his countenance, a countenance upon which I could now look without uneasiness, and in so doing discovered that Nature had shown mercy even to him... for his eyes were revealed to be well-set and expressive—and, Mr. Wetherworth... yes, grey; while his mouth, though cruelly discolored, is singularly well-formed, so that his speech is unimpaired.  And the end of it is that I find I have somehow come to love one whom I had once despised.

Two weeks after this realisation—but I shall tell you in time.

We sat in the small garden behind Madame Giry's house, which was not at all uncommon, and asked of him a question:

“Erik,” for I now called him Erik, by his request, “Erik, there is a passage which I cannot perform to please the manager in the theatre wherein I work; would you—assist me in learning to do it the way he likes?”

“No.  I will not, nor even can I, for—Mademoiselle, I have considered this for some weeks, and have at length judged it to be wise that you and I not keep company, lest ought be revealed which—displeases.”

Hope's flames flickered higher as I wondered whether he alluded to an attachment which he believed to be unreciprocated.  If only he knew—yet I would not tell, for fear that my guess might be incorrect.  Instead, I said, “You wish us no longer to keep company, you say; have I offended you in some way?”

“No.  You have not.”

“Then, my company bores you?”

He directed his gaze toward me, an intent gaze which one might even have termed a stare, but averted it after a moment.

“Mademoiselle, you company does not bore me, and I would enjoy it daily if I were given the privilege, as you can perhaps imagine—but—for your own sake, for the sake of your comfort and peace of mind, I implore that you depart, never to seek me out again, while I shall endeavor to do likewise with regard to you.”

It was a queer speech, its beginning a reassurance and its finish a cutting edge honed sharper than any knife; and indeed it seemed that a very literal knife had just then approached me, threatened the happiness of my existence, made as if to sunder me from the position, from the person with whom I least wanted to part ways.

Thus—“I refuse,” said I, maintaining a calm demeanor.

“Mademoiselle, I give you final warning: I have applied a hand of steel to my voice, but even steel can withstand only such a degree of force, and I find that the passing months have given greater strength to that which is contained.  Now, I pray you: leave me!”

I made neither reply, nor movement toward the gate.

“Mademoiselle Daae, need I give command—leave!”

“On the contrary, Erik” quietly, “I wish you would tell me what it is that you must say.”

Again, his eyes were upon me, reluctantly meeting my own.  “You will hear....  If you were to read the contents of my heart, you would find it heavy upon one subject—for I love you, Christine, as I never did—then.”  Erik spoke solemnly, in the manner of one giving a student to understand a fact, rather than in that of a glad lover making his confession, which however did not in the least detract from his words.  Nay, it detracted not a bit, thought I, holding out one hand to him.

To judge by his expression of surprise, he had never fathomed that I might respond in any way but by fleeing in horror.  In fact, I believe that several seconds were required before he had convinced himself that he was not dreaming.  Once satisfied of his awake state, however, he rose, grasped my extended hand, and pulled me gently to my feet, retaining the hand once I was up, holding gingerly to the tips of my fingers while studying my expression.  Evenly, I returned his gaze.

“Christine—why do you remain here?  Why do not you fly from this place as quickly as you can trust yourself to run?”

“You told me that... I am dear to you; am I not myself permitted to feel thus, for you?”

“Are you—! Then—Christine!”

Then, he drew me forward into a frail embrace, as light as if I had been moulded from eggshell—the embrace of a man who, having lived forty-five years without, had never learned the art.  In time, however, under the influence of my own hearty example, the clasp grew stronger; of a sudden, I felt a spark of fright, as I realised my position in the arms of the man whose attentions I had been desperate to escape.  It was perfectly natural, I believe, as natural as it was transient; for within an instant I had returned to my senses, and again realised that this embrace was not laced with threads of vengeful passion's flame, these hands which clung to my shoulders had not that old quality of frenzied possessiveness.  My fear abated, and I—call me a silly and tergiversatory girl, if you must—I returned the embrace, wondering as I did at what thoughts might occupy Erik's mind, what emotions?

Can you imagine, my friend, what it would be to live without kindness for years; to be given some beneficent charity; to be granted companionship by a certain Person, yet while containing your ardour as the petals of a rose are contained within its droplet bud; and at last, to know that rose to flower—to feel the warmth of human embrace, to see before you a glad face, to know yourself wanted, respected, and even loved!  Do you know, I would almost wish myself in his place for several moments, to know what such is like?

But—to continue.  (If I put you to the blush, I beg that you shall quit your reading and give this missive over to Mrs. Wetherworth, to whom it may be of more interest and less embarrassment.)

Words are, as I have heard, customary accompaniments to the first embrace (and second, third, &c.) of a pair of lovers—la, what a queer sound that has!—and we proved ourselves to be no exception.  I would confine myself to this prudish summary, but as I have utterly no patience with the “Agnes Grey” of whom one of your English authoresses wrote, I SHALL “bore you with the details,” which I trust shall not prove boring at all, for I am told that the world looks most interestedly upon a romance.  For the benefit of dear Madame, then, I write:

I can remember the Viscount's manner of affection well, one might even say shamefully.  He called me by pet names—“little angel,” “dearest-darling girl,” or “sweet Christine,” spoken at a distance of at least a foot, and sometimes he sat at my knee, toying with the hem of my gown, or held and kissed my hands, all of which is behavior calculated to depict the woman as a goddess, the man as her worshiper.  Not so with Erik, who held me close to him, murmuring, “How can it be—my darling!”— words equally unnatural and natural, to which I gave reply in similar form, taking the liberty as I did of calling him “dear Erik.”  (It must have been the first time the descriptor had been attached to the name; only think!)

Once The Embrace had receded into a loose hold, a pause came; and then my former tormenter leant forward, warily watching my eyes, and swiftly kissed me on one cheek—the merest brush a girl has ever felt, I verily believe!  The absurdity amused me: the man who had clasped me so, had given me the kiss of a shy schoolboy—yet I refrained from laughing.  My countenance must still have conveyed some message, however, for Erik presented a chagrined expression; he seemed to realise that one does not kiss the love of one's life as though she were an intractable maiden aunt.  Such errors must, of course, be rectified.  With a trace of a rueful smile, he brought me nearer once more, and pressed his mottled lips—to mine.

I must beg your pardon if I have offended your sensibilities, and pray that you will forgive me, and hasten to P----- in two months’ time, to meet my dear Erik, and see us married.  Yes—married.  I do honestly believe that Erik would sooner tread through flames than step out into the world and present himself to a stranger, but—   do you know, Estelle says that she envies me, says that I have a clear barometer by which to gauge his love for me!

But I cannot write more just now, for I must hasten to—well, you know very well where I am to go, and whom I go to see!

—Yours,

“Milady”