Like her, he let his head fall into
his hands. When he raised it, the tears were streaming down his
young cheeks, real, heavy tears like those which jealous children shed,
tears that wept for a sorrow which was in no way fanciful, but which
is common to all the lovers on earth and which he expressed aloud:
"Who is this Erik?" he said.
Chapter X Forget the Name of the Man's Voice
The day after Christine had vanished before his eyes in a sort
of dazzlement that still made him doubt the evidence of his senses,
M. le Vicomte de Chagny called to inquire at Mamma Valerius'.
He came upon a charming picture. Christine herself was seated
by the bedside of the old lady, who was sitting up against
the pillows, knitting. The pink and white had returned to the young
girl's cheeks. The dark rings round her eyes had disappeared.
Raoul no longer recognized the tragic face of the day before.
If the veil of melancholy over those adorable features had not
still appeared to the young man as the last trace of the weird
drama in whose toils that mysterious child was struggling,
he could have believed that Christine was not its heroine at all.
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