I want
to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays.
I have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. People will not
even turn round in the streets. You will be the happiest of women.
And we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight.
You are crying! You are afraid of me! And yet I am not really wicked.
Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself.
If you loved me I should be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do
anything with me that you pleased."
Soon the moans that accompanied this sort of love's litany increased
and increased. I have never heard anything more despairing;
and M. de Chagny and I recognized that this terrible lamentation came
from Erik himself. Christine seemed to be standing dumb with horror,
without the strength to cry out, while the monster was on his knees
before her.
Three times over, Erik fiercely bewailed his fate:
"You don't love me! You don't love me! You don't love me!"
And then, more gently:
"Why do you cry? You know it gives me pain to see you cry!"
A silence.
Each silence gave us fresh hope.
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