Chapter 1
Pale yellow light filtered in through a set of gauzy lace curtains, casting filigreed patterns of light and dark across the crisp linen tablecloth and gold-rimmed china. Beside a gleaming silver-plated coffee pot, pink-blushing roses and fragile peonies cascaded from a porcelain vase. An artfully arranged tray of pastries stood at the ready, overflowing with more than any two people could reasonably eat. The Vicomte de Chagny nodded to the waiting server, who tipped a stream of rich, dark liquid into a little china cup. With the first fortifying scalding mouthful down his throat, the Vicomte was ready to receive the customary stack of letters awaiting his perusal. One by one the seals were broken, and delicately embossed cards were slid from thick cream envelopes. An invitation to join a hunting party in the countryside, an invitation to a card game in the city, a thank you for a lovely dinner party, each written in the same impeccably formal manner.
The last five years had seen a steady flow of such correspondence. At first the couple had been invited to endless functions, mostly, Raoul was certain, for curiosity's sake, but as interest in their private life faded, curiosity was replaced with simple adoration for his lovely wife. While well-meaning ladies still sometimes remarked, "Why, she's simply charming! One would almost never guess that she had been a chorus girl!" the truth was that Christine's unusual past was quickly forgotten in favor of her new reputation as a captivating conversationalist and irreproachable hostess. Social duties were dispatched with effortless poise and grace. Even Raoul's disapproving mother was forced to grudgingly admit that she acted the part of a perfect lady quite expertly.
As gratifying as it was to have been accepted into good society's inner circles, the couple was happiest with only each other as company. As a compromise, they split their time between a townhouse in one of Paris' most fashionable districts and a small chateau nestled in the verdant countryside. In Paris, they dined, attended the opera, and danced at balls; all with proper, polite smiles plastered on their faces. Out of the city, with no neighbors for miles, they let their masks slip, and became once more the two children who had run barefoot in the sand along the ocean's edge, scooping up seashells and stuffing them in their pockets. Spring afternoons saw the couple strolling hand-in-hand through the sprawling gardens, plucking over-ripe berries from thorny bushes and popping them into each other's mouths. Late nights were spent in front of a slow-burning fire, clinging to one another and whispering stories half-remembered from childhood. The next morning, they lingered in bed and spoke of the sometimes amusing, sometimes frightening things they had dreamed during the night.
They almost never spoke of him.
After that night, it took weeks before Christine could speak of any of it without choking on tears, unable to continue. The depth of her sorrow was, if he was honest with himself, a little overwhelming. Raoul cherished Christine's tender heart, but he was at a loss to understand why she would feel such pity for a person so clearly undeserving. He supposed there was something to the student-teacher history they shared, but not being musically-inclined himself, he figured it was a bond he just could not fully appreciate. He remained sensitive for her sake, but Raoul's private thoughts were frank: the masked man was a villain, Raoul was the hero, and the story had gone as it should have.
One night, as sweat dried on their tangled limbs, a feeling of profound gratitude swelled within him, and he thanked his wife, "For what you did to save me. How you were able to kiss that monster...I can't imagine. You were so brave, Christine." In the post-midnight darkness, he could see her face, but felt her entire body stiffen in his arms. He was flooded with regret. He shouldn't have brought it up, shouldn't have made her relive the horror. He tried to apologize, but she stopped him, her voice soft and careful and tinged with pain, "I did what I needed to do." It took him a while to fall back asleep.
The next morning, Christine's eyes were all dark circles. When he went to kiss her good morning, she shook her head but pulled him close. "Raoul, you know this is very hard for me to talk about, but it seems we must." Her fingertips traced gentle lines on his chest. Her eyes did not meet his. "Last night you called...him a monster, and me brave for showing him simple kindness." She placed a finger on his lips to quiet his protestations. "Believe me, I haven't forgotten all that happened, but it seems to me that if..." She drew in a breath, exhaled. "If there were less people calling him a monster and more who showed him kindness, we might not have ended up in the situation we did." She turned away from him, rolling onto her back, her eyes gazing at a point beyond the ceiling. She spoke with the finality of a child reciting rehearsed lines. "I have forgiven him, and I hope you will, too. I believe in my heart that he's changed." She glanced over at him. "I'm here in bed with you, aren't I?" She had a playful half-smile, and he couldn't help but press his own smiling lips to hers. When he pulled back, her dark eyes were serious, soul-piercing. "Raoul. Don't call him a monster. He's not. He's just a man, with both good and bad – please remember that."
Raoul agreed, chastened, and they fell into each others arms.
After that, they never spoke of him at all.
With their dark past behind them, over three years passed in an idyll of happiness and affection...before things began to change...
The harsh scraping of a chair against the tiled floor jolted Raoul back into the present. He snatched at a napkin to blot up the coffee he'd sloshed onto the letter in his hand, at which he'd been staring absently for some time.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, darling. Did I startle you?" Christine asked. A vision bathed in golden morning light, she wore a simple morning dress and a placid smile.
Raoul jumped up to help her into her seat. "Maybe just a little. I'm afraid I let my mind wander a bit too far as I was reading Madame Fournier's thank you note."
Christine laughed, a cascade of tinkling crystal notes. "Well, I'd hardly fault you for that." She reached for a croissant as Raoul filled her coffee cup. "Anything interesting in the mail today, darling?"
Raoul rifled through the stack of envelopes. "Oh, the usual. I received an invitation to join a hunting party, but I rather think I should decline. Frankly, I find the whole practice fairly barbaric. Oh! And here's an invitation to a dinner from the Baron de Montfort." He paused, glancing up at Christine. She was spreading butter onto her croissant intently.
"Oh? When?" she replied without looking up.
"The first Saturday after we return to the city. It looks like it's a small party. Just us and a few other guests." Again he paused.
"Well, won't that be lovely then." She took a measured bite of her croissant and then set about rearranging her silverware.
Raoul stared at her small, pale hands. They trembled ever so slightly. Dropping his voice to just above a whisper, he looked at her levelly and said, "Sweetheart, we don't have to go if you don't want to. Just say the word and I'll make our excuses."
Still not meeting his gaze, a small crease appeared between her brows. "Of course we should go. We've owed them a visit since...for ages now, and if we turn them down it will seem unbearably rude."
He caught her hands in his. They seemed so fragile. "Are you sure it won't be too hard on you?"
She snatched them back and reached for her coffee cup. "Raoul," she said with an exasperated sigh, "I really don't know what you mean. Now, will you please just write and let them know that we'll be there and let the matter drop?"
The morning light was beginning to turn harsh as the sun rose higher in the cloudless sky. A white-gold beam fell over Christine's face, bleaching out what little color she had. For a moment Raoul was reminded of Michelangelo's statue of Rachel at the tomb of Pope Julius II in Rome. They'd spent a week in that city as part of a month-long honeymoon tour through Italy. While Raoul had seen his fill of old Italian stone statues long ago, Christine had lingered over the figure of the unhappy woman whose eyes were turned heavenward, hands clasped in supplication. Now it seemed another statue sat before him, with downcast eyes and perfect features, smooth as marble...except for the faint puffiness around her eyes, the result of another unhappy night.
Raoul refilled his cup and smiled across the table at his wife. "Yes, my love. Whatever you want."
...
The dreaded evening came all too soon. At precisely seven-thirty in the evening, the de Chagny carriage rumbled to a stop before the wide stone steps of a seven story townhouse in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Pleasantries were exchanged, formalities concluded, and by eight o'clock they and the other guests had sat down for dinner. It was a rather unremarkable affair. Everyone was charmed with Christine, as usual. She laughed at the baron's tired old jokes, feigned delight over each course, and was quick with a pleasant response to every prying question. Only Raoul noticed the way she clenched her soup spoon so tightly her knuckles went white.
Later that evening, the men joined the ladies in the salon, the smoky-sweet smell of imported cigars still clinging to their clothes. Raoul found an empty seat near his wife. He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze, and she responded with a tight-lipped smile. He turned his attention to the baroness, who was presiding over the gathering like a great squawking hen, complete with beady little eyes and a massive chest threatening to spill out of her too-tight gown. A headpiece of bobbing feathers completed the effect.
"Well, my dear, I was just telling the ladies what a doll, what an absolute doll our little Augustin is," the baroness said to her husband once everyone had settled. "Wouldn't you say so, dear? Wouldn't you say he's simply a perfect doll?"
From somewhere within his voluminous whiskers, the baron responded with a series of gruff but amiable-sounding grunts that must have been assent.
"In fact, my dear, I was just thinking that if it's not too late, if it's not too terribly late, that we should have the nanny bring down the children. Don't you think so dear, don't you think that would be lovely?"
Again the baron's grunts were repeated, and a servant was rung for. In short order a plain girl of about nineteen arrived trailing four small children, with another bundled up in her arms. The girl arranged them in a line, tallest to shortest, and, as they were introduced, prompted each to performed a practiced little bow or curtsey to the general delight of the crowd.
The baroness was in ecstasies. "And this," she said, taking the youngest child - a plump, pink-cheeked baby boy almost drowning in lace - into her arms and presenting him to the ladies and gentlemen, "is our little Tintin. You see? A doll, an absolute doll!"
Raoul nodded his agreement even though he wasn't actually looking at the child; he was observing Christine out of the corner of his eye. A too-bright smile was plastered on her face. Her hands were buried in the folds of her gown. She must have sensed him staring, for she flashed shining eyes over at him in a warning glance before turning them back to the baroness, who had brought the child before her. Christine did an admirable job of cooing over the child - who did nothing but drool in return - as the baroness bounced him in her arms. "Isn't he just the dearest thing you've ever seen?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," Christine responded, though the question was clearly rhetorical.
"Children are such a such a blessing," said the baroness. "I feel so absolutely blessed to have such perfect little darlings. They bring me so much joy, I simply don't know what I'd do without them." She lowered her voice. "Of course, dear, we're all hoping you'll find that out soon enough for yourself," she added with a sly glance at Christine, who promptly went pink.
"Oh, yes," said Christine, her voice only slightly unsteady, "we're hoping, too." Then, with the too-bright smile back in place, she deftly maneuvered the conversation back onto the endless charms of the pudgy, drooling infant.
Riding home in their carriage, Raoul held Christine as she wept onto his shoulder.
…
The next morning Raoul found himself outside another townhouse, only a few blocks away from the one he'd dined at last night. Its stone facade was almost identical; his dread was almost as acute. He never did like his obligatory weekly visits to his parents.
Tugging off his gloves, he followed an ancient servant into the salon where his mother sat stiff-backed in her richly upholstered Louis XVIII chair. She allowed him to kiss each cool, papery-soft cheek before waving him towards a nearby chair with a withered hand weighed down by huge glittering gems on golden rings.
"Back from the country I take it?" the Comtesse de Chagny asked.
"Yes, Mother. Just this week," Raoul replied.
She cast an appraising glance at him. "You spend too much time out of doors. Your color is rather too high." She ignored Raoul's grimace. "And where's your wife? Couldn't be bothered to join us today?"
Raoul ground his teeth. "She wanted to come, but I asked her to stay home. We attended a dinner party last night and were out rather late. I thought it best that she stay in and rest today."
"Hm. Too much wine, I suppose," said the Comtesse quietly, but not so quietly that Raoul didn't hear.
Heat was rising up the back of his neck. A slew of angry words were bubbling in his throat, but he would not let her win. He would have to content himself a sigh and a shake of his head.
A self-satisfied smile was playing about his mother's lips. "Well then, shall we have our tea? We won't wait for your father, he's out on business and knowing him it will soon turn to pleasure and then he won't find his way home until dinner is getting cold on the table." She called for a servant who spread a small table for them, and twenty minutes later Raoul found himself staring at the tiny bits of leaves swirling in the dregs of his tea as he stirred it listlessly with his spoon. He'd had little to contribute to his mother's harsh critiques of the government, the poor, and now, the neighbors. He could only hope his little nods of approval and the occasional interjections of "quite so" or "very true" would cover for the fact that he had hardly taken in a word she had said.
"Raoul."
"Oh, you're absolutely right."
"Raoul!"
The sharp tone brought him to full attention with a little jump. "Oh-! Yes, Mother?"
"Raoul, I asked you to stop that clatter you're making with your spoon. It's really quite rude to be making so much noise while someone is speaking."
Raoul dropped the spoon obediently, mumbling an apology.
"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" The Comtesse sighed and placed her teacup back on its saucer with a little clink. "Raoul, we really must speak about something quite important, and I'm going to ask that you give it your full attention. Do you think you can manage? Good, then shut the door. This isn't for any of the servants to hear."
On boneless legs Raoul wobbled over to the door and pulled it shut, his head swimming with all the possible unpleasant topics of conversation he might find himself confronted with. He returned to his seat, discretely wiping his perspiring palms onto its velvet cushions.
Raoul felt pinned by his mother's cool, steel gray eyes. She appeared to be considering her words, for once. For once, he'd rather she just was out with it.
"Five years of marriage, and not a single child."
He changed his mind; he'd rather she'd kept it in. She continued on, regardless.
"You do realize, do you not, how important it is that you have an heir?"
"Of course I do." How could he not? It had been drilled into him since he could remember. As the last of the line, with no siblings and no living cousins, the de Chagny estate would end up in the hands of some undeserving distant relative, or so his parents had reminded him at every opportunity.
"Well then, Raoul, you understand my concern. Your father and I are growing old, and we would like to be assured that the de Chagny line will be continued before we die. Please, tell me that you are not doing anything to...prevent a child?"
"Mother!"
"Oh, don't be scandalized, this is a family matter. We must discuss it as two adults. Now answer the question."
"No...no. Of course not. It...just hasn't happened yet."
"Hm." The Countess considered for a moment, drumming her fingers on the table. She stopped suddenly. "Has she been seen by the family doctor? Is it possible she picked up some disease on the streets that might-"
"No. No, it is not possible." Under a practiced calm veneer, Raoul was positively seething. "Mother, she was an actress, not a whore."
"Oh?" The Comtesse arched a penciled brow and took a sip of tea through pursed lips. "Is there a difference?"
Raoul's gloves were in his hands and he was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. "I think I've had quite enough for one day, Mother. I'm going." His voice sounded foreign to his ears, strange and tight.
"Oh Raoul, don't be so hot-headed." The Comtesse was refilling her tea with a steady hand, her eyes trained on the cup. "Sit down, I'm not through talking with you."
The door lay several paces away, and Raoul eyed it longingly. He could feel his lips trembling. Never in his life had he walked out on his mother, and as liberating as he felt it might feel at this moment, a nagging voice in his head told him that he might live to regret it. He wavered. She noticed. She softened her voice and repeated her request. She won. He sat.
She refilled his cup and pushed it towards him. He picked it up so he would have something to do with his hands.
"Raoul, you must understand. Your father and I have been very indulgent with you. We have tolerated your choice of a wife, where other families would have forbade it, would have disowned you if you dared to defy them. She may not have had a title or a respectable family or even a dowry, but she seemed to make you happy, and so while we have not approved of it, we allowed it. But...if she cannot give you a son... Well, Raoul, indulgence can only go so far. We must think about the needs of the family."
Raoul took a deep breath. "I know what you're implying, and I'm telling you now, child or no child, I will never, never leave my wife."
With a little shrug, the Countess drained her cup. "Very well, but just know this: If you die without an heir, you will be letting down not only your father and myself, but also generations of de Chagnys stretching back hundreds of years. I only ask you to think of that." Her empty teacup rang out with finality as she dropped it upon the saucer. The interview was over.
Ten minutes later the same ancient servant held open the front door as Raoul made his way through the foyer, dozens of pairs of painted eyes belonging to family members long since dead following him as he went.
