The Viscount

1870

Raoul

Raoul de Changy was proud to say that he belonged to one of the single most powerful families in all of France. He had more wealth than he knew what to do with, looks to kill, and a sense of style that made sure people knew just that the second they laid eyes on him. A man of merely twenty-three years, Raoul was already a well known socialite in the grand capital city of Paris. With his family name as his ticket to ride through life he had managed quite easily to finagle himself into many a gentlemens' wallets and ladies' beds alike over the years.

Perhaps it was due to his many year of unprecedented privileges that the sight of the Opera Populaire that night, looming over the outer ring of the city like a giant gargoyle in the sky, seemed to fill him with such stark bitterness. As he stared at it he couldn't help but recollect the stinging rejection Christine had thrown his way. Never before had a woman dared deny him. The very memory of her brash actions towards him left a bad taste in his mouth. Once again he felt the chilling ghost of her petite hand striking his cheek and saw the fury in her eyes as she'd dismissed him. The temptation to strike her back in return that night, to remind her of her rightful place in society, had been almost too great for him to hold back. Yet even as she spurred him he knew he could never bring himself to do such a thing to her. He cared for her far too much, in as much of a sentimental way as he found he could.

He turned his face from the building, trying to shake thoughts of the soprano from of his head. He was nothing to her now. She'd made that quite clear. No longer was he to be her knight in shining armor, no more the child who had raced into the winter sea after her scarf nor the one who'd placed blankets over her when she'd fall asleep in their hiding place in his father's attic. No, those memories meant nothing to her it now it seemed.

Raoul had tried very hard to continue to be a gentleman to her though, even after the stunt she had pulled. He had attempted to return the night after their misunderstanding to apologize to her. But when he arrived a man had stopped him from entering the building. He was positive the burly gentleman posted at the doors was Destler's doing, not Christine's, and demanded entrance due to his position as a patron. The man had simply laughed at him then, pulling a large bundle of cash from his coat and tossing it onto the pavement at their feet. Raoul was positive that bundle contained every last cent he had ever given to the establishment. To toss it back at him like he needed the charity was of the greatest insults he'd ever known. He'd spit upon the pile and left it there. He didn't care what happened to it. Monetary loss meant nothing to him, but his pride meant everything. He wouldn't allow that lowlife bodyguard to see him kneel. He knelt to no one. Took orders from no one.

Except Christine it seemed. She kept him at bay and kept him away, night after night. At first he'd thought her jesting with him. He'd thought she would come to her senses and realize that a decade later fate had brought him back into her life for a reason. But she just couldn't see it. She was too blinded by the facade of a life she had spent in the theatre. She had no idea of the real world around her, a world where you needed a strong and wealthy husband to provide for you, lest you end up in the street as soon as you outgrew your starlet days. He could offer her eternal comfort. No worries as to what the future may hold. He could give her the very world - it was in the palm of his hand! She just needed to reach out and take it.

He hasn't meant to lose his bearings in her dressing room. He hadn't meant to raise his voice but alas, he had. Destler had gotten under his skin - dared to lay a hand on him - and he couldn't just let that slide by without a rebuttal. Still though, perhaps he could've handed things better than he had. Perhaps he should have seen that he could not seduce Christine in the ways he usually did with women. He knew it probably would've been smarter to hold himself back. To just be there for her as a friend until she outgrew her infatuation with the director. But that wasn't who he was. He had and will always be forward in his wants and desires, and she was all he could think about. All he wanted. He'd been impatient and needed her to admit that there was something - that there was anything between them. That it wasn't all one-sided, a fantasy only in his mind. In doing so though he feared she now saw him as nothing more than a lustful monster.

The realization that Christine probably hated him now caused him to feel a great downheartedness. As the week progressed he'd begun to feel a bubbling depression brewing deep within, one that gnawed at him from the inside out more and more with each passing day. Raoul had never known depression before, but found it to be a dreadfully weary feeling. It made one feel quite exhausted indeed, and also made rest and ease difficult to attain. But to be told no was something he just wasn't familiar with. It baffled him. He was so used to getting everything his secret heart desired, simply by asking for it. He needn't even say please to most folk. He usually only had to snap his fingers and men and women alike would heel to his every whim. Yet Christine, dear sweet Christine, was immune to all he offered her. Immune to every last one of his charms. She seemed not to desire titles, nor wealth and fortune, nor a suitable man for marriage.

No, his childhood sweetheart would rather waste her time clinging onto that blasted composer Destler, a man who clearly wasn't worthy of a beautiful woman such as she. And what of Destler? Why him of all men? Raoul supposed he could be considered attractive yes, but any attractiveness a woman could see in him surely would be gone the second they saw that ghastly mask of his. Not to mention the fact that rumor had it he hid a disgusting scar from a burn underneath said mask. To even think of what such a face looked like left Raoul's imagination painting gruesomely awful pictures. He tried to shake the images of what he imagined but with sick curiosity he found he couldn't help but wonder what the devil himself looked like beneath that thin shield of his. The skin was probably black and red, charred and twisted something sinful. Had Christine, so fragile in heart, ever seen that true and most hideous face? Though the answer was most definitely yes with how close they two were Raoul still liked to think that maybe she hadn't, and that seeing it would cause her to flee, running straight into his rightful arms, the arms that were rightfully meant to hold her at night.

Raoul eventually found himself wandering into a bar. He wasn't much of a drinker but when life gave you the shit end of things he believed a man should at least he able to enjoy a shot or two to numb it all away. He'd learned that from his brother. He sat himself upon a stool, one that didn't quite seem balanced correctly, and flagged the barman. He ordered a whiskey, straight up. No need for it to be mixed with anything ridiculous. He wanted - no, needed - to be drunk as quickly as he could tonight. Needed the sweet sound of Christine's singing to stop echoing about in his skull like a bird in a cage. Needed the memory of her as a child clinging to his side to be erased. The bartender slid the drink over the counter and Raoul caught it expertly. He raised the glass in his hand, studying the amber liquid it contained with disinterest for a moment before tilting it back and finishing it with one vapid slam. He then set the glass down, a little harder then he'd meant to, as he felt the alcohol burn his throat and sink down into his stomach.

He wondered vaguely just how drunk he would have to get to stop picturing Christine in that white dress of hers. Oh, how that image replayed in his mind constantly. All the painted whores in Paris combined couldn't compete with Lotte's beauty in that white satin gown she'd adorned for Hannibal. That first night he'd gone to see the show she had stunned him silent, standing aglow under the stage lights like a flawless brunette angel. To see her in that white gown, so befitting her womanly body with its tight bodice and flowing skirt, had driven him mad with a burning desire night after night as he returned to gaze upon her.

Such a desire was purely carnal at first. But as the nights went on he found another simpler desire hidden underneath that one. An almost romantic notion as he'd realized the costume she wore to be so much like the ones the aristocrats of France wore for their weddings. One night while he was picturing himself unlacing her bodice he'd noticed that. It had been a startling change in mental stature for him. So suddenly his wondrous erotic fantasy of her had changed into that of her as blushing bride. His bride. It was in that moment that he'd decided to court her. For her beauty and soul were far more superior than that of any other lady he'd ever come to know, and he deserved the best of the best.

It was a shame, he thought, that she would never actually be married in such a gown with her current suitor. Raoul shuddered to think of the unimpressive tailoring a music man could afford for his Christine. Certainly she deserved tenfold whatever life he planned for them to have. Why, she deserved the luxurious life of a noblewoman. To gossip over tea with the other ladies of high society. To raise her children upon on many acres of a fine estate house in the countryside. Regal children. Not children of the industry. Heaven forbid she would produce beautiful children though, no matter whom with. Fine children that could've carried on the Changy legacy with beauty, grace, and dignity...

Damn it all. The world wasn't fair.

The bartender behind the counter seemed to notice Raoul's foul mood, for he leaned forward and poured another glass of whiskey for him. The viscount raised his eyebrows with disdain towards the middle-aged man. He hadn't come here for sympathy and he certainly didn't want it from a countermaid.

"Your lady giving you a rough time?" the man asked with a laugh.

What a snide question indeed. This man knew nothing of humiliation it seemed.

"To do that she'd have to be my lady," Raoul sneered, snatching the glass up and tilting back for the second time. "But no, she'd rather have some theater scum on her arm than someone who could actually provide a decent life for her."

Raoul slid the glass back towards the bartender, almost too fast for the man to catch it. He fumbled and grabbed a hold of it only a second before it fell from the counter. The man seemed to get the hint then not to attempt to further their conversation. A figure three seats down from where Raoul sat could be heard perking up from his resting place, aroused by the commotion. Raoul barely tossed him a sideways glance in recognition. As he did though, he saw the man looking straight at him.

"You must be Raoul de Changy," the figure said, lifting his face higher into the light to show Raoul a smile devoid of a man's most important teeth.

Raoul nodded his head but wavered. "Should I know you, monsieur?"

"No, I suppose not. I don't run in your circles," the man stated. "Name's Buquet. Samuel Buquet. My brother used to work at the opera house you're talking about as a stagehand. He mentioned you once, just in passing conversation. Said you were the new patron there. I don't know if you ever got to meet him, but you might have heard he's in jail now. That bitch of a prima dona claimed he assaulted her." He sighed. "I can't afford his bail so he just sits in that cell, day after day, rotting away." He picked up his own glass and swirled it around, thinking long and hard. "Your name could help me out though. I've heard of the Changy family, you're well known all over Paris. You've got money, that I know, and what I've got is skills to offer. Handiwork, transactions of the lesser sort, you name it. Give me something I can help you with. Name your demand and I'll carry it out. Anything to get my poor younger brother a little air. He needs to breathe, he does."

Oh yes, Raoul had indeed heard about the stagehand that had attempted to rape his poor Christine. He presumed all of west Paris had heard that lovely bit of gossip by now. Why, Destler had barely left the man alive that night. Rumor was that there'd been more blood than face on the man after such a beating. Buquet deserved every single injury though. That was the one thing Raoul could agree with Destler on. He himself would sooner die then release such a greasy cockroach back into the world. If he ever happened upon such a man, he might not be able to control himself. He might just finish Destler's work and kill the man himself. Women were not meant to be taken in such a way. Animals took their mates in such a fashion. Real men didn't. If a man needed that kind of a rush to get off then by all means he could pay a service worker to be in the role of a victim. But one was not to force himself upon a lady unwilling. It just wasn't right. Or appealing for that matter. Raoul himself found sex far more satisfying when the other member of his party was fully engaged in the act.

Honestly, he could see nothing the Buquet family could offer him that would change his mind about granting such a favor. Unless...

"The artistic director at the opera house, monsieur Destler, did your brother know him?" he asked.

Samuel bit his thumb as he racked what Raoul could only assume to be a very small brain. He then shook his head.

"He spoke of him, yes. But he didn't know him personally. He was too afraid of that man. Said he covers the right side of his face, same as the alleged opera ghost myth. An odd coincidence, I think. For a masked man to appear and run a theatre a masked ghost once haunted. You could almost assume the two to be related, if you believe in such nonsensical poppycock. Still, I wouldn't go poking around in that man's business if I was you. He's dangerous. Joseph was near death when the police brought him to the hospital. Destler nearly killed him...probably would finish the job too, if given the chance."

Raoul pondered that a moment. Destler murder Buquet? The thought was ridiculous. In the moment the director had been pushed to such extreme actions. But that was in the past. Now the man was far too wrapped up in showering Christine with flashy music to plot revenge.

But maybe, just maybe, Destler didn't have to be the one to plot. Maybe he just had to be in the right place at the right time when the revenge occurred.

"You know what, I'll do it," Raoul stated, leaning across the bar to shake Samuel's hand with a forced but charming smile. "I'll give you the money for your brother's bail. If only to spite the world, I'll do it."

Samuel smiled brightly. "Good sir, many thanks indeed! You have no idea how grateful I am. Please though, what can I do for you in exchange?"

"Just be on standby," Raoul instructed, "when I need you I shall send for you."

Raoul drank the last of his third whiskey with a smile and dropped his owed tender onto the countertop. A simple idea in his head quickly began to weave itself into an elaborate plot as he stepped out into the dark morning. He took in a breath of fresh air and stuck his hands in his pockets, whistling a jovial tune as he made his way down the block.

Give him only a matter of days. Then he would have his Christine, who would learn to love him, given time. Not only that, but he would also put away that nuisance of a musician once and for all. No more pawns on the damned board. Raoul was and always would be the winner in life's game of chess.

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Well then, how did we like getting a Raoul chapter? I love writing from his point of view. He's a very educated and calculated thinker. But what does he have in store for our protagonists? Let's find out!

xoxo,

Nicole