To Be Loved
Chapter 50
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy
March 20, 2011
"I consider myself so ugly, my face inspires fear." ~ attributed to Michelangelo
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The Stranger watched from the recesses of the alley as the messenger boy delivered a parcel to the Delacorte apartment. He knew what it contained, having bribed the child for a look inside the package. A few centimes were all it had taken to learn the details of the travel arrangements that the vicomte had made for his entourage, as well as the name and location of the hotel where they would be staying. His satisfaction was made all the richer for the knowledge that he had taken the coins from the girl's pocketbook a few nights before, when he had slipped into their apartment. The thought of the two of them never even missing the money chaffed him, increasing his resentment of them even more. Soon he would make them pay. In the meantime, he patted the remaining coins in his pocket and smiled when they jingled lightly.
That he was using Delacorte's own money to lay him low was perversely thrilling.
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At the de Chagny townhouse, all was tranquil. For the moment. The girls were out. Vincent was out. That left Raoul and his wife some time alone together.
"It was good of you to include the Delacortes on our little holiday." Clementine placed her hands on her husband's shoulders and kissed the top of his head. She loved the feel of his thick blond hair, which, though receding slightly, still framed his aristocratic features like a lion's mane. He smiled and tipped his face up for a kiss as she tousled his hair between her fingers.
"It seemed like the right thing to do. After all, we discussed the arrangements in front of them in their own home. It would have been…unseemly…to exclude them."
"Does this mean you've accepted the fact that he's not the ruffian you remember from so long ago?"
Raoul put a hand to his throat, recalling that terrible night when Erik had put a noose around his neck and threatened to kill him. It was true that Delacorte was nothing like the lunatic he had been twenty years ago, when they fought over a woman. Not just any woman, but Christine! It was still difficult for him to believe she was gone. In his mind's eye, she would always be young and vibrant, and more beautiful than any other woman he had ever known. He shifted in his chair and pulled his wife into his lap, holding her tightly. However, out of tragedy had come true love. If he had married Christine, he would never have had these happy years with Clementine. He smiled at his wife. "I bow to your feminine judgment. He certainly seems like a changed man. Besides, I'd rather have him close at hand, where I can keep an eye on him."
"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. That sounds like something Philippe would say."
"My brother is a good businessman."
"Is that what you consider this? Good business?"
"Good family business. Where my wife and children are concerned, I can never be too careful." He buried his face against her neck and nipped at it playfully, raising his head when peals of laughter echoed off the marbled halls of their home, announcing that they were no longer alone.
"Ah, the pitter-patter of little feet. It seems the children have returned from visiting their aunts."
"Girls," Clementine called. "Come in. Your father and I have an announcement to make."
Moerogis, the eldest, removed her hat and set it aside while the staff helped her sisters, Camille and Zoé, shrug off their coats. When all three of the girls had joined them in the sitting room, Clementine announced the good news. "Your brother is entered in the Paris to Bordeaux race this coming Saturday. At this very moment, he is in the garage looking over the Turcat-Méry he'll be driving. Your father and I have decided that we are all going to Bordeaux by train to watch Vincent come across the finish line!"
Zoé frowned. "Who wants to see a stinky old race? Cars are smelly, and drivers look like monkeys covered in grease. Besides, those roaring engines make my ears hurt!"
"Oh, don't spoil that pretty little mouth by pouting," her mother chastised gently, extricating herself from her husband's embrace. "You girls must be tired from your trip, but I have some additional news that may brighten your day and change your mind about attending the race. What if I told you that M. Delacorte and his daughter will be joining us?"
The younger girls exchanged excited glances. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" they cried, as they clasped arms and danced for joy.
Moerogis positively glowed. "This is a splendid idea! It will give me a chance to get to know Aurelia a little better. I can't wait to speak to her on the telephone. Isn't it exciting? Is it too late to call?"
"Is it an emergency?" her father asked sternly.
"No."
"Then no, you may not call her on the telephone. It is not a toy. It is to be used for important business or emergencies, not to ring someone up to exchange…whatever it is you want to exchange with her."
"But, I want to know what she'll wear to the race. We must make plans."
"You think much of her," Raoul remarked dryly.
"She's fantastic! I stopped by the conservatory last week, and she was practicing her scales. I waited outside the door and listened for quite some time without her knowing it. I've never heard such a voice before; it was the voice of an angel, I tell you. She shouldn't be wasting her time in school. She should be on stage!"
"Very well," Raoul said, giving in. "But not until after we've had a bite to eat. It would be inexcusable to call during the dinner hour."
"I think it is admirable that Mlle Delacorte wants a formal education," Clementine interjected. "After all, her father is successful enough that she needn't worry about her future."
"She has ambition, that one," Raoul grumbled. "Reminds me of her mother." His brow knit as troubling thoughts crossed his mind. "She must be planning a career." His thoughts returned to Christine. Had they married, she would have been forced to give up the stage—a prospect that had concerned her greatly—but she had thrown it all away for Erik. How much did singing really matter to Christine's daughter? Would she be as callous of Vincent as Christine had been with him? In spite of their strained relationship, Raoul loved his son, and wanted him to succeed in affaires de coeur as much as he wanted the boy to succeed in his chosen pursuit—even if it happened to be automobile racing.
Clementine frowned at her husband as if she could read his mind. "We'll have plenty of time to discuss Aurelia's plans for the future on the train, when we join the Delacortes for a nice, long ride. That would be much more appropriate than talking about them when they aren't present, don't you agree? Now," she said, changing the subject. "Tell me all about the visit with your aunties. How are the dears?"
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The day of the race had finally arrived, and the field of drivers was prodigious, with more than two hundred entries for the event. There were no special qualifications for the event other than paying the entry fee. In short, anyone could take part, regardless of his (or in some cases, her) skills behind the wheel (or lack of same). As in any cross-country race, this one would be about more than speed. It would be about endurance and survival, and each car would not only carry a driver, but a co-pilot who would serve as a mechanic. Also aboard would be various tools and replacement parts that would be needed should an accident occur. Once outside of the city and its paved streets, their course would take them along unimproved country roads, many of which were filled with ruts and potholes.
Thankfully, they had been enjoying a dry spell, so there would not be any puddles or muddy roads to contend with, but being late fall, one never knew what Nature might see fit to throw his way. It was still hours before sunrise, and the skies were clear for now. That bode well for later in the day when the sun's warming rays would shine down, but for now, the temperatures were chill to say the least. The men and the few women who made up the field were dressed accordingly—knee-high boots, khaki driving trousers (or in the women's case, sturdy skirts), warm shirts, full-length dusters, driving caps, scarves and goggles.
Throughout the Bois, the starting point of the race, and along the streets of the city, literally thousands of people milled about, eagerly awaiting the start of the race. Many times more that number were already beginning to make their way along the 580-kilometer route the drivers would take, staking out places where the view was best. Reporters and telegraphers were stationed everywhere along the planned route, to pass along news and the running order to those waiting at Bordeaux.
There were conflicting claims as to who invented the first automobile. Was it that French engineer, Édouard Delamare-Debouteville, who in 1883 built a single-cylinder four-stroke engine which ran on stove gas? Or was it, as others claimed, the German, Gottlieb Daimler, who in 1887 patented an engine that ran by means of a vertical cylinder with gasoline injected through a carburetor? Though the business of who invented the automobile may have been cloudy, one thing was certain. It was the French who embraced the idea of automobile racing. It was in France back in 1894, that the first organized race was held.
That race had started in Paris and ended in Rouen, a distance of 126 kilometers. Twenty-five out of the field of sixty-nine made it past the 50-kilometer qualifying event, and represented manufacturers such as Peugeot, Panhard, De Deion as well as a number of amateur owners who built their own vehicles. The race that day had started from Porte Maillot, went through the Bois de Boulogne, and six hours and forty-eight minutes later ended when Count Jules-Albert de Dion entered Rouen.
Racing had come a long way since then, when the winning speed of a similar open road race had been a blistering 17 kilometers per hour. These days, many of the better-made (and better-maintained) automobiles could attain speeds well beyond 100 kilometers per hour. However, it took more than speed to negotiate roads. There were no specially built courses for these vehicles, and their routes often took them down country lanes where hazards could include flocks of sheep and other farm animals. Dealing with these animals was often a serious matter, as hitting a cow could not only severely damage both cow and driver, but would leave the driver to face an irate farmer as well. Worse yet were the onlookers who had a bad habit of dashing into the middle of the road to get a better look at the motorcars as they approached and who gave little thought to how much harm the impact of one of these roaring monster could do to a body. Why, back in May, the French government had stepped in and called a halt to a race from Paris to Madrid, which had turned into some kind of demolition derby. By the time the front-runners had reached Bordeaux, more than half the cars had crashed and eight people had been left dead, including Marcel Renault, racing car driver and industrialist, and co-founder with his brothers of the famous automobile manufacturer named after them. In fact, open road racing had been banned after that, and it was only because of the political clout wielded by the organizers that this race was being allowed. Not knowing when they would have a chance to see another such event, the citizens of Paris were going to make the most of this one!
Many were claiming that there hadn't been this much excitement in Paris since the turn of the century. A carnival atmosphere surrounded the Bois, with vendors hawking wares such as souvenirs, hot chocolate, fresh baguettes and roasted chestnuts. Men carrying sandwich boards wended their way through the throngs, advertising variety shows, popular restaurants, and other diversions. Firepots had been set out on street corners to ward off the autumn chill, and the festive flames added to the excitement.
Although barely past three in the morning, the park was brilliant as day. Paris was, after all, the "The City of Lights." There were the street lamps (both gas and electrical) providing basic illumination, and many of the buildings and exhibits were also lit for the occasion. Most pedestrians and bicyclists carried lanterns with them, and there were lights affixed to the racing vehicles, too. In fact, many places were bright enough to read a book by and more than bright enough for drivers to make last-minute adjustments to their vehicles, which was what Vincent was doing at this very moment.
The de Chagny family stood nearby watching him with interest. Raoul especially was keen on learning more about his son's fascination, and strained to hear what was being said. The younger daughters had been allowed to stay up all night, with expectations that they would sleep on the train all the way to Bordeaux. Two heavy-eyed girls in matching fur-trimmed velvet coats leaned sleepily against the vicomte, while his wife and eldest daughter stood at attention nearby, watching Vincent with a mixture of pride at his daring and concern for his safety. Even the normally placid Erik couldn't help but smile at such a charming picture of family loyalty and devotion. He headed towards the de Chagnys, swinging his walking stick in one hand and guiding Aurelia through the masses with the other, when a familiar voice caught his attention. It was Édouard, with his clerk Barthlebe hot on his heels.
"It seems all of Paris has turned out tonight," Erik said, nodding at the pair. "Don't tell me you're catching the train to Bordeaux, too."
"You should be so lucky," Bruguière replied. "We have work to do, unlike you gentlemen of leisure." He turned on the charm with his goddaughter. "My dear, may I say that I have never seen you look lovelier. How does one remain beautiful at such an ungodly hour?"
Aurelia pecked him on the cheek and beamed at Barthlebe. She twirled a little to show off her new ensemble, its stylish black and white stripes making it ideal for a day at the races. "My friend, Vincent, is racing," she said excitedly. She pointed him out as discreetly as possible.
Bruguière regarded Vincent's vehicle with the same air of objective detachment he used in the courtroom. "It's very…modern."
"Indeed it is," Erik said agreeably, "but I don't imagine you came out here at three in the morning to discuss automobiles."
"Are you so sure?" Édouard stared at his clerk. "The truth is, I was dragged out of peaceful slumber by a detective. What was his name? Ah, yes. Boisneuf. Seems my offices were broken into shortly after Barthlebe locked up for the night."
"Broken into? Why would anyone break into a law office?" Erik asked, his curiosity piqued. "Was anything stolen?"
Barthlebe looked up, the strain of the evening's events showing in his lined face, and buttoned his coat collar tight around his neck. "Nothing of any consequence, but there was some damage to the file cabinets. Fortunately, we keep all of our important documents and archives locked up in a caged area, since they contain confidential information. The thief will be very surprised to learn that all he's gained for his effort was a box of old correspondence destined for the burn bin. Envelopes, mostly. Nothing of any consequence." He heaved a sigh. "It was probably a vagrant looking for cash or something of value that he could easily pawn. Boisneuf thinks the charwoman interrupted the robbery and scared the man off when she turned on the lights in the hallway."
Édouard wore a pained expression. "Whoever he was, he owes me a window. Fool! He broke my window on his way out, when all he had to do was go out the way he came in. The poor woman would hardly have challenged him over rubbish. And it was my favorite window, too."
"You must remember to tip that good woman come Christmastime," Erik said, stifling a laugh. "You know," he added as an afterthought, "I could rig something up for you, something that would prevent further intrusions."
"A booby trap? Yes, that's a marvelous idea, Erik," Édouard said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can only imagine what you've got in mind. It would probably decapitate either Barthlebe or me—or perhaps that good charwoman, once we've forgotten all about it in a few months' time."
Erik shrugged. "Don't blame me if the perpetrator returns and cleans out your stash of expensive cigars next time." He grinned as the attorney recoiled at the suggestion.
"Oh, look!" Aurelia said, tugging at her father's arm and brimming with excitement. "Vincent is waving to us. He wants us to come over!"
The foursome made their way over to the preparation area, where the de Chagny family was already gathering. Introductions were made, and Bruguière and Barthlebe wished Vincent best of luck before taking their leave. "We're going to work our way back to the starting line," Édouard explained. "We'll be cheering for you." The two of them tipped their hats and disappeared into the crowd.
"I would like you to meet my co-pilot, Marc," Vincent announced, dragging a man dressed from head to toe in rugged clothing made for a long race, a full-length duster atop layers and layers of woolens. He doffed his cap in deference to the ladies and stuffed his goggles into a deep pocket.
The young man was exotic looking, with dark eyes and hair, and a skin tone that hinted at the Mediterranean. Holding out a grease-stained hand, he blushed when he realized how grimy it was. He wiped it on his coat, realized that did little good, and laughed out loud before dropping his hand at his side. "Marcel Marceau," he mumbled by way of introducing himself.
"He doesn't say much," said Vincent, giving his co-pilot a good-natured slap on the back, "but he knows how to read a map and he's the greatest mechanic who ever lived. And what's more, he's studying at the Sorbonne," he added, after seeing the interest Moerogis was taking in his handsome friend.
"The Sorbonne?" Clementine inquired politely. "What are you studying?"
"Fine arts," the young man replied, smiling at the look of surprise on their faces. He took a step closer to the pretty young woman who batted her lashes at him, but the blast of a horn alerted them to the time. "Vince, that's the fifteen minute warning. We have to get a move on." He nodded to Vincent's entourage and returned to the task of stowing away equipment as racing officials began to clear pedestrians from the racecourse.
Raoul gave his son a fatherly pat on the shoulder, admonished him to drive safely, and shook his hand before stepping aside so that Clementine could give their son a quick hug. "I'm proud of you," she whispered in his ear. Moerogis, Camille, and Zoé were next in line, giving him quick kisses and bidding him best of luck, and suddenly, there was no one on the planet but himself and Aurelia.
She offered him a long white silk scarf that she had embroidered with her initials in thread the color of champagne. He held it to his lips briefly and inhaled the scent of her perfume that clung it. It was a fresh and youthful fragrance that held the promise of spring, and at that moment, the night air no longer seemed chilly. In fact, it was downright warm. Vincent loosened his coat and looped the scarf around his neck. "Thank you," he said with a rakish grin. "When we get to Bordeaux, I'll be looking for you at the finish line."
Soon, the cars were assembled at the starting area. Because there were so many automobiles, they took off in groups. Otherwise, they would not have all been able to fit on the road at the same time. The cars were grouped according to class (Vincent's 45-horsepower Turcat-Méry was in the heavy car class) and from there the drivers drew numbers to determine their starting order. Vincent was fortunate to go out in the first group. The de Chagnys and the Delacortes stood by, waving and cheering their driver on. Once the last of the two-hundred-plus entrants sped away, Raoul picked up Zoé, who was asleep on her feet, and rubbed her back as she nestled her head on his shoulder. "It's off to the train for us. You sent your luggage ahead, I take it?" he asked Erik.
"Yes, it's all there. Thanks again for arranging this…outing. It ought to be very interesting."
"I want everyone to be comfortable. I have arranged for private sleeping cars, one for the girls, one for you—and Aurelia, if she'd prefer to stay with you—and one for Clemmie and myself. For the return trip, we have accommodations for Vincent as well."
This was royal treatment, indeed. The vicomte was sparing no expense for this excursion, and Erik was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "You are a generous host," he said at last. Whether Raoul could hear him over the raucous throng was questionable. The women stayed close to the men in a tight knot, hoping to avoid being jostled in the crush. Most of the onlookers dispersed quickly and headed to their homes, but a large number made their way towards the rail station on the Paris-to-Bordeaux line.
The Bois was so crowded with people from all walks of life that they never even noticed the raggedy man who trailed behind them as they threaded their way towards the Gare d'Orleans.
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