Disclaimer
This story does not really belong to me. I have debated de-archiving it on but it has gotten positive responses from readers; therefore, I will leave it up until such time as its original author (Jennifer Hinds) asks me to remove it.
My part in the story's creation was one of a beta-reader, editor and finally "guest contributor" – I wrote Chapter 9 and a few other scenes throughout. This story is not archived anywhere else and no copyright infringement is intended.
Reviews are welcome, but since the story is indexed with my other works, the notification will come to me. Anyone wishing to contact the story's writer should do so via email to mllecdaae at yahoo dot com.
HJS, 3/22/05
Homecoming
by Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan
Chapter 1
Christine, the Vicomtesse de Chagny, was taking a leisurely tea in the garden of the villa her husband had rented for the summer and watching as the late afternoon sunlight played lighthearted games amongst the well-tended foliage. At her feet, a child of six primped and played with a large-eyed porcelain doll whose dress matched her own – Elaine, the young couple's daughter. For a quiet moment, perfect happiness settled upon Christine: with the sun in her hair and her beloved child close at hand, she had all she could ask for in the world.
But her idyll was not to be uninterrupted, or her happiness enduring. Suddenly, and with uncharacteristic purpose, her husband came striding out of the house and down the garden path.
"Christine, may I speak to you?" Raoul asked.
At once Christine could sense that something was terribly amiss, and though she knew she could not refuse such a blunt request, she was anxiously reluctant to rise from her chair. Remaining seated, she replied with forced good nature, "Of course you may, Raoul. What is it about?"
"I would prefer that we discussed the matter indoors, privately." There was no mistaking the ice in his tone now, and Christine wondered at her being so immune to its sharp edges – but it was not impossible to understand. Over the past several years of their marriage, the only thing that seemed to be dwindling faster than Raoul's patience was his former devotion to her. Where once he had never wanted to leave her side, she hardly saw him now; no longer did she receive from him any words that might be construed as kind.
Resigning herself to the eventuality of an unpleasant exchange, she forced her tone light for her child's sake. "Elaine, hadn't you best go to the music room? Your tutor will be here soon and you have not practiced since his last visit."
"Yes, mama," Elaine answered with a toss of her golden hair. Taking up her doll by one hand, she scampered off between the hedges.
Once Elaine had disappeared through the French doors, Christine rose and at Raoul's side began the long stroll toward the house. Glancing furtively in his direction, she noted once again the change in his face that she had seen develop in the last few years of their marriage. Wealth and leisure, it seemed, had taken a far greater toll on him than might be expected. He was no longer the sweet young man that she had fallen in love with at the margin of the sea and at the tender age of thirteen; today he was stern and almost cruel, even to people whom he had known all of his life. Gone was the Raoul who had taken joy in watching Elaine play the piano or display her drawings proudly before her papa. Only months ago he had grown so angry at Elaine's insistence that he look away from his paper to watch her dancing a little step she had imagined, that he had ejected the child from the room altogether and requested, very tersely, that Christine keep her away from him as much as possible.
As they walked, he did not offer her his arm, nor even remain beside her; his back led her towards the house, and he said no word to her until they reached it. Opening the door with mock courtesy, he spoke a few acidic words. "After you, Vicomtesse."
"Thank you, Raoul," she replied cautiously, narrowing her eyes.
As they swept up the stairs, each footfall was punctuated by the notes Elaine's scales echoing from the music room below. Christine felt her heart beating faster; Raoul was leading the way to the room he had set up as his office. She had never been allowed to go in there before – he had made it quite clear to her upon their arrival at this rented house that she was not to meddle with it, nor allow Elaine to enter. He had gone so far as to keep the door locked – yes, she had once tried the handle, just to see. She had rather been expecting he would do so, so to learn it was no real surprise.
Now, as he fumbled for the key, Christine was able to draw close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. This, like his coldness and his secrecy, was a small detail with which she had become all too familiar over the last several years. But having seen quite a bit of other aristocrats in her time as an aristocrat's wife, she had always counted herself among the luckier ones. Raoul was rarely raving drunk, at least at home where she or Elaine would be forced to see him in such a state; he preferred to venture out to gentleman's clubs and other venues of ill repute to sate his urge for vice. The deterioration of her husband's character had therefore been the source of some personal distress, but never any real harm, to Christine.
Finally, Raoul located the necessary key and, throwing the door open, motioned her to a chair by the window. Moving slowly towards it, she cast her glance around the room, taking in what it was that he kept under lock and key; she could see nothing but absolute disorder. Letters and bills were scattered about, covering the desk and part of the floor. The wastebasket was overflowing with drafts of letters and memorandums. Upon reaching the seat to which he had directed her, Christine added to a growing pile on the windowsill the papers she was forced to remove from the chair's cushion.
Settling herself into the chair, she allowed her glance to drift away from the room's chaos and out the window, across the lovely country landscape that spread itself out before her like a feast. The late summer sunlight touched the land gently, lending to it a faint golden glow. Not far from where she had so lately sat in the garden, a little pool refracted stray beams of light, a few of which bounced through this second-floor window and made little dappled patterns on the far wall. It was the only natural thing in the room.
From his station behind his desk, Raoul cleared his throat; but Christine was reluctant to leave the beauty of the prospect for what promised to be some sort of argument with him. When she did not turn her head, he grew angry and shattered the silence with a few simple words. "Christine, I want a divorce."
Her head turned now, of its own accord; she must have made quite a sight as her mind went blank and her mouth opened. "No ... no..." she managed to stutter in reply, "you can't be serious."
"Yes, I am," he said grimly, setting his mouth into a hard, cold line, "and I will have it. I want you and the child out of this house as soon as possible."
Christine felt positively ill. Of course she had known the marriage was not perfect, and that Raoul was changed since they were wed; but as a good Catholic, she had never stopped believing in the vows they had made to each other. Finally the room seemed to stop spinning, and she recovered the ability to speak. "I – I thought you loved me, Raoul. We've been married seven years …"
"Seven boring years, darling," he interrupted her. Rising from his desk chair and stepping towards one of the other windows, he half-muttered to himself, "I can't believe it's lasted this long."
Dumbfounded and almost ashamed, Christine found herself unable to meet her husband's stony gaze. Her hands stretched and clasped together uselessly, and in her distraction she began to twist her engagement ring, which she still wore on the same finger as her wedding band. It was an ostentatious jewel, almost obscene in comparison to the first one Raoul had given her …
The one she had been relieved of, the night of the masquerade.
Christine's initial reaction of surprise at Raoul's sudden announcement was rapidly eclipsed by one of indignation as she began to reflect on their marriage and the events which had led up to it. It would be untrue to say that she had never thought of Erik since, but she had always appeased her confused emotions by reasoning that Raoul had been the better choice, the safer choice, and the one most likely to secure her future happiness. Now, with the meaning of his words breaking slowly upon her, she realized that she had once again fallen victim to appearances. But today she was no longer the uncertain child she had been when she trod the boards at the Opera; she was capable now of understanding, and of anger.
"Then why did you marry me, Raoul?" she asked, her tone rivaling his for biting coldness. "I thought it was for love – I suppose that mistake was mine – but you could not have wanted things to end this way. If you could not keep the vows we made before God and witnesses, why did you ever come after me all those years ago? You could have left me with Erik, and saved us all the trouble of your turning your back on me now."
Raoul seemed to dismiss this remark as foolish; he never turned away from the window. "I wouldn't leave you in the hands of a monster, Christine. I was convinced at the time that I loved you – I have since learned I was wrong. Can you fault me for making an honest mistake?"
So cruel had Raoul become in the last few years that the insensitivity of his last words hardly registered in Christine's heart. It was instead the insult to Erik that fanned the flames steadily rising in her. "How dare you call him a monster! You of all people have the least right to throw that label about!" she retorted angrily.
Her insistence seemed to pierce his cool veneer, for he finally turned and looked her in the eyes. "Even you, my dear Christine, can't call him human. Monster is the only true name for him." For a moment he was silent, studying her features as they knotted in indignation. "And I wonder what your true name is, if you could have cared for him …"
The calmness that surrounded his insinuation goaded her. "He was more human than you can ever aspire to be!" she cried, springing from her seat and starting towards the door. How dare he accuse her of infidelity, even in her heart … for yes, she had thought of Erik, but …
As her hand touched the door handle, the thought broke upon her like a wave. She turned around.
"What is her name?" she asked as evenly as she could contrive.
He regarded her for a moment, then let out a deep breath. "I see that you are more perceptive than I had imagined; there is no point in hiding it any longer. Her name is Marie Aldault." She thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch, as though he were almost laughing at her. "Do you want to know where we met?"
"No," she spat back. "I know that the most important thing to you is how much she is worth."
At that he did smile: a small, self-congratulatory smirk. "I will say that our combined wealth is more than enough to support us in a much more lavish style," he admitted. "But if it's money that concerns you, you needn't worry about yourself and the child. I'll support her in the manner befitting one of the de Chagny name. You will also receive an allowance, of course..."
"You've changed so much, Raoul." Her interruption was soft, a disbelieving sigh.
"And you haven't, Christine," Raoul responded. "Still wrapped up in your naïveté and piety. When will you be able to leave?"
"Give me a few days to pack," she replied, throwing the words over her shoulder as she walked through the door.
As she descended the long wooden staircase, Christine's tears of rage were dammed by the sound of Estelle's music-lesson transpiring below. Despite Raoul's word that he would take care of them, she knew that he would give far less than what they needed to survive; and in the face of the humiliation and poverty that were soon to surround them, she knew Elaine would need her mother's decorum above all else. From the music-room, Elaine's laughter emerged, cutting Christine to the heart. A silent scream – how could he do this to us! – tore at her mind as she burst outside into the garden.
She was at the shore of the little lake by the time she had walked off the frenzy of her anger. But without it to carry her, her knees failed; she leaned against the smooth face of a nearby rock and wept. She wasn't blind – it wasn't as if this outcome was a complete surprise. Raoul's habits for drinking, gaming and philandering had been growing rapidly more pronounced as the years had progressed, and she had begun to believe that these were the burdens that every aristocratic wife must bear. But to be thrown aside in a hasty divorce was a shame far greater than that which entered her bedchamber smelling of brandy and cigars, with hands and words that no longer caressed and loved but hurt each chance they had.
Burying her face in her palms, Christine succumbed to the fall of twilight and the stings of betrayal. How long she maintained this attitude she was uncertain; but when she had regained herself she knelt at the pond's edge and splashed some of its waters on her cheeks. She would need all of its cool clarity to face her daughter without weeping.
It was a silent dinner that evening. Raoul did not join them, having left the house shortly after the scene in his study, and Christine herself spoke little; she did not think she could, felt strangled by the sensations of anger and sorrow that wrangled in her heart. Elaine seemed affected by the somber air that surrounded her mother, who noticed that the child was mostly pushing food around on her plate and staring at her mother with wide eyes.
After she had completely rearranged her dinner, Elaine could hold her tongue no longer. "Mama, why are you so sad?" she asked.
Christine had dreaded the inevitable questions; for Elaine was inquisitive and persistent, and she had not yet decided precisely what to tell her. "I am sad because we must leave the countryside, mon coeur," she finally answered carefully. "You and I will be moving away very soon; we must begin packing tonight, in fact."
"What about Papa?" Elaine queried after a moment's thought, and with a note of sadness floating in her voice. "Is he coming with us?"
"No, darling, he will be staying here," Christine answered in a voice that tried to forbid any more questions.
Elaine, however, did not take the hint. "But why must we go, Mama?"
Christine put down her fork and let her hand drift to her temple. "No more questions, Elaine. If you are done with your dinner, please go upstairs and gather together your dolls. I will be up shortly to begin taking down your dresses."
The child dutifully rose from her chair, but could not suppress one last question. "Where are we moving to, Mama?"
Finding she was too worn out to resist the child's insistence, she answered with a sigh, "We will go home for a little while, Elaine. After that, we shall see. Now, off you go."
After she tucked Elaine in for the evening, Christine also went to bed. She found herself unable to sleep, however; too many emotions coursed madly through her brain. Instead she threw open her shutters and let the cool country night air pour into the room; the moon was full, and its wan light suited her melancholy mood well as she paced in her nightgown.
Naturally she had been angry at first; but now that she had had some time to reflect on the sudden occurrences of the afternoon, her heart began to ache with a profound sadness. Since their marriage, she had been aware that Raoul had begun to change – keenly aware, at that, for the changes had been extreme and unpleasant, and altogether impossible to miss. She had tried to justify them in every way she could – and there had been sufficient reasons upon which to hang the blame.
Raoul's father had died not long after their wedding, and although he had disapproved of his son's choice of wife the two had reconciled before old de Chagny's death. He had made a final will only days before which restored to Raoul his proper inheritances. But the reclamation of his family's legacy, which ought to have brought such happiness and relief to the newlyweds, had only been the cause of further strife. Other relations, still refusing to accept Christine as a member of the family, and disbelieving that the old patriarch would change his mind even on his deathbed, had contested the will with a vengeance. After nearly two years of legal tangling, the matter had been decided in Raoul's favor, at which the remaining family turned their backs on him entirely. This loss of familial connections – and affections – was particularly hard on the Vicomte, who had loved his father deeply despite his disobedience in the matter of matrimony, and who was now left little better than an orphan. To add insult to injury, much of his father's money had been wasted on hefty legal costs; Raoul's solicitors had won his case for him, and were ruthless in the figuring of their fees afterwards.
To forget his troubles and to surround himself with society despite his being cast out by his family, Raoul had refocused his energies into leading a dizzying social life. With parties every night that teemed with champagne and required all the latest fashion, it was understandable that he quickly acquired tastes for spirits and gaming – and that his remaining financial resources began to dwindle. Nevertheless, he socialized with abandon; and Christine, who at the beginning had been his willing partner in all the wild waltzes, soon began to draw back from the picture of madcap recklessness he was coming to resemble. Raoul, already long-suffering as a result of his disownment, grew even more indignant at his wife's perception of his behavior, which he took for over-pious disapproval. This added exponentially to the vague resentment he had been tending for her ever since his family's abandonment of him; and soon he was lashing out at her, both by carrying on scandalous flirtations with other socialites, and with his increasingly frequent tempers.
When Elaine was born, Christine had hoped that becoming a father might lead Raoul towards reformation – and it had, for a time. But as Elaine grew older, his interest in her seemed to dwindle; he could no longer push her in a pram, or waltz with her bundled form in his arms to the delight of fellow revelers. He could not interest her in the pony he had bought for her, for she preferred dolls – and her music. At first Christine had suspected he was disappointed to have fathered a daughter and not a son; but as Elaine's musical talent became more obvious as she grew, Christine began to wonder whether it was not this that Raoul resented, Elaine's love of music and her potential as a performer, which had been her mother's former profession and hence the source of his shame.
But as sad as these changes in her husband had made her, Christine had always contented herself with her station in life by reassuring herself that Raoul would always love and care for her. The vows they had made to each other bound them to that course; and no matter what misfortunes and sorrows befell them, she felt assured of Raoul's affection. Even when he returned home in the small hours of the morning and stumbled up the stairs in a drunken stupor, even when their acquaintance buzzed with intrigue and rumors of the Vicomte's latest lover, even when he spoke sharply or laid a rough hand upon her, Christine had always bravely wiped away her tears and reminded herself that he had pledged to love her until death.
The sudden loss of that one remaining truth had wounded Christine to the heart, and when she finally fell into a shallow sleep she still could find no rest; she tossed and turned, and her mind was plagued by uncomfortable dreams.
She was certain she still dreamed when a sound like flapping petticoats touched her ears; but the maid was frantic and determined to rouse her sleeping mistress.
"Madame! Madame le Vicomtesse!"
"What is it, Marguerite?" Christine questioned crossly, lifting herself stiffly on one elbow and squinting in the light of the servant's candle. "What time is it?"
In her hysteria, the maid overlooked Christine's sour tone. "Your husband, Madame," she cried, "He has been in a serious accident! You must come at once – there is a doctor downstairs!"
Every inch of Christine's skin crinkled into gooseflesh; her body seemed to leap from the bed of its own accord. "I will be right there," she replied hurriedly. Grabbing her dressing gown, she flew out the door on the servant's heels. She was still tying her sash when she reached the foot of the stairs.
"Monsieur – where is my husband? What has happened?" Christine asked the doctor, her voice betraying the emotion that her face tried to hide behind a calm façade.
The older gentleman regarded her with a cautious expression. "Madame le Vicomtesse …" he said slowly, "I think that you should be seated …"
Marguerite, having anticipated ill tidings, was standing by with a chair from the parlor. Christine sank into it gratefully. "Please, Monsieur – is Raoul going to be all right?"
The doctor cleared his throat, then began to pace. "Madame, your husband fell down a flight of stairs leading to the street from the Aldault residence. He was apparently intoxicated at the time. The family sent for me immediately, but his neck was broken. He was dead before I reached the scene of the accident. I'm ... I'm very sorry to have to bring such news to you, Vicomtesse." Going to one knee before her chair, he reached out a comforting hand; the other fingered the bottle of smelling salts in his pocket, in case they would be required.
For a moment the room was awhirl around Christine, but she did not faint; finally she was able to muster the strength and composure to take the doctor's outstretched hand. "I thank you, sir, for your kindness, and your service. I am sure you did all you could." She rose unsteadily to her feet. "But now, I hope you will pardon me – I …"
The grey-haired gentleman patted her hand compassionately and shook his head; he understood her meaning, and led her towards the stairs. "Marguerite," she called over her shoulder from the upper landing, "please see to the Doctor's needs – provide him with whatever he desires. Perhaps … a glass of brandy …"
"Yes, Madame." Marguerite said in an appropriately dejected tone. "This way, Monsieur."
The doctor bowed to Christine in a parting gesture. "I shall send the parish priest to you in the morning, Madame." From her station at the top of the staircase, she gave him a grateful nod of acknowledgement and bade him adieu.
Once safely within the walls of her bedchamber, what little self control she had been able to command dissolved, and she crumpled to the floor. Even though Raoul had wished to divorce her, Christine had not had the time to allow her anger to take control of her heart; and she had still loved him, her beloved childhood friend and her husband of not a few years.
"Oh, Raoul," she sobbed into the rich carpet, "how I wish I could have saved you!"
