Note: This chapter is sad, but it's got some Erik, so that helps. Yay for reviews, even if it's just three, they make me happy, so keep 'em coming. Oh and how do you let nonmembers review? I'm rather unknowledgeable about things like that.
Chapter 4: Fighting Back Tears
"She's dead?" said my father in a faint voice. He sounded as ill as I felt.
"Please, sir, explain to us what you mean," said Grandmère to the wet man who had barged in on us so unexpectedly.
The farmer began his story nervously, "A bunch of us was working to reinforce the South Bridge, so that it wouldn't get washed away in the storm. We spotted the Vicomtesse across the bank in nothing but her nightdress, so I called out, asking if she needed any assistance. She didn't seem to hear me, just kept walking right along the edge of the river. Some of the men went to help her, but before they got there she stumbled and then…"
"No!" interrupted my father. He had stood up and all the color was drained from his face.
The farmer looked stricken, but he continued, "We ran as fast as we could to the spot she fell in, only there weren't no trace anywhere. It would've been suicide to jump in after her, though some of us waded out as far as we could, but we were too late."
"No!" yelled my father again.
My head began to swim. I did not seem to understand what was happening around me. My father was right, of course; Maman could not possibly be dead. I had spoken to her just last night.
"I'm sorry, my lord, but I saw it with my own eyes," said the farmer.
"No! You're wrong!" shouted my father. "I'm coming, Christine!" Then he ran out the door, like a man possessed.
"The boy is not in his right mind; he may hurt himself," said Grandmère urgently, rising in her chair.
"But where could he have gone?" asked the nurse.
"To the South Bridge, you little fool," said Grandmère, striding quickly out of the room.
We all followed her, me, the nurse, the farmer, and half the servants, as well. Going down the front steps, we met the policeman my father had sent for and he joined us too. The downpour had us all drenched after walking just a few feet. The wind and raindrops stung my face, but I did not really feel them. I did not feel anything. Five minutes later we were at the South Bridge with the wide river tearing past us at lighting speed.
On the ground lay my father's coat and boots. I could barely make him out in the middle of the raging water, fighting the strong current to search for my mother. Above the howling of the wind I heard him shouting her name. He would surface for a moment and then dive under again and again. Each time his head disappeared I thought, Maybe this time he will find her.
"I don't know how he's staying afloat in these conditions," said the policeman in amazement.
"He's killing himself!" cried Grandmère. "You must stop him."
"Begging your ladyship's pardon, but it won't do no good, unless he comes on his own. I can't swim in that mess and drag him against his will at the same time," reasoned the policeman.
"Papa please come back!" I screamed.
He paused for a moment and then shouted, "Don't worry Lynette. I'll find her!"
A floating log came dangerously close to hitting his head and I knew that I had to stop him somehow. Without pausing to think, I waded into the river, ignoring the cries of Grandmère and the rest behind me. The water was very swift and I thought how easy it would be just to stop struggling and let it carry me far away.
"Lynette! What are you doing?" shouted Papa when he saw me paddling toward him.
"Get her out of there, Raoul!" screeched Grandmère.
He started to swim toward me when suddenly I felt the current yank me under. For a moment I was lost beneath the surface and I could not tell which way was up or down. I beat at the water and twisted this way and that, but to no avail. Then strong arms seized me and I was looking into Papa's frantic eyes.
"Lynette, what were you thinking?" he asked.
"Let's go back, Papa. I don't want to lose you too," I whispered.
I don't know if he heard me over the roaring river, but he pulled us both to shore anyway. He did not go back into the water, as I had feared he might, and the two of us lay there in the mud, gasping for breath, while the small crowd stared.
"I'm sorry, Lynette. I tried. I tried to save her. I tried," he kept saying over and over. He seemed tired and beaten.
"I know Papa," I said and then I looked down at the black, swirling water that rushed by us. In that moment I knew that I had lost my mother forever. She was so very weak. Once she fell in, the water must have dragged her under quickly. Had she felt the same blind panic I had or had she gone calmly to her fate?
I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop the scream that threatened to escape. I thought that if I started to cry or shriek I would not be able stop, so instead I began to shake, my teeth chattering violently.
"The child is soaked," said Grandmère. "We must get her to the house."
My father carried me to my bed and then the doctor gave me medicine that made me fall into a wonderfully dreamless sleep. After that things were a blur with people speaking in muted tones and giving me grave looks and calling me the "poor child." A woman came and measured me for the new black dresses that I had to wear all the time, to show respect for the dead, Grandmère said.
At last it was the day of the funeral. They had not yet found Maman's body, so we would have to bury an empty coffin. Grandmère said we could fill it once her body was discovered, which might be in a few weeks or a few months or never. I stared at myself in the mirror and thought how much I looked like my mother had when she was sick, my face ashen against my dark dress and hair, my eyes round and sad.
"You must be brave, Lynette," I said to my reflection and I did not recognize the hoarse sound of my own voice.
I felt as if I floated through that day, as if I were not myself. It was not me who sat quietly during mass feeling as if I might vomit, while the priest said nice, impersonal things about Maman. It was not me who laid a white lily on my mother's empty casket and hid my face when they lowered it into the ground. It was not me who squeezed my father's hand, as he struggled to maintain his composure in front of all those people.
It was not me who told Aunt Meg that I was perfectly well, thank you, and then walked away to be by myself in the garden. It was a gray day, perfectly fitting for a funeral. Less fitting were the little shoots of green poking up from the earth, showing that spring had come at last.
"Why didn't you cry during the funeral mass?" asked a voice behind me.
I turned around to find my cousins Henri and Claude staring at me, dressed in matching black suits. Next to them was a sandy-haired boy I did not know.
It was Claude who had spoken first and Henri kicked him whispering, "Don't bother her with questions, her mother is dead!"
In a louder voice he said to me, "This is our friend Victoir. His father was at school with your father and his estate is just nine miles from here."
I did not reply, since I was busy biting my lip to keep from crying. I had not cried at all since Maman's death. The effort was starting to wear on me and after a moment I tasted blood.
"I was very sorry to hear about your mother," said Victoir politely.
"I should like to be left alone," I said.
"Please, Lynette, we want to help," said Henri, stepping toward me.
"I said I want to be alone," I replied, a little louder this time.
"We want to help," Henri said again.
"Go away!" I shouted and then I punched him in the face.
I took a mean sort of pleasure in watching him fall, his nose bleeding. Then I felt guilty when I saw him blinking rapidly to stop the tears. I knew that trick; it had stopped working for me days ago. I also knew the trick of digging my nails into my hands, pinching my arm, and gnawing on the inside of my cheek, all to keep myself from crying. Suddenly, I could not hold back any longer and I started to sob, collapsing on the ground next to Henri.
"I'm sorry I hit you," I said in a choked voice. "It wasn't me. I mean, I am not myself today."
"It's all right," he said, patting me on the back.
"Henri was right; you do have a very fine right hook for girl," said Victoir, helping me to my feet. "They told me how you knocked down Claude last summer." Then he added, "You may use my handkerchief, since Henri's has blood on it."
"Thank you," I said, but it was not really me who said it.
And it was not me who trudged after the three of them to the house, where Grandmère made me eat food that tasted like gravel. It was not me who stood next to my father and graciously said goodbye to our guests, as if it were a tea party instead of my mother's funeral. It was not me who went to sleep that night, wishing that morning would never come.
In fact I did not feel like myself again until I woke up in the middle of the night to find a strange man at the end of my bed. Tall and dark, with black clothes and a black mask covering his face, he should have frightened me out of my wits, but if my mother's death had taught me anything, it was that I must always be brave.
"Who are you?" I asked, popping up quickly and standing on my bed, so that I was eye to eye with him.
He started at the sight of me and then began to edge toward the window, as he said in a deep and powerful voice, "I am an angel."
"No you're not," I said flatly.
"Then I'm a ghost."
"There's no such thing as ghosts," I said.
"I'm just a figment of your imagination," he replied in an annoyed way. "Go back to sleep."
"I don't take orders from perfect strangers," I said. "Even if they are fig…fig-whatsits of my imagination.
"Spirited words, Mademoiselle," he said, still sliding toward the window. "But can you back them with deeds?"
"I am not scared of you," I retorted. "If you try to hurt me, I will make your nose bleed, just like I did to my cousins, Henri and Claude."
"Favoring fists over brains, I see. There can be no doubt now that you are a Chagny."
"What do you mean?" I asked, not sure by his tone whether or not he was insulting me.
"Alas, I'm afraid the time for questions has come to an end." His words were polite, but I got the distinct impression he was mocking me. He heaved a large bundle outside and swung a leg out the window.
"You can't leave that way. We're two floors up," I told him.
"Two floors are nothing to figments of the imagination."
"I'm going to get my father," I said.
He grimaced in the moonlight. "Do as you like. I shall be well on my way by the time you wake him. But think carefully before you do. You wouldn't want to upset him, would you? Not when he's already grieving. A good daughter would never do such a thing."
He leapt out the window and I stifled a scream. I ran to the window sill and saw that he had tied a rope to one of the beams that stuck out from the roof. When he got to the ground he whistled softly and a white horse appeared from behind some shrubbery. He picked up the dark bundle he had thrown down, climbed on the horse, and then rode off swiftly through the fields.
It was a curious incident, the first thing that had taken my mind off my mother's death since that awful morning by the river. I decided not to wake my poor Papa, who needed his sleep so badly these days. I would tell him what had happened in the morning.
When I went down to breakfast the next day, I found Papa and Grandmère deep in conversation with a policeman at the foot of the stairs. For one sickening moment I thought that they had found Maman's body, but as I got closer I discovered that the problem was quite different.
"What exactly was stolen?" the policeman was asking.
"Two miniature portraits from the gallery and some of my late wife's clothes and toiletries," said my father.
"Including a very expensive set of combs and brushes," added Grandmère.
"No other valuables are missing?" asked the policemen.
"No," said Papa. "It was one of the parlor maids who discovered the smashed case in the portrait room."
The policeman wrote this down and said, "I'll need to interview the maid, of course, but my guess is that the burglar just took whatever he could get his hands on easily, probably taking advantage of the crowd here for the funeral. I'll leave a few men around, though, just in case he decides to come back."
"Thank you," said Papa wearily.
So my figment of the imagination was nothing but a common burglar! Papa would be very troubled to learn that I had spoken to a burglar, so I decided to say nothing about our encounter. It wasn't as if I could tell the policeman anything useful, since I hadn't even seen the man's face.
"Good morning, Lynette," said Grandmère, seeing me on the stairs. "I want to congratulate you on your good behavior yesterday. I know it must have been difficult for you to maintain your composure, but you were a credit to us all."
"I'm proud of you too," said Papa, hugging me. I wondered what they would say if they knew that I had punched Henri in the face.
When we sat down to breakfast, Grandmère said, "Raoul, don't you have something to tell the girl?"
"Of course," said Papa. "I suppose it's best to get these things over with quickly."
"What is it?" I asked uneasily.
"Yesterday my sister offered to let you stay with her for a few weeks in Paris."
"But I want to stay here with you!" I said.
"I'm not going to be here," said Papa. "I have business in Marseilles that I can't ignore any longer. Believe me, I'd much rather stay with you too, but I think a change of scenery will be good for us both."
"Then let me come with you," I said.
"I wouldn't be able to give you the attention you deserve. Your Aunt Isabelle will take good care of you," he assured me.
"I'll miss you," I said.
"As I will miss you," he replied. "We must write to each other everyday."
"I've never gotten real letters before," I said, trying to smile for him. He smiled back, for the first time in weeks.
My heart ached at the thought of leaving him, but I knew he was right. There may have been no such things as ghosts, but the château was haunted for my father and me, haunted by the memory of Maman. It would be good for us both to get away, so that we could come back and be a family again.
Besides, I would be with Henri and Claude. That was something. A prickle of excitement wormed its way through the cloud of sadness that hung over me like a veil. At last I would be going to Paris, the City of Light, the jewel of France, and the place where my mother had spent most of her girlhood.
