A/N: Here it is, the interlude that will possibly help explain exactly what happened in the last chapter! I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but here it is.
The house I live in on Rue Auber is a wonderful house. I like it, at least. It is three stories tall, with a dark, rather stifling attic up near the roof. The ground floor consists of the usual things one might find in a house – the kitchen, the dining room, the work room, the parlor, and so on. On the second floor there are bedrooms, including the room where my wife, my daughter, and I sleep. The third floor is reserved for guests and for the three maids I have.
Of the three maids, only one of them, Mlle. Margot Lautrec, a lovely girl, really, with dark brown hair, pale white skin, and a kind, gentle face, stays in the house at all times. The other two often return home for the evening, but I hired Mlle. Lautrec to remain constantly. Lately, she has proven indispensable, looking after Charlotte during the daytime while I am away at work.
She is indispensable, you see, because lately Charlotte has been acting strangely – even mad! When I first met my wife in Sweden, she seemed innocent and rational, with her beautiful sunshine hair and clear blue eyes. Even after we were wed, she seemed just as wonderful as before. I thought she had been perfectly content, and was certain that after giving birth to our beautiful daughter, Adele, she would be even more joyful! After all, what can be happier for a woman than motherhood?
Astonishingly, soon after giving birth, Charlotte became sad, irrational, and confused. I often returned from the Opera House not to find a beaming, joyful wife but a morose, weeping woman who silently cradled our daughter in her arms as tears poured down her cheeks. She would not tell me what was wrong, only that she felt sad, that she feared for Adele's future.
"Nonsense!" I replied the first time. "She will grow up to be a fine, respectable young lady, and will most certainly marry a man of high class!"
And at this, to my bewilderment, Charlotte would become even more distressed.
Recently she had become even more befuddled and strange. At night, she was restless, and often paced our bedroom, muttering to herself. She seemed unable to sleep, and when I ordered her, even begged her to return to bed, she would come back and begin talking about – about everything! She talked about God, about the universe, about morality, about sin, about society, practically everything she could think of and I was simply helpless to stop her! Yet in the morning, if after she finally returned to sleep, her mind was completely blank, and she thought of nothing.
She even began to obsessively fold and hang our clothes. She would throw all of our clothes onto the floor, then hang and fold each jacket, each coat, each dress, each suit one by one back into their respective places – then take them all out and do it all over again.
Thus, you can see how Mlle. Lautrec became incredibly helpful. She watches over Charlotte while I am away, and reports to me any strange events that occur in my absence. And when Charlotte is most distressed and uneasy around Adele? Then Mlle. Lautrec assumes the role of nurse – even mother! – for my poor child.
I smiled to myself, standing just outside of the door to my house as Mlle. Lautrec ran from the kitchen to close the door for me. She was truly wonderful. She performed all of the duties a wife would – she was kind and gentle, sweet and friendly, always cheerful and diligent in her duties. With Charlotte hardly acting rationally or sympathetically, I had even taken to confiding in Mlle. Lautrec my anxieties, my worries about managing the Opera House.
Charlotte used to share my concerns for the Opera House. Lately, however, she had taken to smirking condescendingly, as if I were some fool of a manager who did not know what he was doing.
Mlle. Lautrec, I soon discovered, responded far more compassionately. Her deep, brown eyes would widen in concern, and her slight, small hands would fly to her mouth as I described to her the unreasonable demands the management made. Then, her hands would grab mine, and her lips would part to form comforting sounds of reassurance, and for a moment, I could forget my earthly responsibilities and boundaries and live for the pleasure of a moment…
"Have a good day, monsieur," Mlle. Lautrec said politely as she approached the door. "Is there anything I should know about… your wife… before you leave?"
I nodded. Truly, she was wonderfully perceptive and intuitive, even though she had not been there to witness what I had. She was a fine young lady (and beautiful, besides!) and would make any man happy to have her to love, and eventually wife. "Actually, things shall be different today. Charlotte needs to rest in the attic today… Poor thing, really quite out of her mind! She is exhausted, and there's nothing like a bit of rest in the dark that'll make her well again. In any case, you must take care of Adele today." Mlle. Lautrec nodded. "But listen to me, mademoiselle," I continued, a bit sterner and more urgent. "On no occasion is Charlotte to leave the attic, do you understand? And, more importantly, on no occasion is she to see Adele!" My last sentence came out shriller and shakier, indiscreetly revealing the inner turmoil I was feeling at the moment.
Mlle. Lautrec placed a soft, warm hand on my hand, attempting to console me. It worked, for I was distracted by her gentle touch and breathed easier. I marveled; for a maid, her hand was so soft! Oh, if only my wife would touch me so delicately again! Where had she gone? Who was this unfamiliar savage that had taken her place?
"I know, monsieur," Mlle. Lautrec said in a soft, lovely voice. "I know. Adele is safe with me." She rested her hand on mine for a moment longer, then released it, smiling shyly. I nodded briskly. "Have a good day, mademoiselle. And thank you… Margot."
With that, I dashed away to my carriage. What a strange morning this was! First my own wife attacked me, then I called my maid by her first name…
I felt a pang of guilt. My wife was not well; I could not blame her for not acting as the loving, caring, docile wife she should. Yet, I had not the courage to confront the question of my affections: Did I truly enjoy the presence of my maid more than that of my own wife?
By the time I reached the Paris Opera House, I had lost all my previous composure. I was shaking so hard by the time I walked through the doors that I was hardly able to navigate the maze-like building to reach my office. At long last, I reached the office, and flew through the door and collapsed into a chair. Debienne was already there, and he rose from his chair, alarmed.
"Poligny! What is wrong?" he exclaimed, concerned.
I could not speak for the next minute, so terrified I was by what had come to pass less than forty-five minutes ago.
"Poligny! Answer me! What was it? Is it the theatre police? Are they investigating the premises again?"
"No!" I managed to gasp. "No! Not the theatre police! Far worse! My wife!"
"Charlotte?" said Debienne, comprehension dawning upon his face.
"Yes…"
After I had woken up that morning and could have sworn I had seen Charlotte hanging our own daughter out the window, I left the bedroom to get ready for work. I had been uneasy, for though I was certain it had been my imagination, I could not forget what I thought I had seen. Unsettled, I made my way back up the stairs to our bedroom. Along the way I had heard two unearthly sounds: a voice, singing beautifully and yet chillingly, coldly, and another voice, this one of a baby wailing and screaming pitifully.
Alarmed, I raced up the stairs, shouting, "Charlotte? What are you doing?"
When I heard no answer, I ran faster and flung open the door. "Charlotte!" I roared when I saw what was happening.
Inside, my wife was standing a yard or so away from the window, by herself. Her back was to me, and she did not even turn around when I entered the room, but continued to sing that strange, unearthly song.
More upsetting was the fact that a yard or so away on the windowsill rested my daughter, Adele! Adele was screaming and wailing on the windowsill, beating her fists furiously, and if she were not careful she would fall to the streets below!
"Charlotte!" I shouted as I raced to the window, desperate to snatch my child from her fall. I seized my child, and at that instant my wife leaped upon me, beating upon my shoulder, lapsing into Swedish and French.
"Charlotte, stop it right now!" I shouted, shielding Adele, all the time wailing terrifically, from Charlotte's flailing fists. When she refused to quit, I drew back my own fist and pummeled her soundly in the face, and she collapsed to the floor, as if she were a marionette and her strings had been cut in the middle of the puppet show.
I related my woeful tale to Debienne, and he could only shake his head in disbelief. When I finished, we were both silent for a long, long time. I knew my co-manager, though. He was no fool, and he had an answer to everything.
Finally, I said, "What am I to do? Much as I would like to divorce her and send her to an insane asylum and be done with it, I can't… My reputation… Society's standards… Word spreads quickly around the opera, and the patrons don't like it when their managers can't even marry respectable women… And, anyway, she can't help herself, poor girl! It's just… wrong… to forsake her like that."
And I truly believed in what I said. Though I certainly enjoyed the quick pleasures of life, I knew where I stood, and I knew that I could not simply abandon my wife. And besides, what would society, with its clear standards on marriage and divorce, think of such a careless upper class Parisian?
Debienne nodded, thoughtful. "No, you're right, a divorce would be the wrong thing to do… Both for her and for you, financially, and for our reputation… At least for now…"
I hung my head, ashamed, ashamed of the creature I had wed. "Then what shall I do? Right now I am keeping my wife in the attic, at least until she gets better."
"Is your child away from her?" inquired Debienne sharply.
"Of course."
"Good," he said. He hesitated. "I am… I am no doctor. But… Are you familiar with Weir Mitchell?"
"The neurologist? The one with his 'rest cure' theory for hysterical, female patients?"
"The same. I would advise you to follow his therapy, for it seems that your wife is suffering from hysteria. Let your wife get plenty of rest. Keep her inside at all times. Do not allow her any stimulation or work, or anything that might cause her to exert herself or to think. She thinks too much, and it is her exhaustion from thinking and working that prolongs her insanity. And, this is simply my own opinion, but I would keep her out of the sunshine as much as possible. Light will only further stimulate her mind, and that is the last thing she needs. And, of course, keep your child far out of her reach. The last thing she needs is to taint your child with her madness."
I nodded, stunned at the wisdom of my friend.
"Thank you," I managed to stammer. "You, so wise, how…"
Debienne merely waved his hand dismissively. "It is nothing. But now… what of that last note the Opera Ghost sent us?"
I pulled out the latest note from the Opera Ghost and showed it to Debienne. Inside, however, I paid little attention to Debienne's comments. Inside, I was rejoicing! Charlotte need only be confined to the bed in the attic and she would be well again! Women are absolutely hysterical, you know – they develop all these silly thoughts about freedom and independence and having a voice when all they really need is discipline and some rest. A little bit of rest washes away all alarming thoughts!
In the meantime, who was to say that I was to remain celibate while my pathetic wife recovered? I owned an Opera House, and I should think I deserved a little bit of pleasure and fun now and then. And anyway, there was always Margot to help me through my sorrows!
A/N: Dr. Weir Mitchell was a real neurologist from America. In 1877, a year before this part of the story, he wrote the book Fat and Blood, which describes his famous rest cure. It's pretty much exactly as Debienne described it. The stuff about the light is Debienne's own opinion. The rest cure was more popular in America and England, although a few in France did know about it. For my purposes, the Debienne is a well-read man and knows about the rest cure, albeit unprofessionally. Also for my purposes, because of Debienne's and Poligny's lack of professional training with the rest cure, the way Poligny will administer it to Charlotte will not be completely consistent with how Mitchell describes it.
Is there something more going on between Poligny and Mlle. Lautrec? We'll see! ;)
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