Author's Note:
WARNING: This chapter definitely meets the PG-13 rating. A little Raoul action here. ;)
To forever in a bottle: Yes, the "living bride" comment was a Leroux reference. Good job catching it!
Enjoy and review. :)
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Chapter 22: The Delusions of a Madman
The first meal in the de Chagny mansion was exquisite torture for Giselle. She had skipped breakfast, claiming to have overslept, and had shared a light lunch with Raoul in the gardens. But dinner, as Raoul gently but firmly informed her, was a formal affair in the de Chagny home, and her presence was required.
Formality extended to dress, as became apparent to Giselle when she stepped inside her room and saw a jeweled hair-net and a string of emeralds lying on her bed, leaving no doubt as to which dress Raoul wished for her to wear.
A part of her rebelled to the fact that he should direct her every moment, down to which gown she should wear. And then…
You would not even possess those lovely gowns and jewels if not for him. If not for the madness of the Viscomte de Chagny, you would still wallow in filth, attired in tattered garments, bought with tainted money.
The madness of the Viscomte de Chagny.
The thought startled her.
But he was mad, her mind argued. Only a madman would see innocence in her eyes. Only a madman would take a common street whore and transform her face and body into the face and body of the woman he loved.
She thrust such thoughts from her mind. To entertain them would be to allow them to go further, to allow them to transform from the thought of what the Viscomte was doing to the why of it. A why that she did not understand.
A why that Giselle Auteur had no desire to understand.
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So it was, that at half past six precisely, Giselle found herself seated across from Raoul at a magnificent dinner table, laced so tightly into the green gown that she feared breathing itself might prove a difficulty, let alone eating. The hair-net held her brunette locks into an elegant mass behind her head, the emerald necklace hung heavy about her neck, a reminder of the chains that she had willingly locked herself into.
She held her head high, her porcelain skin glowing in the candlelight, her brown eyes holding only the lightest of emotions.
She appeared the epitome of loveliness and poise.
Inside, Giselle felt that she might go mad with nerves.
It had only taken one look down at the elegant china on the table before her to cause her fingers to tremble and her face to pale.
There were at least five different types of silverware on either side of the delicate bowl and plate. She hadn't the faintest idea which type she was to use for what manner of food, or even what a few of the items were used for.
What a fool she'd been, to think that she, a common girl fallen far beneath her poor birth, could survive one day in the presence of nobility.
The Comte would discover the charade in an instant. He would throw her out first onto the streets, and then deal with Raoul. No doubt the Viscomte would charm his brother into letting him off with only a good scolding.
Giselle would find herself in perhaps worse straits than before.
In the midst of her frightened, tumbling thoughts, she missed the light brush of a foot against her own.
She was pulled from those riotous imaginings by a sharp kick against her shin.
Stifling a yelp of pain, she looked up to see Raoul's eyes boring into hers. Giselle stiffened, fearing a reprimand, but there was only gentleness there.
He waited only until Philippe had looked away to instruct a servant before gesturing to the silverware and mouthing the words: "Follow me."
Giselle decided that despite his madness, the Viscomte was a wonderfully charming man.
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Giselle found herself able to endure the Comte's questioning, none of which delved too deeply—an eventuality for which she found herself deeply grateful, as her ability to convincingly lie had never been too great—until the meal began to be served.
The food was beyond anything she had ever tasted. From the salad course to the main entrée, to the numerous side dishes, to the rich wine served with each dish, to the velvety chocolate torte served for dessert, and finally the classic cheese plate served with yet another type of well-aged wine, Giselle thought that surely she had entered a sinfully decadent Heaven.
The consistent stream of speech from Philippe, however, threatened to disturb her enjoyment of it. It proved quite difficult to formulate consistent answers to his questions about her life both before and after meeting Raoul, follow the Viscomte's lead as to which eating utensils to use, and gain full enjoyment from the delightful repast set before her.
But as she dug into yet another of the delightful dishes, she determined that it was well worth the effort.
-
When dinner was finished, Giselle took her leave of the Comte, hoping against hope that Raoul's brother would detain him for further conversation. The ordeal of supper had well and truly exhausted her, and she had no wish for the Viscomte's company.
She reflected, as she retreated to her room and awaited Charlotte's arrival to help her undress, that she really had little say in the matter. Regardless of with what trappings she was outfitted now, she was still a whore.
She continued to sell herself, now for comfort instead of survival.
That fact alone makes the sin many times worse, Giselle thought grimly as she toyed with one of the emeralds on her…no...Raoul's necklace.
Charlotte entered a few moments later, and began to help her with the buttons of the tight green gown, only to be interrupted by a distinctly male voice.
"I believe I will help Miss Daae with that."
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Charlotte curtseyed and backed from the room without a word. Giselle closed her eyes for a moment as she heard footsteps approach her, felt Raoul's warm breath on the back of her neck, his hands at the buttons of her gown.
They were unloosed in a matter of moments, and Giselle steadied herself for the onslaught, but as soon as the gown was laid open, he stopped. He reached up to the sleeves of the gown and pushed them gently off of her shoulders, but went no further, leaving only the creamy skin of her shoulders and upper back bare.
His fingers slid slowly across the nape of her neck, and Giselle breathed in sharply as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. His fingers found the clasp of the necklace and unhinged it, his hands reached up, sliding over her shoulders, gathering the length of glittering emeralds in his fist as his other hand remained at her neck. With one finger he traced the hollow of her throat, and Giselle swallowed nervously.
This was territory unknown to her. She was accustomed to speed, to hasty, sometimes violent assaults on her person. The lingering of his hands on her shoulders and throat was something she had not experienced before. His intent was clear, but he hadn't even kissed her yet!
He had certainly never touched her like this before, in the dank room at Madame Lavage's bordello.
This is how he treats Christine on his first night with her. A prostitute does not merit such treatment. Giselle does not merit such treatment.
That thought helped to quiet the racing of her pulse, helped to cool her blood. She slipped into the merciful daze, the numb acceptance that had carried her through so many nights like this one.
But as Raoul laid the necklace aside and went to work at removing the hairnet, allowing his fingers to drift lazily, tantalizingly along her jaw and temples, Giselle knew that she had never before experienced a night like this one.
Giselle knew that she never would.
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Raoul closed his eyes as he allowed his hands to caress Giselle. He had never dared touch Christine herself like this, had never dared to attempt anything beyond a chaste kiss. On a few occasions she had allowed him to kiss her more thoroughly, but at the first touch of his hands, she had always drawn away.
Perhaps if he had pursued her, seduced her, she would never have run from him into the arms of the monster.
To think that a phantom had possessed more courage and boldness than he!
Raoul heard Giselle's soft intake of breath and returned to the present. His mind slipped into unreality. This was Christine. This was his lovely fiancée. His mistress. His lover. This was her as she should have been, awaiting his caresses, his ministrations.
No! his mind insisted. This was her as she is.
He removed the jeweled net from her hair and laid it aside, his fingers slowly removing one pin at a time, torturing both himself and, he was sure, Giselle with his maddeningly deliberate pace.
He was glad that her back was to him, that he could not see her face. She was a near perfect replica of Christine, but there were subtle differences. In Madame Lavage's brothel, it did not matter.
But here it mattered more than anything else. He would not make love to a prostitute tonight in his own home.
Her hair fell down against her shoulders in a thick mass of brunette curls.
He slipped the dress from her body and unlaced the corset, untied her chemise.
He gently took her by the arms and turned her to face him, the only light in the room the glare of the fire.
He inhaled sharply, afraid of what he would see…
…and breathed a sigh of relief.
He saw Christine, her skin glowing golden, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glinting in the firelight.
He leaned forwards and kissed her.