Author's Note:
Here at last is the chapter where I fear this structure of this story might come crashing to my feet, but please bear with me, as eventually, all events will coincide. Again, thank you to all readers and reviewers!
1857— Perros-Guirec
The sun was fast fading beneath the line of the gray sea. Clouds that normally concealed the splendor gently reflected the gold and crimson hues, the dark gray of night threatening to close in.
He stood at the window, fingers pressed against the immense glass pane, blue eyes following the decline of the colors, shadows drawing nearer with each slow breath. He did not want the evening to come…
Yet he could not fight it.
A hand rested on his shoulder. The boy looked up into his brother's handsome, distraught face, his lower lip quivering as he bravely fought the impending tears.
With a bowed head, he followed Philippe from the huge room to the candlelit passages beyond. Every step fell heavier than the one before it, echoing through the expansive hallway. At length, they stood before the ominous bedroom doors. The boy nodded, and his brother pushed open the door, allowing him through.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light—the shadows of the room far darker than those of the hall.
Several others hovered in the room, standing or seated around the immense canopied bed. The quiet whispers faded as they caught sight of the small figure entering. The boy lowered his head, the weight of the silence overwhelming.
"I would like a moment alone with him…please," the haggard voice whispered, scarcely reminiscent its former strength. Gazes turned toward the figure in the great bed, sitting against the mound of pillows. With quiet murmurs, they obeyed him, exiting one by one.
Philippe leaned down by his ear. "I will wait outside." When the door at last closed, the boy stood alone, biting his lip.
"Are you afraid?"
With great hesitance, the boy nodded, a tear falling down his face.
"There is nothing to fear." The voice was stronger now, comforting. Forgetting himself, the boy ran to the bed and threw himself into the open arms.
"Father..."
The man leaned his cheek against the auburn head, a quiet sigh escaping him.
"Please don't leave us," the child whispered into his father's shirt.
The man kissed the top of his son's head. "I believe it is in God's hands now."
The child was silent for a long time, listening to the dim heartbeat beneath him. "Will you be alone?"
His father shifted so he could see the small face, his light azure eyes reflected in his son's.
"No…no I will not."
The boy nodded, looking down. His father pulled him close again, pressing his cheek harder against the soft hair, closing his eyes at the memory.
Like all fathers, he had been banished to the hall, forced to wait and listen to the painful moans coming from behind the door. After three children, he had learned the futility of pacing. Instead, he leaned against the ornate doorframe, earning fleeting glances by passing servants.
There was another muffled gasp, followed by the low urges of the doctor. Silence followed, so sudden that he held his breath. There was no cry, no gasping pant of his wife…the stillness was suffocating. He lifted his head out of his hands, eyebrows knit. His eldest son smiled weakly at him, standing protectively with his two younger sisters.
They all jumped as the midwife appeared through a cracked door. She drew in her breath and gave him a polite nod. Her round face was flushed, her eyes wide. "Monsieur, the doctor wishes to see you."
"Is she well?"
The midwife looked down at the floor. Heart pounding, he moved past her into the dark room. The curtains were drawn, the air rank with the smell of blood and sweat. The Comtesse lay against the pillows, her eyes closed, lips just barely parted. Her husband moved past the doctor, taking her clammy hand in his own. He shot a quick, pleading glance at the doctor. The older man cleared his throat. "Come with me, Monsieur." Reluctantly, he left his wife's bedside. The doctor stopping in the adjacent room, letting out a long sigh. "It was a difficult labor, Monsieur…very difficult." He paused. "Your wife is far more advanced in age than most young mothers…"
The Comte nodded resignedly. With their son already in his twentieth year, it had been an unexpected, but welcomed surprise when he had learned his wife was carrying another child. But she was so frail…
"What can be done?"
The doctor shook his head. "I am sorry."
The Comte closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to compose himself. "And the child?" he asked softly. The doctor's reply was interrupted as the midwife appeared at the door.
"She has woken. She asks for you."
The doctor summoned her into the room. "Show him." The midwife hesitated and then silently left the room, only to return a short time later with the white bundle cradled in her arms.
Swallowing, the Comte pulled down a cloth, his eyes sweeping over the tiny form in her arms. "A boy…why, he is not even cleaned…"
The midwife swallowed, turning her eyes from the newborn to his father. "There was no cry…" she whispered, flashing a distraught glance at the Comte.
He did not move, gazing at the small, still form in her arms. What punishment was this for God to take back his last child and leave a wife clinging to life? He clenched his jaw tighter, and gave a brief, accepting nod the midwife.
Moving past her, he moved out of the room and went to his wife's bedside. Gingerly taking a seat, he took his beloved's hand in his own. Her eyes opened and she flashed him a weak grin of recognition. "Philibert…"
His other hand reached down to stroke her pale cheek. Strands of dark hair were plastered against the damp forehead, the unlined skin nearly as pale as the child he had just beheld. Her chest barely rose with her shallow breaths, the thin sheets still bearing evidence of the birth. She stirred as he tenderly brushed aside the hair from her face. Even now, she was still so beautiful…
"I am here," he told her softly.
She looked up at him, concern obvious on her face. "Is the baby well?"
The Comte closed his eyes, letting out a trembling breath before slowly nodding. "He is."
Her lips broke into a frail smile. "A son..."
He nodded again, his hand moving across her cheek. "Yes."
"He will be strong, Philibert."
The Comte was silent. His wife closed her eyes again, sinking back into the pillows, her skin cooler underneath his hand.
"He will be," came the soft lie. Turning away from her, he stared into the shadows. He despised the terrible and kind deceit, the only comfort that could be afforded to his dying beloved. She did not deserve this. Closing his eyes, he cursed and pleaded to God.
The touch was light, gentle, drawing him from his pained thoughts. He looked back at his wife, savoring the feel of her hand caressing his cheek. She smiled weakly at him, her gaze sad.
"May I kiss him goodbye?"
The Comte could not deny her. Summoning the midwife, the blanketed newborn was laid in his mother's arms, the dark concealing his son's color. The Comtesse leaned down, trembling, her lips brushing against the soft head.
The baby cried.
"Will you see mother?"
His father sighed, torn from his reverie. "Yes, I will be with her once more."
He shifted, holding his son at arms length. "Even before she saw you, she knew you would be strong. Your mother was right."
The boy looked away from his father's gaze. "I don't want to be…" he whispered miserably.
His father smiled weakly. "Have courage, Raoul," he said, giving into the weariness that settled in on him. His son moved closer, wrapping his small arms around his father's wasted body. The boy listened to the dim beat within his father's chest, so slow and steady…until there was no beat at all.
Pulling back, he looked through horrified eyes at his father's placid face. "Père!"
The door flung open, his brother running to the bedside.
"God, no! Father…"
Closing his eyes, Philippe fell to his knees, pressing the pale, wrinkled hand between his own. Bowing his head, he could no longer hold back his sobs. He did not feel the small hand of his brother rest upon his shoulder.