The Châteaux de Chagny was one of the hidden secrets of Perros-Guirec, well outside of the borders of the small town. Built some centuries previous, the manor stood alone in its sprawling size, a solemn white and gray edifice rising ominously above the pink rocks of the coast. Its carved towers were studded with gothic windows, waves of ivy and moss gripping the stone reaching upwards to the highest levels of the house.
Built to withstand the harshness of its sea companion, there was ample reason for the firm exterior, yet the châteaux was hardly as foreboding within. Generations of tasteful decorating left it a place that rivaled the majesty of Napoleon's palace, heavy with elegant foreign tapestries, exquisite woodworking and gilded décor. It was no shock that the most prominent members of Europe's aristocracy welcomed an invitation to the place, lusting after and relishing its opulence.
Perhaps it was because she was raised within such surroundings, or perhaps because she was hidden behind a name that Renée de Chagny inwardly loathed the people around her. There was hardly a need for the masks; she saw past them easily enough. Assured of a place in history and memory, the affluent guests never changed, whether in the royal court or at a social gathering.
Basking in debt, quick to spend and quicker to insult, Renée had witnessed it all, the fairy tale reverie long since dissolved. Time afforded the ability to see past such pretenses. A Masque was all too appropriate an occasion for these people; simply another chance to pass vacant whispers and revel in accepted lies. It served its purpose well as a distraction.
Renée offered another charming smile to the Countess de Brienne, nodding to one of the woman's comments. All the while, she kept a watchful eye on the continual flood of people that filled the room, all dressed to perfection, ornamenting masks of every color, each one seemingly in an attempt to outdo the last.
She met Philippe's gaze, and with a few cordial parting words to the Countess, Renée gathered the edge of her gown in one hand and moved quickly toward him.
Philippe smiled warmly upon her approach, gesturing to the man before him. "Emperor Nasir al-Din Shah, may I present my sister, Renée Marie Antoinette de Chagny."
The foreign ruler gave her an acknowledging nod, taking her hand. "I am pleased to meet you at last. Your brother speaks quite highly of you."
Renée blushed, keeping her eyes modestly lowered. The Shah dropped her hand, casting a scrutinizing eye over the room. The woman had to resist moving back a step, the sharp authority in the Shah's gaze tangible even in a foreign land. His attire in no way lessoned the effect. Dressed in the royal fashion of his country, he wore a blood red coat, adorned with jeweled stars on the sleeves and gold embroidery along the collar and lapels, medallions and strings of pearls slung over each shoulder. The sword that hung at the Shah's side only added to the rather commanding presence, though Renée could not help but think the foreigner was little different from the other French nobles. The Shah's regal glory was striking, but it was privileged, granted through birth and earned through a name. He commanded reverence out of right, but not by her will.
The servant whispered something to the ruler. He gave an abrupt nod, turning his attention back to the host.
"We will speak later, I presume."
The Comte's eyebrows creased before he gave an acknowledging smile. "Indeed. Please enjoy yourself." As the Persians moved off, Renée noticed the fleeting look of apprehension across her brother's face. Shrewd in business dealings and possessing an even wiser choice of character, it was a rare occasion when Philippe's small thread of insecurity showed itself.
"You will remember to enjoy yourself as well, won't you?" she asked, laying a comforting hand on his arm. Philippe nodded, looking down at her. "Yes, but there are always matters to—"
Renée followed his gaze, taking in a shaky breath.
Down one step, and then another, each movement bearing all the semblance of a panther—dark, predatory…watching…
Renée had never seen another mask like it. Coal-black, alluring in its monastic, face-conforming nature, it contrasted sharply to the other gaudy gentlemen's masks. Cut vertically down the face rather than horizontally, it left only half of the face in open view.
There was nothing especially eye-catching about the youth's attire; the same black as his mask and hair, the lapels and high color adorned in a simple velvet pattern. He fit it well, to be sure, the cut of the suit only serving to enhance his surprisingly tall frame, yet it did not depart from the popular style. Even so, Renée could not tear her gaze away from him despite the etiquette warnings resounding in her mind.
He walked behind another couple, almost accepting a subservient position, yet everything in the youth's bearing spoke otherwise. There was no absurd pretentious strut or haughty expression, yet there was a majestic aura unmatched even by the Shah. Every stride was landed with confidence, every glance ablaze with warning. He moved like death incarnate, foreboding and menacing, coiled to strike.
Renée felt a blush rise to her cheeks at her unabated gaze. For just a moment, the fairy tale returned, and she stood mesmerized. Without effort, she was captivated, utterly grasped by the strange presence, lost in a sea of masks and blurred faces. Yet his eyes she saw clearly, the piercing golden stare taking in the busy milieu, as fleeting as it was enveloping. Renée shuddered, grasping the mask in her hand tighter as those eyes fell upon her. Philippe spoke some greeting, moving forward, yet she could not follow, like a trapped quarry awaiting its doom.
"Renée?"
Biting her lip, the young woman smiled apologetically to her brother, tearing her attention back to the present. Philippe looked at her strangely, gently taking her elbow. "You know Monsieur Gardnier, the mastermind of the grand opera house, yes?"
Engrained manners taking hold, Renée smiled warmly at the architect. "Yes, of course. I daresay my family will be a frequent patron, Monsieur. Philippe tells me your opera house is unparalleled by any other."
The man's face darkened at the comment before a forced grin crossed over his features. "You are kind, Mademoiselle."
Taken aback by the pall of his tone, Renée glanced helplessly at the woman beside Gardnier, meeting an equally cool gaze.
"Madame Gardnier," she spoke quietly, curtsying, "it is always a pleasure." The woman glared back at her, eyes narrowed. Renée looked away from her, meeting the terrified gaze of the adolescent boy standing beside the couple.
"Welcome," she said quietly, smiling at him.
"I do not believe you have met my son, Benoît," Madame Gardnier said. Instead of moving forward to greet her, the boy stood still, his gangly appearance the antithesis of the dark youth beside him. Beads of sweat gathered along his forehead while he absently rubbed at the edges of the mask. She instantly felt a pang of empathy for the boy. Renée said a few encouraging words to him even as her attention was already shifting back to other young man. Motionless, he regarded her evenly, towering over her petite form. Cautiously, Renée met his eyes once more, relieved to find they were very human after all, a startlingly deep hazel flecked with impossible hints of amber.
The hundreds of voices surrounding them fell to a muted din. The young man took up her gloved hand, bringing it close to his lips. Without warning, he paused, swiftly releasing his grip and returning to his full height.
Fighting to conceal her disappointment at his unexpected abruptness, Renée stepped back, clasping her hands together fiercely. Did he find fault with her?
Against her will, the hazel eyes found hers again, daringly. Renée sunk back into the dark gaze, her nails pressing into the palms of her hand. Just for a split moment, she saw through his steady poise. His was no longer the look of a hunter, but the hunted.
From the moment he stepped from the carriage, Erik took in a silent, calming breath, eyes darting to the ominous stone châteaux resting before him, its towers and windows lit in honor of the festivities. A smile played on his mouth as he briefly allowed himself to marvel at the stonework, the expertly chiseled edges and ornamentation speaking of the châteaux's age and durability. He resisted the urge to slip away and explore the other reaches of the manor, perhaps run a hand over the mossy, cool surface, a humble testament to an artist long since departed.
"How do you stand it?"
Erik's head snapped around, Benoit glancing up at him while he tugged at his newly placed mask. The smile quickly flattened into a severe line. Almost reflexively, Erik reached a hand up to touch his faux right cheek, confirming that the black mask was securely in place. Benoît turned his eyes to the ground, saying nothing more.
The line became a frown as Erik's hand fell back to his side. A mask was a second nature thing, the facet that he could never abandon. Physical comfort was a meager issue, one that he had learned to ignore. All around him there were cavorting fools hiding perfect faces, their masks simply an embellishment, an unnecessary garnish. What did they know of discomfort? What did they know of dread should the façade be torn away?
Hands flexing at his side, Erik forced himself into a smooth pace, vaguely noticing the agitated step of Benoît beside him. It was unnerving to see the other boy in a mask, silently bearing his apprehensions as they approached the lion's den. Perhaps they were not so unlike…
…Yet Benoît would never know it. He would never understand their similar yearning for music, their deep appreciation for beauty, or of the perpetual desire to be accepted without limitations. They would remain unspoken adversaries fighting for the same cause.
But tonight—tonight Benoît would understand.
Erik kept his eyes locked ahead of him, taking in the impressive stateliness of the immense domed foyer as they were led into the ballroom. The constant clicking of shoes against the marble floor and hum of voices assaulted the musicians' tender orchestrations. There were so many people, so many hiding faces, inquisitive eyes…
All around him, he felt it—prying glances, whispers…they could not know…
But did they suspect?
Over the years, Erik had forced himself to endure the curious stares while in the public arena, though he skillfully evaded them on far more occasions. The ignorant were never satisfied, the foolish never abated. Even now, he fought the overwhelming temptation to disappear in the throng of bodies and become one with the comforting shadows. Yet all the while, he knew there was no escape…not this time.
He took in another long breath, gloved hands flexing at his side as he strove to maintain the composed appearance. The fleeting glances continued, though not just at him. Repeatedly they fell on the architect and even more so on his wife, followed by understated smirks and low comments. The couple moved forward oblivious, Benoît dragging a few feet behind them.
Then he met one pair of eyes that were not so threatening. Warily, Erik focused his attention on her. Dressed just as splendidly as any noble present, the young woman was no more striking than the rest, yet she did not fit among them. Her gaze did not hold the brazen superiority or the judgment that bombarded them, but rather curiosity and awe, not unlike a child. Erik tensed, seeing the little girl from years before, remembering the screams that followed…
Moving from her side, the Comte de Chagny came forward, his genuinely warm smile greeting them. "Monsieur Gardnier! Welcome." He glanced over at Jaclyn, bowing. "Madame," he said courteously, taking her proffered hand. She smiled at him, raising her chin up another degree. Eyebrow raised, the Comte took a step back, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. Erik watched as the young woman slowly moved toward them, her cheeks flushed.
He barely heard the Comte as he introduced the young woman as his sister. Instead, Erik watched her every movement, distrusting. She did not look at him for some time, instead considerately speaking with the Gardniers, giving each her attention and gratitude despite any social disparities. Even when the young lady faced him again, he could make no movement. What did she see?
She tilted her head up, looking at him expectantly. Erik clenched his jaw. All around him, so many people…no where to hide…
But you have no reason to, he reasoned. Tonight, you are like everyone else.
The young man extended a hand, taking up her small one. With all the grace and manners instilled upon him over the years, he brought it to his lips, watching her blush.
But if she truly knew what she looked upon…
In an instant, Erik pulled his hand away, taking a small step back as he fought to ignore the surprised and injured expression in the young woman's eyes. He could offer her no explanation or solace, once again donning an impassive expression. To his surprise, the she did not indignantly turn away, but rather met his cool stare.
After a moment, he received an understanding smile.
As the night droned on, Philippe found himself in a crowd of gowns and fans, bestowed with the quiet laughter and deliberate comments. Giving the ladies a smile he hardly felt, the Comte warily endured the incessant prattle and licentious glances. His impeccable manners and charming nature never failed him, especially in a group such as this, even as he wished it would.
It was no secret that France's aristocracy lusted the de Chagny fortune, eagerly promoting their daughters to the influential and appealing bachelor. While the late Comte was missed, the prospect of being tied to one of France's most esteemed houses was an enticing prospect, enough that any time of mourning for the family was dismissed as Philippe was assailed with visitors and letters.
Avoiding the blatant stare of the Marquis Fouquet's wife, he caught sight of a small form pressed into a wall, dwarfed by the passing nobles and forgotten in the din of the ballroom. Alone in wearing a white mask, his younger brother watched from the shadows, revealed only when the light found him.
Excusing himself, Philippe made his way across the room, stopping beside Raoul. He leaned over secretly, revealing a playful grin.
"Do not fret," he whispered, "I find it a bit of a bore for myself as well."
Raoul looked up at him, and Philippe was sure there was a raised eyebrow beneath the pale, blank exterior.
"You do not believe me?" he asked, his tone a mock indignant.
"No."
Frowning, Philippe kneeled, turning his gaze back out to the swarms of guests. "It is an honor to be among some of the most affluent people in Europe and her surrounding nations. Many of them are very kind and gracious, and others—"
The corner of his mouth pulled up sadly. "Others have…motives."
"Then why did you invite them?"
Philippe chuckled. "Because it would have been a social out lash not to do so."
"Are they all corrupt then?"
The statement earned another chuckle. "Many are, Raoul." His eyes fell back on his brother. "Unfortunately, some of the best people you will ever know could never attend an occasion like this. You must never judge them for it."
The boy nodded seriously and Philippe smiled. "Now," he said, lowering his voice, "it is still a beautiful night, and I do not believe Renée is looking."
Raoul grinned, casting his older brother a thankful look before hurrying out of the room. Watching him go, Philippe stood, almost envious.
"You did not mention a brother."
Philippe turned, standing face to face with the Shah.
"Shâhanshâh, you surprised me," he said, the warm tone he used with Raoul evaporating.
The foreign leader smiled, white teeth revealed through his heavy black mustache. "My apologies, Comte." He paused, looking off in the direction Raoul left. "Your brother is most fortunate to have someone so doting."
The elder de Chagny was silent, his forehead creased.
The Shah placed his hands behind his back. "My people highly value our family and traditions, a notion that fortunately is shared even outside my country."
Both men moved from the room to an adjoining private library. The Shah turned and waved his servant away, the man bowing low before he left. Even then, Philippe doubted the Shah was actually hidden from the servant's watchful presence.
He went to a table and poured two glasses of sherry. "While I am gratified for your concern, surely you do not wish to speak of family."
The Persian ruler nodded to him, taking the glass. "No, though I do think my mother would have enjoyed this event. She has been rather…disillusioned as of late."
Philippe frowned. "You have my sympathies."
The man waved his hand dismissally. "Hardly necessary, Comte. I have found that entertaining gifts usually suffice to quell such moods."
"Then this trip will no doubt prove beneficial for you both."
The Shah laughed, the sound chilling Philippe. "Indeed, it will," he continued. "Ah, but there is much to discuss."
The Comte offered him a seat, taking the opposite couch.
"You are returning to Persia shortly?"
The Shah took another sip of the drink, his dark eyes boring into his host.
"Soon. I fear that it would be unwise to postpone the return despite my appreciation for your culture. You have been most generous, Comte."
The corner of Philippe's mouth lifted knowingly. Eager to modernize his country, the Shah had taken a rather extensive trip to the European nations, the costly personal excursion requiring the contract of huge foreign loans to finance. The millions Philippe had granted the Shah hardly put a dent in the de Chagny accounts, but more importantly, it was enough to secure trade rights to Persia should he dictate such a move. For the time being, he appeased the foreign ruler, treading with caution.
"I can only hope you have enjoyed France," Philippe replied, absently rotating his glass. The Shah nodded, leaning back into the cushions.
"This is a strange and wonderful place, Comte—in many ways, far more grand than any palace of my country." The Shah looked down at his ringed hand, letting out a long breath. "However," he continued, "Persia will become as grand as your Paris, I make sure of it."
Philippe raised an eyebrow. "A demanding task, Shâhanshâh, though not impossible," he said carefully, his voice even.
The Persian looked up, meeting the Comte's eyes. "No, certainly not impossible." He smiled, setting aside his glass.
"Now, tell me of this opera house…"
Raoul deftly moved through the crowds to the promenade, easily slipping away from view. Glad to be free of the confining ballroom, he took a deep breath, savoring the moist salt-laden air that enveloped him. It was a calming aroma, one deeply tied to memory.
The sounds of the Masque faded into the background as he moved along the wall facing the sea, the rocky precipice before him. His father had taken him to this place a precious few times, both kneeling at the edge of the cliffs while they watched the angry sea below crash against the rocks in a thunderous chorus.
Yet tonight the sea was quiet, as though holding its breath. The waters lapped calmly, painted with the fragile light of the newly appearing moon. Raoul stood at the edge, looking down. When had his father last stood there beside him? The memories were fading all too quickly, no matter how he fought it.
He exhaled, closing his eyes against the fleeting tears. He had not cried for any of them. His father told him to be strong…
He would have given anything in that moment to feel the reassuring hand on shoulder, a gentle word of comfort…
But there was only silence, his only companion the gray sea.
The wind picked up again, whispering as it chilled. Raoul shuddered, bringing his hands up to either arm to rub warmth back into them. He took a step back from the cliff, slowly turning his head. A pair of eyes stared back through the darkness, unwavering. Raoul stood firm, his heartbeat thudding within his chest.
"Father?" he whispered.
The ghostly visage disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving him alone once more. Sighing, he turned and made his way back to down the rocks.
Jaclyn Gardnier was lost once more in her treasured environment, drowning in the latest gossip while surrounding herself with envious onlookers. She always did possess a flare for making the dullest of stories worthy of circulating in the pretentious circles, the gift serving her well now. Young women vied for the seat next to her, leaning over to catch every word. Jaclyn smiled inwardly, reveling in her adeptness to rein their attention.
Early on that the night she had abandoned her husband's side, coldly encouraging him to join the other men. He did so without argument, Benoît sulking behind him. For hours, Jaclyn had not given either of them a second thought. Even so, regret seeped into her now, and she despised it.
"Pray tell, what happened?" the young woman asked at her side, fan waving anxiously. Jaclyn swallowed, her lips moving into a faux smile.
"The young nobleman disappeared with his fiancée, neither heard from again." She was surrounded by a chorus of gasps.
"And her vengeful lover?" another girl urged.
Jaclyn gave an elegant shrug. "No one can be sure. Perhaps he died of a broken heart, or perhaps he still haunts their secret abode, ever watchful."
The fans beat the air at an even faster pace, the young women turning to each other with excited whispers. Jaclyn leaned back, her smile transformed into amused smirk.
"You haven't been poisoning these ladies with more of those ridiculous stories, have you?"
Jaclyn looked behind her, a young masked gentleman grinning smugly. "You're here?" she gasped, rising so quickly she nearly toppled the chair. The avocat chuckled at her, reaching for her hand.
"Why of course, Jaclyn! There is not a single respectable Parisian not invited. Even those damnable eastern foreigners are in attendance."
He grasped her hand, leading her to the ballroom floor. Jaclyn resisted.
"That is the Shah of Persia," she retorted, her voice low, "he is a king."
The young man's eyes widened as he swerved his head to take another look at the guests. "Philippe never fails to amaze me," he said, leering. After a moment, he turned back to her, taking a step closer. "Will I see you later tonight, my dear?"
She knew that look well. Jaclyn swallowed, shaking her head. "I cannot. Aubert is here and—"
Her lover snorted. "Very well," he replied, taking her gloved hand between his own and placing a lavish kiss on her knuckles. "But I do hope you realize what you are missing."
Jaclyn watched as he disappeared in the throng of people, leaving her standing very much alone. She raised a hand to her mouth, fighting the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes. Just then, from across the room, she met the solemn gaze of her husband.
Seated upon the twisted tree root, Christine drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders, a few scattered crumbs of the pastry still gripping the thin fabric. Her small legs swung absently in the air as she looked out at the calm waters, relishing the quiet of the night. It was not often that she was able to play—her Papa needed her with him.
She hummed softly to herself, the simple tune a folk song from her Papa's homeland. He would play it only at night, the violin notes like a requiem, gentle and mournful. She heard the first strains now, muffled by the wind but still present, summoning her.
Christine crawled off the root, wincing as her hand caught on a particularly sharp crevice, tearing the skin. Stifling a cry, she lifted her injured finger to her mouth, sucking on a wound. Slowly, her hand fell back to her side as she gazed off at the rocks, her head just tilted as she stared in wonder. A white face looked back at her, the wind brushing strands of hair across the serene countenance. She could barely make out the rest of the form huddled against several large boulders, the darkness shielding well.
A hand reached out, the other one tugging at the white face. Christine backed away hurriedly, her eyes wide. Her wound forgotten, she turned and ran to the cottage, consoled by the voice of a violin.
Author's Note:
Nasir al-Din Shah was very much the Shah of Persia from 1848-1896. Both he and his son contracted large foreign loans to finance expensive trips to Europe. Nasir's visit was approximately 16 years later after the said year in this story, but since I have skewed several dates along the way, I hope this inaccuracy may be forgiven. It is also important to note that from this point onward, his character will be fictionalized and is therefore not an accurate representation of the real historical figure.
On a related note, the Shah of Persia has quite a few titles. Shâhanshâh was the name adopted by the last Shah in his coronation, literally translating into King of Kings, but more accurately in meaning, Emperor.
In response to a reviewer's question, Perros-Guirec is a town located on the Côte de Granite Rose in northern Brittany, France. This is where Leroux specified that Christine spent some of her time growing up. Whenever I change location or year, I will always try to put them as a heading, the exception only being if the shifting local or time is obvious within chapter itself.
In conclusion, for those readers frustrated with the update time of this story, I can only offer my apologies. I have been working on this chapter for some time now and it has been one of the most challenging to write yet for multiple reasons. I have waited months for an update from authors I follow, and the end result has always been worth it. While it may be bold of me, I ask for your patience, as I am doing the best I can. Thank you.
Thanks again to my Mom for patiently playing beta for me.