Chapter Summary: A funeral is held and Christine says goodbye to Raoul.
Author's Warning: You WILL need tissues for this chapter. I sobbed like a little baby while I wrote it - take that revelation as to seriousness of my "tissue issue" warning!
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Christine stared at the small velvet box she held in her hands, the silver of the medallion gleaming against the soft blue material. She thought she heard a noise far off in the distance and chose to ignore it, concentrating on the gift she held. Christine found she could only concentrate on what was immediately before her for she did not have the energy to go beyond herself. Thin fingers reached for the lid of the box, moving it downwards, gently snapping it shut. She allowed her fingers to caress the softness covering the box and tried to remember the feelings its purchase had engendered; she could not. Christine could feel nothing, could not think; a small part of her was amazed that she even remembered to breathe.
"Christine?" a voice called and Christine lowered her head to see a hand on her arm. She raised her eyes to see Antoinette looking at her, the older woman's face full of concern and compassion.
"I did not hear you," Christine said, her voice hollow, as she turned back to what she held in her hands.
"It is almost time," Antoinette said softly. "They are expecting you downstairs."
Christine hoped she was nodding for she could not feel her head.
"What is that?" Antoinette asked as her hand reached for what Christine held. She was surprised when both of the younger woman's hands quickly covered the small box.
"It is a …" Christine began and paused briefly, her eyes closing. She began to sway lightly as she tightened her grip on the box. "It was," she corrected herself, "to have been a gift for Raoul." Christine opened her eyes and placed the box into the open bureau drawer, closing it and staring out the window. "Are there roses?" she wondered.
"Many people have sent flowers," Antoinette told her.
Christine frowned for a moment. "We agreed we would not have roses," she replied softly turning to Antoinette. "Raoul would not be happy."
Antoinette gently squeezed the arm she held.
"Lilies," Christine went on, barely aware that the woman she looked up to as mother was standing next to her. "Raoul and I chose lilies as our flower. There must be lilies. Please tell me there are lilies."
"There are lilies," Antoinette assured her.
Christine nodded to herself. "That will make Raoul happy," she whispered as her hands smoothed the heavily creped black gown she wore. "But he did not like to see me in black." Christine reached for the gloves on the bureau, her hands momentarily gripping its sharp edge. "I am sorry, my love," she breathed. "I am so sorry. Please forgive me."
Antoinette carefully watched the remnants of the girl before her, remembering her own nearly unfathomable grief at the death of her own husband. She clenched her teeth together, biting back the emotions that flooded forth from long forgotten recesses of her mind. "Christine," she said. "Is there anything you need? Anything that will help you get through the next few hours? A light mixture of sleeping draught, perhaps?" Antoinette was surprised when Christine suddenly came to life, whirling on her.
"No drugs!" Christine exclaimed, frightened and panicked.
"It is all right, my dear," Antoinette told her as she placed a gloved hand upon Christine's cheek. "It was only a suggestion." She watched as Christine sunk back into her shell.
"I am sorry," Christine told her. "We should go. I do not want to let anyone down."
Antoinette took her by the shoulders. "No one is expecting you to be strong, Christine."
"Raoul is," Christine said simply.
Antoinette drew Christine into her arms and they stood in the summer sunshine that flooded in through windows whose drapes had been pulled back to let in the bright day. They held tightly to each other, each woman an early member of a club to which neither wished to belong. Antoinette finally drew back, looking at Christine's pale face, worried that the young woman had not yet shed any tears and wondering when she would finally break. Antoinette sighed deeply, took Christine's arm and they walked out of the room, down to the first floor where family and friends awaited them.
"Christine," Philippe said, his voice catching in his throat, his hands reaching for her.
Christine immediately crossed to him, allowing Philippe to draw her close. She closed her eyes and for a brief moment Christine could almost imagine she was back in her husband's arm but then reality came crashing through her fantasy as she heard Philippe's voice speaking to her.
"Are you all right? Is there anything you need?" he was asking in a shaky tone.
"No," Christine said as she drew back, shaking her head. "No. I am fine." She caught sight of Arthur coming out of a door. "I would like a moment with Arthur, if I may."
Philippe nodded as he let Christine go, unwilling to trust his voice.
"Roses," Christine muttered to herself as she walked through the gathered family and friends, toward Arthur who was standing silently in the hall, his head bent. "Raoul would not have liked all these roses."
"Is she going to be all right?" Meg asked her mother.
"In time," Antoinette tried assuring her daughter and herself. "In time."
Christine did not hear them, was not aware of the eyes that watched as she stopped by Arthur's side. "Arthur," she said softly.
At the sound of her voice, Arthur drew a deep breath, taking a moment to compose himself before raising his head to look at the woman beside him. "Madame," he began. "How may I help?"
"Do you remember saying I could tell you anything?" Christine watched as Arthur nodded. "May I have a moment of your time?" Arthur nodded again. "Privately, please."
Arthur turned, reaching to open the door through which he had just exited. He stepped aside, allowing Christine to enter before following her, closing the door behind them.
"She could not say it to us," Henri said softly from where he stood slumped against the wall near the front door.
Desiree DiChiara, Raoul's eldest sister, laid a comforting hand on Henri's arm, managing a small sad smile for her charming cousin. "I am certain she did not mean to slight you," Desiree told him. "She is just grieving, as are we all."
Henri drew Desiree into his arms as her husband, Armando, the Marchese DiChiara, watched with hooded eyes. Armando was under no illusions when it came to his wife's young cousin. He looked toward Baron Wilhelm Mahler who stood unyieldingly straight behind his wife, Charlotte – Desiree's younger sister – and acknowledged the other man's slight nod; Wilhelm was also under no illusions when it came to Henri's character.
"I wonder what they are talking about," Lady Sarah De Chagny, Henri's mother, said to her husband.
"I am not sure we should ask that question," Steven, Lord De Chagny, replied.
The questions that Christine had to ask Arthur were, indeed, questions that the rest of the family would not wish to hear; but they were questions that were troubling the new widow. She now stood still before Arthur, her only movement the hands that fiddled with the black lace gloves they held.
"Pardon me?" Arthur was shocked at what Christine had asked.
"Is there going to be a coffin?" Christine repeated, her words echoing around the still room. There was no answer and Christine fixed dry, bloodshot eyes upon Arthur. "Please," she pleaded softly. "I need to know. You were there; you know what they did to him. Arthur, I need to know. I need to know if we are burying my husband or only his memory. Please!"
Arthur shook his head. "Madame, I really do not think …" He felt talons wrap around his wrists.
"You do not know the nightmares I am having," Christine whispered emphatically. "You do not know what I see when I close my eyes. You do not know what I see when they are open." Christine's eyes roamed about the room. "I am haunted by what Raoul had to endure." Her voice lowered to a tone that was a whispered hiss drawn from the very darkest depth of Christine's soul. "I keep seeing pieces of him everywhere! I am so afraid that one day I shall wake from this living nightmare and my imagination will have come to life and I shall find my husband in pieces next to me in our bed. I need to know!"
Arthur studied the woman staring at him, the nearly hysterical desperation painfully evident on her drawn face. He swallowed and took pity on her. "There will be a coffin," he told her and managed a slight wan smile. "We are burying your husband and not his memory."
Christine kept a steady gaze on Arthur's face. "All of him?" she asked.
Arthur had spent years in Philippe's service and had learned that there are moments when it is better to tell someone what they wish to hear than to tell them the plain truth. "All of him," he replied, watching as some of the tension eased from Christine's shoulders.
"Thank you," Christine breathed, closing her eyes for a moment. She slowly opened them and reached in to kiss Arthur lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for lying to me," she whispered and drew back. "We must go." Christine took the arm that Arthur proffered, allowing him to lead her back to the family that waited to walk to the small chapel from where they would lay to rest the family's future.
The walls of the private chapel at Chagny were originally raised when the first Chagny and de la Censiere settled into the lush valley. They located it on the Chagny side of the valley, closer to the village that was just beginning and that did not have its own place of worship. The original chapel had been destroyed by a mysterious fire in the 1600's and Georges, the Comte de Chagny at the time, commissioned a new chapel to be built. His architect had designed a building able to hold one hundred worshipers, sending for stained glass windows from Venice that lined both sides of the chapel and occupied the upper third of the wall above the altar. The chapel had been designed with a small bell tower, the bell ordered from the finest metal workers in Germany and sounding like the call of an angel when it had first rung out. The architect had also managed to incorporate a loft that accommodated a small but powerful organ. The chapel was designed to be light and airy, welcoming in human and God alike.
On this day, the usual airiness of the chapel had been washed away by a powerful presence of sorrow and loss. Today the red glow of the presence candle was joined by black tapers that lined both sides of the altar, standing at attention, their flames saluting the two large candles that stood at either end of the long box resting in the nave before the altar. A flag depicting the crest of the person being laid to rest was draped over the coffin, the ends of the silk motionless in the warm summer air. Friends sat or wept silently on the left side of the small chapel, not a spare seat in any pew to be found, as they awaited the arrival of the family.
A small boy, dressed in the formal white and black of an altar boy briefly stuck his head out the sacristy door before drawing it back and turning to the black-clad priest behind him. "The chapel is full, Monsieur."
"Thank you, Charles," Father Navarre Deveral replied. "You should go now and wait for the family for you must guide them into the chapel." He laid a gentle hand on the boy's head. "Go now and remember the solemn occasion for which we are here."
Charles took Father Navarre's hand, drawing it to his lips and kissing the ring. "I shall not fail you, mon pere."
"Of that I am sure," Father Navarre replied. "Now go." He watched as Charles left the sacristy before turning back, drawing the stole off its hanger, kissing it and placing it around his neck. He reached for the black alb and paused, drawing a deep sigh. "Father," he prayed softly. "I know that I am called to do Your will in joy and without question. Yet I can find no joy and many questions in this occasion."
Father Navarre had known Raoul from the moment he had held the squirming child in his arms and poured the holy oil over his head upon the infant's christening. It was his first major duty as the new shepherd of the flock that called the village of Chagny home. Over the years he had grown to love his parishioners and they had returned his affection. Father Navarre was a gentle, patient man who handed out wisdom and corrections with the same smiles and patience with which he gave sweets to the village children. He had been stunned when the news of the Vicomte's death had arrived and more stunned when he learned the circumstances. He had telegraphed Lyon and received permission to hold a private service from the family chapel; a large service at the village church considered inappropriate considering the state of the young man's remains.
"Grant me but a modicum of your strength," Father Navarre continued his prayer, "so that I may honor the soul and memory of a man taken too soon from this life, that I may be a comfort to those who grieve and that I may perform my duties in respect and humility to the glory of Your name." Father Navarre took the alb in his hands and slid it easily over his head, adjusting the black brocade so that it fell in easy waves to his feet. He looked briefly out the window and saw the family approaching. He raised his eyes to the crucifix hanging on the wall. "Strength, please."
Christine, her arm clinging to Philippe's, watched as the chapel appeared before her eyes. She noted the small boy who came tearing around the corner, his long garments flowing in the wind and her breath caught in her throat, a hand going to her stomach.
"Christine?" Philippe said as he turned to her.
"It is nothing," she whispered, her head shaking. "Nothing." She felt Philippe's hand tighten on her arm.
"I need you with me," he said softly. "You are my last connection to my ... to ..." Philippe could not find the emotional resources to voice his brother's name.
Christine felt something flow through her veins; it was a feeling she could not categorize or understand. Then, through the numbness in which she was wrapped, knowledge dawned like a beacon in the dead of the coldest winter. Christine raised her head toward the heavens, closing her eyes. Thank you, she whispered to the person who now lived only in her heart and the one who was beginning life beneath it; she had found the last bit of strength she would need. "I shall always be here," Christine whispered to Philippe as she took her hands and reached for the black crepe veil that hung from her bonnet, drawing it over her head. Her covered head turned to Philippe. "I am ready."
Philippe drew a deep shuddering breath and took back Christine's arm and followed the altar boy into the small chapel. They walked into the vestibule, knowing that the rest of their family were behind them, feeling the love and support for them coming through the personal grief of others. Charles, the altar boy, opened the door to the sanctuary and began the walk down the short transept. Philippe and Christine trailed slowly behind him, their steps faltering as they entered the sanctuary to see the flag-draped coffin at the end of the aisle.
"Oh God," Philippe breathed, biting back a sob.
Christine said nothing but clung tighter to Philippe's arm as the sanctuary began to spin about her. She was not aware of walking down the aisle, of Philippe lightly touching his brother's coffin before he and Christine took their seats in the first pew, closest to the aisle. The chapel continued to spin as Raoul's sisters and their husbands joined Philippe and Christine in the first pew, other family members, closest friends and servants filling in behind them. The heavy scent of roses mixed and mingled with other flowers and a sickly, sweet scent buried far beneath them that Christine could not place. She could feel the nausea rise in her throat and absently wondered if God would be angry with her were she to be ill in His home. Christine watched as Father Navarre exited from the sacristy, kneeling briefly before the altar, before standing and turning, taking the scepter from Charles and sprinkling holy water over her husband's coffin.
"He does not need a bath," she said to herself, no one hearing the whispered words. She could feel Philippe's hand tighten on her arm as the priest turned back toward the altar to begin the Mass. Yet Christine did not follow the motions of the man before the cross; she stared at the familiar crest resting atop her husband's coffin. Christine kept her eyes fixed to that spot, willing it to go away, willing the nightmare to end, struggling to hear her husband call to her, pulling her from the darkness and into the safety of his arms. She strained to hear his silly little laugh above the carefully intoned Latin that echoed off the stone walls of the chapel. She wanted to run up to that box and throw it open, showing everyone that this was all a lie; that Raoul was not dead and he was just playing with them. They would be so angry with him but she would laugh with him as he grabbed her, pulling her close, whirling her around ...
"Christine," a voice called to her. "It is time to go."
"What?" Christine looked around and found herself outside in the family cemetery, Raoul's coffin resting before a mausoleum. "How did I get here?" she asked, turning toward the voice, finding Antoinette holding to her arm.
"It is all right, my dear," Antoinette assured her.
Christine looked puzzled and lowered her eyes to find a calla lily between her hands. "I do not remember." She raised frightened eyes to Antoinette. "I do not remember!"
"It does not matter," Antoinette said, "but now you must say goodbye and come home with those who love you."
"I cannot leave him," Christine was adamant. She felt a head go to her shoulder and turned to see Meg standing on her other side. "I cannot leave him, Meg!"
Meg sniffled, a black clad hand, wiping at tear-stained cheeks. "I know you do not want to," Meg began and raised her head.
"I cannot!" Christine told her.
"What is she doing now?" Desiree wondered as she watched the interaction between Christine and her friends from some distance.
"Leave her alone," Philippe warned his sister in a tired voice. "You were not here. You did not see ..." His voice broke. "You do not know ..." He was grateful to the light touch upon his arm and the smell of jasmine that accompanied it.
"It was more than any of us could bear," Monique finished for her friend.
"He was our brother, too," Charlotte said, dabbing at her eyes.
"I know, I know," Philippe sighed, his age wearing heavily upon him. "I am sorry. I do not even know what I am saying." He turned his attention back toward Christine. "I should go to her."
"I will go," Xavier volunteered.
"No, thank you," Philippe said. "I am more grateful for your friendship and support these last days than you will ever know but," he drew a deep breath, "but Raoul would wish me to watch after and care for his wife."
Philippe carefully placed Monique's hand into that of her husband and walked back toward the cemetery. He did not see the strange look that crossed Xavier's face but Monique did and she squeezed the arm she held, giving her husband a strained smile that was of little comfort. They both turned back to watch as Philippe approached his brother's widow.
Christine had her gaze fixed on the mausoleum, speaking to it. "But it is made of stones and it is cold and dark," she was saying as Philippe approached. "Raoul did not like cold and stones and dark after that night. He would have nightmares about them. I need to stay with him and keep away the nightmares."
Philippe closed his eyes in pain.
"Christine," Antoinette said as gently as she could, "Raoul will never have nightmares again. He is in Heaven ..."
Christine turned to face the people about her. "But how will God know it is him?" She interrupted. "We are not burying his whole body and you need a body to get into Heaven."
"Oh God," Meg breathed and buried her face in her husband's shoulder, feeling Val's arm go about her waist in strong, gentle support.
Philippe took a hesitant step forward and was stopped by Antoinette's raised hand. "You must listen to me," she told Christine, taking her by the arms. "Raoul is no longer here and God will not turn away one such as your husband." Antoinette took note of how still Christine had become. "Raoul is in a place where he can never be hurt again. He is safe and at peace and you must free the last chain he has that binds him to this earth. You must say goodbye and let him go." Antoinette pulled Christine close so that she could whisper in her ear. "He takes your love with him as surely as you will hold his in trust until you meet again. I know this as truth with every beat of my heart." Antoinette felt Christine's arms go about her, hugging her lightly before the younger woman drew back.
"May I have a moment alone with my husband?" Christine asked softly and turned to Philippe. "Please?"
"I ..." Philippe began with a shake of his head until he felt Christine's hand on his cheek.
"Please," she breathed.
Philippe could only nod and he was grateful that Antoinette took his arm in her own strong one for Philippe was not sure he could leave his brother again. He gave a last lingering glance to the wood that gleamed in the mid-day sun before allowing Antoinette to lead him from the cemetery.
Meg gave Christine a quick hug and a kiss.
"Are you sure?" Val wondered.
Christine nodded once. "Yes." She watched as everyone walked away, stopping with the family and friends who now waited only for her. Christine turned her back on them, facing her husband's coffin. She took one hand and raised the veil from her face; there were still no tears in her eyes. A trembling hand reached out and placed a lone lily atop the coffin.
"Raoul," Christine breathed in a shaky voice as her hand lightly caressed the top of her husband's casket. "My beautiful golden light." A second hand joined the first. "Where is the knight to ride in upon a white horse and carry me from the cemetery? Where is the hero to save me from the monsters lurking in the darkness? Where is the prince to hold me in his arms and lavish me with kisses?" Christine leaned her head forward. "They are all gone; they left with you. You take my light, my summertime, my life with you." Her hands moved along the smooth edges of the wood. "I am so sorry. I did not mean for this to happen. I did not mean for my fears to become entangled with your life. Oh God; why did you ever love me?" Christine laid her head upon the top of the casket. "And how am I to live a life without you to love? How am I to wake each morning without your light to guide me through the day? How am I to face my fears without you to guard my heart?" She closed her eyes and lightly rubbed her cheek against the warm wood. "But Antoinette was right and you are at peace and there is none who can ever hurt you again." Christine straightened. "I have to leave you now. We have to say goodbye." A small smile crossed her lips. "Yet I take you with me." She raised a hand to her lips and placed it on the lily that had marked the start of their lives together and was now witnessing the end. "Thank you, thank you," Christine murmured and bent over to kiss the top of the casket. "I shall always love you," she whispered against the wood.
Christine straightened and stared for a long moment at Raoul's casket before reaching up to draw the widow's veil back over her face, turning her back and walking away into an uncertain future.