Chapter Summary: Christine prepares to leave Chagny and pays a final visit to Raoul's crypt. While there she meets some unanticipated "mourners".

CHAPTER THIRTY

The guesthouse at Chagny had been built at the turn of the previous century; its English born and bred architect designing it after the small country manors that dotted the high moors of his youth. It was a small house when compared to the chateau - only four bedrooms, a formal dining room and three receiving rooms. The architect had located the house in a small wooded area some hundred yards from the main drive. It was quiet and isolated in its location and guests were assured of their privacy. Yet it was not too far from the main house so guests could also come and go easily. It was the perfect house in the perfect setting.

Now on this day, two weeks after she had buried her husband, Christine stood staring at the guesthouse. Her dark eyes scanned each window before turning to look at the surrounding countryside. "I will remember this," she said softly as a hand reached for the child she carried, "and someday I will tell you all about it."

"Pardon?" a male voice asked.

Christine turned to see the carriage driver she had hired waiting patiently for her. Christine looked up to see her lone piece of luggage safely secured to the back of the coach, the door was open and waiting for her. "It is nothing," she told him as she took his offered hand, pausing as she stepped into the coach. "I have one last favor to ask of you." She briefly closed her eyes. "There is a small road not far from the main drive. You can see a chapel and a cemetery from the road."

The man nodded. "I think I saw it."

"I would like to stop there for a moment, if you would be so kind."

The man once again took note of the very plain black clothing the young woman wore. "As you wish, Madame," he remembered her correction from the previous day and his eyes glanced down to the hand he held and the expensive rings on the woman's third finger. He thought her far too young to be widow and thought she must be mourning a close friend or family member.

"Thank you," Christine said as she stepped into the coach, settling into the well-cushioned seat. She leaned back and closed her eyes, willing away the little concerns that knocked at the locked doors of her mind. "I have no other choice," she whispered to herself and felt the coach give a little jolt as the horses began to move. Christine opened her eyes again so that she could study the countryside that moved past; she knew she would commit each moment of the trip to Lyon to memory. "Someday," she promised her child. "Someday."

Christine felt another crack form in what was left of her soul as the coach stopped at the bottom of the drive to Chagny before turning right onto the main road. She was tempted to turn her gaze to the opening in the back wall of the coach so that she could see the spires of the chateau but Christine knew that would only further weaken her resolve. She had so little emotional strength left and she could let nothing draw from it until she was safely away, her child protected against a future where there would be no love except that of money. Her thoughts were once again interrupted by a jolt from coach and Christine reached out a hand to steady herself. She sat very still breathing in and out through her mouth to chase away the nausea that always seemed to accompany a rattling of her nerves.

"Madame?" the coachman said as he opened the door.

Christine took his extended hand and climbed from the coach. She stood for a moment, staring at the steeple of the chapel off in the distance, knowing the cemetery was right behind it. Christine gazed up at the sun and knew that it was still too early for anyone at the chateau to be out and she could feel the nervous nausea begin to settle. She would have the opportunity to say her final goodbye in private.

"Do you want me to escort you?" the coachman wondered. "It is a distance for an unescorted woman to walk alone." He shook his head. "And you cannot be seen from here once you turn the corner."

"I will be fine," Christine told him with a nod of her head. "There is no one here who would harm me." She managed a slight smile for him. "I shall return shortly."

The man shook his head, biting back the misgivings he felt turning his stomach. "As you wish," he said and watched as Christine walked down the road toward the chapel. His eyes did not leave her diminishing figure even after she had turned the corner of the road and disappeared from his view.

Christine walked slowly down the road that led to the chapel, turning her head, watching every tree, every flower, committing it all to memory. She wondered how many times Raoul had walked down this very same road as a child, giving his father and older siblings a difficult time about attending services. She wondered if he had scampered away from them, into the woods, laughing as they chased after him. Christine paused as she turned the corner and began to approach the chapel. It stood there, in the morning light, the sun reflecting bright jewel-colored flashes as its rays hit the stained-glass windows, an earthly symbol of Heaven's beauty. Christine stared at for a moment, her heart cold and empty and wondered if she would ever be able to see the beauty in any chapel ever again, before turning to walk down a gravel-strewn path.

She moved easily through the carefully manicured lawn and well-tended monuments. She looked neither right nor left but kept her gaze purposefully fixed upon the small stone mausoleum that sat at the very end of the path, protectively nestled by the woods behind it. A single hand reached into the reticule she carried, as Christine walked toward the small stone edifice, pulling out a blue velvet box. She could smell flowers as she drew closer and her nose wrinkled, a frown crossing her face.

"Roses," Christine muttered as she drew to a stop before the mausoleum, looking at all the new floral wreaths that had been placed at her husband's tomb. "Do they not know you would not have liked these?" Christine wondered softly as her feet carried her the last few steps. "I tried to tell them," she said softly as she stopped, a trembling hand reaching out to rest against the iron door to the crypt. "I tried to tell them you did not like roses but they did not listen to me." Christine's eyes closed, her hand tightening around the handle to the door. "There is no one to listen to me now."

Her eyes opened and she looked around, watching as birds flew into the morning sky and rays of sunlight danced in the shadows of the woods. Christine let go of the cold handle so that she could open the velvet box that she gripped in her other hand. "You always listened to me," she said as she sniffled. "Even when I was being foolish and silly you always found the time to listen to me." Christine slowly opened the box she held. "Except for the last time." She watched as the bright summer sun gleamed off the silver medallion and chain. "You were too angry to listen and I was too afraid to talk." Her fingers ran over the warming metal. "I deserved your anger but you did not deserve my fears." Christine's hand closed over the medallion. "Now you know what I could not say and why." She laughed softly and shook her head. "I can just hear your laughter and … and …" Christine's bottom lip trembled as her eyes closed. "And I can feel your hands on my face and hear your voice as you tell me how silly I am and how none of my fears would have ever mattered." She sniffled. "Or changed the love you felt for me."

"I am still bound by my fears." Christine opened her eyes. "But now they are different fears and for a different reason." Her hand opened and reached out to hang the Saint Joseph medallion on the door to Raoul's crypt. "Congratulations, my love," she said softly and rested her forehead against the iron door that was cooled by the shade of the surrounding trees. "You are going to be a father," she whispered.

Christine stood quietly, leaning against the door to the crypt, listening to the gentle rustling from the surrounding woods. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and could see her husband's smiling face, hear his delighted laughter in her ears, feel his hands wrap protectively over their child. Christine's tightly curled fingers straightened and she began to smack her open palms against the iron door. "Give him back to me," she snarled. "Just give him back to me!" She continued to hit the door until her palms grew numb. "I want him back," she breathed softly. "Please." There was no answer and Christine straightened, opening her eyes and looking down at her reddened palms. She raised her eyes to look curiously at her husband's resting place and Christine gently placed her hands against the door, reaching in for a final kiss. "I will always love you," she whispered.

"That is the same thing your husband said," a strange voice said.

Christine shrieked and whirled around to find a man standing behind her, his face hidden by a black cloth. Her eyes darted around as her mind struggled to find a means of escape. The feel of something cold against her cheek interrupted Christine's thoughts. She glanced down to see the barrel of a gun resting against her skin and Christine could feel her knees begin to give way. She opened her mouth to scream and felt a hand go over it.

"If you scream, you shall die," a vaguely familiar voice said in her ear. "And it would be such a shame to deprive the world of your beauty."

Christine could feel her heart pound. Huge frightened eyes looked to the unarmed man standing before her.

"Let her go," the first man said. "She is not going to do anything foolish."

Christine felt her head pulled backward, warm, moist breath against her ear.

"Your husband was so right," the voice said as the gun was lowered. "He warned us to stay away from you." His hand was removed. "You are a temptation."

Christine breathed deeply to steady her nerves. "You … you …" She locked her knees so that she would not crumble. "Bastards!"

"Such language," the voice behind her said.

"Why?" Christine wanted to know. "Why? You have the money why did you not let him go?"

The man before her crossed his arms over his chest. "That is of no concern to you."

"He was my husband!" she shrieked.

"Do you want to know what he wished to tell you?" The man raised an eyebrow at her. "Or do you wish to die?"

Christine froze as she felt the barrel of the gun press to the small of her back and she fought down the urge to reach for her child. "I do not believe you," Christine said as her head began to slowly shake.

The gun returned to caress her cheek. "Perros," the voice behind her whispered.

"Oh God," Christine breathed, closing her eyes as the world began to spin about her. "Raoul."

"He wanted you to know that he loved you since Perros and that he would always love you," a voice intruded into the swirling darkness behind Christine's closed eyelids. "And he wanted you to know he was sorry for what he said."

"Raoul," Christine said, her voice catching on her husband's name. "Why?" she asked the men as she opened her eyes. "Why?" There was no answer.

The masked man before her pointed down the path leading away from the cemetery. "I suggest you walk back down that path and forget everything that just happened here."

Christine held out a trembling hand. "Please," she pleaded.

"Go now," the voice associated with the gun told her. "Before I forget that I am a gentleman."

There was something in the laughter that came after the word 'gentleman' that caused a chill to creep from Christine's soul all the way up her spine. "Do not hurt me," she said in a shaky voice. "I will go."

"Now!" the masked man ordered her.

Christine swallowed deeply and somehow found the ability to put one foot in front of the other. She walked on trembling legs down the path, past the chapel, never looking back. She did not see the men as they removed the masks from their faces.

"I did what I told Edouard I would do," Francois said. "Let us leave before she sounds an alarm."

"She will do no such thing," Nico replied, as he stared at the door to Raoul's crypt.

Francois watched as Nico reached for the medallion hanging on the door. He was puzzled at the look that crossed Nico's face. "What is it?"

"A Saint Joseph medal," Nico whispered as he looked at the medallion Christine had left for Raoul. He looked up at Francois, a curious gleam in his eyes. "Do you know what this means?"

Francois shook his head. "No," he replied.

Nico's hand closed over the object it held. "Pain," he told Francois. A decidedly evil smile crossed his face. "Pain," he repeated as his eyes followed the black-clad figure that was disappearing from sight as it turned the corner beyond the chapel.

As she walked around the corner, Christine knew that the two men would no longer be able to see her but still she fought down the urge to run; she could do nothing that would endanger her child. Numb from head to toe, Christine could only focus on the coach and the man waiting for her at the end of the drive. She kept moving toward them, senses heightened, listening for every little sound, waiting for the loud crack that would end her life. Somehow she managed to keep a steady, even pace and the coach drew ever closer.

"Madame?" the coach's driver asked in a concerned tone as Christine finally reached the end of the drive where he waited.

"I am ready to leave," Christine whispered as she reached for the hand the man held out. She felt the gentle strength of his hand upon her own and her knees began to shake, her legs starting to give out.

"Madame!" the man exclaimed as he caught Christine before she could fall to the ground.

"Just help me into the coach," Christine managed. "I need to leave this place."

"I do not think that is wise," the man tried.

"Please," Christine hissed between clenched teeth. "I need to leave here. I need to get to Lyon."

The man looked at the woman before him, noting her pale skin, her large, frightened eyes. He could feel the strength of her grip on his hand, the trembling beneath the strength. He fought a brief, internal battle with his conscience and relented before the desperate woman in his arms. "You must promise me that should you become ill before we reach Lyon, you will allow me to stop and get assistance."

Christine could only nod. She kept a tight grip on the man's arm as he handed her into the coach. She managed a wavering smile for him as he patted her knee before closing the door. Christine heard him climb atop the coach and she felt a jolt, heard the familiar rattle of harnesses as the coach began to move forward. As the coach began to pick up speed, Christine began to shake uncontrollably and she collapsed, sliding from the leather-covered bench to the floor. She lay on the hard floor of the coach, curled into a fetal position, eyes closed, unwilling to look at a world she no longer understood. "Raoul," she kept repeating until her voice trailed off as sleep claimed her, her subconscious shutting down to protect Christine's tenuous hold on her sanity.

The remainder of the trip to Lyon was uneventful. The driver stopped at the Saint Joan Inn, changing his team, picking up an extra driver. The owners of the inn were familiar with the man and had prepared a basket of food and drink for him. The man turned the coach over to the new driver before opening the door to check on his passenger. He found the young woman seated on one of the leather benches, curled into a corner. He heaved a sigh of relief as he noted the pale color that had returned to her white cheeks. "You may wish to take a break," he began. "It will be several more hours before we stop again."

Christine looked at the lovely inn where she had stopped with Raoul and Arthur; she shook her head slightly. "I cannot go in there."

"There is a small house around back where the staff stays," he told her. "I can take you there, if you would like."

"I would," Christine nodded as she took his outstretched hand.

Thirty minutes later, the coach was once again heading toward Lyon. Christine had asked the original driver to join her inside for she could not see him trying to rest while sitting atop the coach, being jostled back and forth. He had given her the food basket and noted that she had only picked at the food, bypassing the wine and reaching for the water.

"Are you sure you are feeling quite well?" the man worried.

"I will be fine," Christine assured him. "It has just been a very trying time."

The man nodded at the rings that flashed on Christine's hand. "You should be happy, then, to return home to your husband."

Home. The word cut through Christine, opening new wounds. "Yes," she said as she turned to briefly look out the window. "Home." She turned her attention back to the man seated across from her. "I do not even know your name."

"Jean Lisle," the man answered.

"Monsieur Lisle," Christine said as she held out her hand. "I am Christine Soderlund." Christine used a surname remembered from a long-forgotten childhood. A childhood she had shared with a bright, golden-haired boy with an easy smile and a silly little laugh … Christine sighed and tried to shake away the memory of her husband. "Would you do me a final favor?"

"If I am able," Jean replied.

Christine reached into the reticule and pulled out a sealed envelope. "This is a letter that is addressed to the Comte de Chagny." She ran trembling fingers over Philippe's name. "It is important that he receive it." She raised her head to look at the man across from her. "But I do not wish him to receive it for another five days. Would be you able to deliver it to him five days from now?" She held out the letter between them.

Jean looked at the letter, a puzzled look crossing his face. He raised his eyes to study the woman seated opposite him.

"I can pay you well for your trouble."

Jean reached for the envelope, taking it into his hands before slipping it into his jacket pocket. "I would be glad to deliver this letter for you," he said. "I am not sure that I understand all of this."

"I cannot explain it to you," Christine told him. "I can assure you, though, that Phil …" she paused and shook her head. "That the Comte will receive you and be happy of the letter you give him."

Jean studied Christine quietly for a long moment. "I believe you," he replied.

"Thank you," Christine said as she turned her head to study the world passing beyond the windows of the coach.

The rest of the trip to Lyon passed without incident. The coach stopped in the dark of the night to once again change horses. Jean kept a careful guard on his passenger as she stepped from the coach to stretch her legs at the small inn where they had stopped. He had watched her from beneath his lids while she thought he had slept. Jean took note of the times when her hands had reached for her mouth, her head bending to her knees; the father of three recognizing the symptoms. He wondered at any kind of man who would allow a pregnant woman to travel such great distances on her own and especially for such an emotionally difficult time. Jean once again saw the expensive rings on Madame Soderlund's hand and thought he would never understand the ways of the rich and he finally closed his eyes, allowing sleep to claim him for a few hours.

Christine woke the next morning to bright sunlight as the coach entered the city of Lyon. She rubbed at her eyes and stretched as a feeling of relief and gratitude flooded over her; she was actually going to make it. A single hand reached for her child. "It will be all right, little one," she whispered. "We will be all right." Christine settled back and watched as the waking city moved past.

Finally the coach drew to a halt in front of a busy building on the city's far north side. Christine looked out the window and recognized the train station where she and Raoul had arrived a little over a month before. Christine sighed; how great a difference had those days had made in her life. Nothing would ever be the same again. There would no longer be trips to Lyon. There would no longer be a gentle hand on her back or soft lips to nuzzle against her neck. There would no longer be days full of happy laughter and nights full of contented sighs. Christine shook her head and wondered when the tears would come. She wondered when she would finally realize the fact that her husband was gone and would never be coming back. She prayed she would have the strength to follow through with what she needed to do. She prayed she would be able to move past her fears. Christine prayed she would finally find a way to grow into the woman Raoul always knew she could be.

"Madame," Jean asked as he opened the coach door and extended his hand to Christine.

"Thank you," Christine said as she stepped from the coach, taking the bag that Jean held in his other hand. "Thank you for getting me here. Thank you for not asking any questions." She reached into her reticule and handed a tight roll of francs to Jean. "This is for delivering the letter to the Comte." She rested her hand in Jean's as he took the money. "Should anyone question you, tell them the letter is from the Vicomtess," Christine said softly and disappeared into the growing crowd.