Chapter Summary: Philippe and Monique. Henri and Didier. Questions without answers; guilt; memories and lost chances – past, present and future. And two flashes of insight – one too brief and too small to hold onto but still there; the other able to be held but its knowledge can break a newly found, still fragile, resolve.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
"You have got to see it, Philippe!" Raoul insisted, as he ran down the path to grab his older brother by the hand, pulling him forward.
"And what it is that has so piqued your interest, Raoul?" Philippe wondered, a smile crossing his face as he looked down at the bouncing six-year old.
Raoul rolled his eyes. "I cannot tell you!" he insisted. "You have got to see it!" Raoul tugged at Philippe's hand. "Come along!"
"As you will, my little man," Philippe laughed, slightly lengthening his normal stride to match the running pace set by the child's shorter legs.
Raoul dragged his brother into the woods, the summer sun high over head casting dancing shadows through the leafy canopy. Raoul suddenly stopped, causing Philippe to bump into him but the little boy paid no heed. "Is it not the most magical thing you have ever seen?" he breathed.
Philippe stared at a stone bench set beneath a semi-circle of birch trees. The bench was carved with strange symbols and appeared very old. Small, yellow buttercups and wild daisies dotted the grass around the bench like fine stitches in a carefully knotted carpet. Philippe looked down at his brother who was staring in awe, a small hand pointing at a ring of mushrooms surrounding the bench.
"A fairy circle," Raoul said, raising his face to his brother. "And birch trees! You heard what Madame Monique said about birch trees - that they hide the fairies who come out to dance when the moon is full."
Philippe struggled to keep a straight face. "I did hear," he replied solemnly.
Raoul turned back to look at the bench. "This shall be my very special spot. I shall come here every day and every night and wait for the fairies."
"And what of your studies?" Philippe wondered. "And when shall you sleep?"
"I do not care," Raoul insisted, his little lips forming a pout. "I am going to come here until I catch a fairy and then I am going to marry her."
Philippe grabbed his little brother about the waist, lifting him high and turning him upside down. "Obviously the fairies have already shaken the very brains from your head!" he laughed as the child in his arms giggled and squirmed …
"You married your fairy," Philippe said as the memories came rushing back, "but she has slipped away again." His hands ran over the familiar bench upon which he sat, his eyes never leaving the stone crypt at which they stared. "And now I have returned your magical bench to you." His eyes closed as Philippe struggled to hold to the memory, the feeling. "Perhaps it will help to guide the fairy home." A familiar scent wafted by on a stray breeze. "I know you are there, Monique," he said softly.
Monique slowly approached the bench where Philippe sat, standing beside it. "Jasmine?" she wondered.
Philippe nodded his head, moving over so that Monique could sit next to him. "I also thought I heard footsteps on the pathway but I did not wish to look because I knew it would not be … I knew …" Philippe could not finish his thought.
Monique sat down, reaching out for Philippe's hand, a long-forgotten feeling rushing through her veins as his fingers intertwined with hers. "I knew you would be here when I did not find you at the house." She looked at the bench. "Raoul's fairy seat."
"You remembered," Philippe said as he turned to look at her briefly, his eyes straying back to the crypt.
"How could I forget? He spent so many years always going to that same spot in the woods, always insisting that he was going to catch a fairy." A sad smile crossed Monique's face. "I remember that first summer you came back from Perros and Raoul said he finally found his fairy. And I remember the summer he came back after Christine told him they could never see each other again. That was the year he stopped going to the bench and started to ride along the …" her voice trailed away. "Oh, Philippe; I am so sorry. I did not mean to … I did not …"
Philippe's free hand strayed to touch Monique's arm. "It is all right," he said as he turned to look at her. "We can not avoid the subject forever." Philippe's chin trembled. "Raoul is dead and nothing is ever going to change that. If I cannot speak of him, then I am afraid I shall lose the memories forever." His gaze wandered back to the crypt. "I am afraid that is all I shall ever have now – are the memories."
"Xavier will find Christine," Monique insisted. "I am sure of it. You must be, as well."
"I wish I could be," Philippe replied, "but I am no longer sure of anything in my life."
They sat in silence for awhile, Philippe's eyes never leaving the crypt, Monique's eyes never leaving Philippe's face.
"Do you come here often?" Monique finally asked.
"Every day."
"Why?"
"Why, why why," Philippe breathed, his voice growing softer with each word.
"You do not have to tell me if you do not wish."
Philippe turned to the woman sitting next to him, giving her a sad little smile. "I want to tell you. I need to tell you. I need to tell someone."
"I am here," Monique assured him, lifting the hand she held into her lap and placing her free hand over it. "And I am listening."
Philippe turned his gaze from Monique, looking off into the distance, past the graveyard littered with the bones of his ancestors, over the valley that they had helped to form. "I come here looking for answers," he began. "I come here trying to understand what went wrong. I gave those … them … everything they wanted and all they had to do was return Raoul." A puzzled look crossed his face as he turned back to Monique. "Why could they not do that? I would never have sent the constabulary after them. I would have let them take the money and go; all I wanted was my brother back." He returned to looking at the crypt. "I do not understand where everything went so wrong! I tried to make sure that Raoul had everything I could never have. He had a life of his own choosing. He had the woman he loved. He had his whole life before him and I find I cannot understand why it was all torn away." Philippe's brow creased in pain. "Did I indulge him too much? Did I interfere too much? Was placing all the hopes and dreams of our family – my hopes and dreams – on his shoulders too much?" Philippe hung his head. "Now there will be a child somewhere in this world that will look like him or laugh like him and I will never know it. There is a small piece of happiness – a piece of my brother - that still exists in this nightmare into which we have all been tossed and even that has been taken away." Philippe raised his head and turned to Monique. "Am I that horrible of a person – are we that horrible of a family – that Christine would fear us so much? That she could even think I would allow anyone to take her child from her? Does she not know I would lay down my life for her – for my brother's baby? And – why when it is my brother who was murdered – do I feel like I am being punished?" Philippe shook his head. "That is the worst feeling of all – that all of this happened because of something I did. That Raoul is dead and Christine is running in fear," Philippe moved his eyes to – once again – gaze out over the cemetery, "that everything all of those people built is falling apart because of something that I did or did not do. What kind of a selfish bastard does that make me?"
"I do not find you selfish, at all," Monique said softly as studied the man before her, trembling lips smiling slightly in compassion. "Why have you not said anything over these last weeks? Why could you not turn to Xavier … or to me? Why could you not have confided in us?"
"Because this is not your problem," Philippe told her. "This is not a problem with which any can help." His eyes turned back to the crypt. "I know I will never find answers until God calls me home."
"Philippe!" Monique's voice held a tone of alarm.
"Do not fret yourself; I am not about to do anything foolish. I may have been a coward in my younger days but I am no longer such a pathetic thing." Philippe sighed. "That is something that Raoul taught me." He turned back to look at Monique. "He taught me to stand up for myself, to believe in myself, to trust in myself." His voice lowered considerably, his eyes averting. "It is too bad that I learned the lessons far too late in my life."
Monique could feel the breath catch in her throat at Philippe's words. "I do not think you were ever a coward."
"Ah," he replied softly, "but, then, you did not see the frightened, unsure young man trapped behind stone walls with an unyielding martinet for a father."
"Is that why you never fell in love?" Monique took her heart into her hands. "Is that why you never married?"
Philippe raised his eyes to look at the woman beside him, glad she could not see what remained of his already broken heart disintegrating into dust that was blown away by currents from the past. "I did love once," he said gently. "I loved her more than you could ever imagine but I did not have my brother's courage. I could not stand up to my father the way Raoul stood up to me. I did not fight for the woman I loved the way that Raoul fought for Christine. Raoul did not take 'no' for an answer," Philippe shook his head, "I did."
Monique was glad that she had learned how to curb her emotions over the years; she could not have borne for Philippe to see the ice in her heart and soul melting, turning into a flooded river of useless, remorseful tears. "She must have been an incredible woman for you to love her that much," she replied, violet eyes never leaving the deep blue pools of sorrow into which they stared, "for her memory to still move you so."
"She was," Philippe said and thought, "She still is."
"Why did you not marry her?" Monique wondered aloud, aware of the polite game she and Philippe played but still needing to know the answer so that she could try to begin to find a peace that had eluded her all her married life.
There was no sense in avoiding the answer now. "Because my father forbade it," Philippe replied simply. "When he said 'no', I listened and obeyed." A crooked smile curled his lips. "I never had the internal fortitude, the strength of character that Raoul seemed to so easily possess."
Monique needed to know the rest of the answer to her question, to ease the doubts that had always plagued her. "Why did he say no?"
How could anything hurt more than it already did? "It was not her character or her family," Philippe told her, his voice echoing the feelings of the past. "They were perfectly acceptable." He saw the relief pass over her troubled eyes and knew his next words would chase that relief away. "It was the money." Philippe raised his eyes to the heavens, shaking his head. "I allowed my father to dictate the will of my heart for a lack of money. I was young and foolish and the largest coward in France."
Monique had lowered her eyes at his words, unwilling for Philippe to see the shocked amazement in them. They had lost everything – their possibilities, their futures – and all for the love of money. A tiny flicker of memory sparked at her thoughts, a pale scrap of an old conversation, words spoken in the darkness, a flicker that quickly flared and just as quickly burned out, leaving only the troubled stirrings of a mind in its wake.
"Just tell me that you have been happy," Philippe was urging her.
"I have," Monique said as she opened her eyes, allowing a smile to grace her lips. "I have. Xavier has been a good husband. He has been patient and indulgent. I have never wanted for anything."
"Yet there was never a child." Philippe shook his head. "I am sorry for that. I think you and Xavier would have been wonderful parents."
"It was not meant to be," Monique lied, knowing that she could never tell Philippe the truth, knowing that the truth would destroy his friendship with her husband. Monique would not be the one to take that last bit of happiness from him – from her self. "But we have Didier and he is a delight!" She laughed at the thought of her young red-headed, roguish cousin. "He is smart and good-natured, a bit of a scoundrel," Monique shrugged good-naturedly. "He is the son I wish I could have had."
"I like to hear you laugh," Philippe said as he took his hands back, turning to look at his brother's crypt. "I fear there will be far too little laughter at Chagny into the future," he said quietly, his shoulders rounding downward as the weight of past generations gathered upon them. "Oh, how I wish to once again hear a child's laughter in those silent halls."
Monique could no longer resist and she laid her head against Philippe's shoulder, joyfully amazed when the muscles beneath did not tense or pull away. "You are grieving. Christine is grieving," she whispered. "She is very young to have had so many terrible things happen to her in such a short time and I am sure that she is not thinking clearly through her grief." She sighed. "I know that I would not be were I to have the man I love torn from my arms." She finally felt the muscles beneath her head tense but Monique did not raise her head or draw back. "You must give her time, allow her to move past her sorrow and begin to think clearly again. Beneath that fragile exterior, Christine is a strong woman and I know she will realize that what she is doing is wrong. I know that she will come to realize that Raoul would want his wife and his child to be with the family – the brother – that he loved." Monique rubbed her cheek against Philippe's shirt. "I know that she will come back to you. I just know that she will."
Philippe closed his eyes, offering up a prayer. "I pray that you are right," he told Monique. "And I shall hold to that." He straightened and turned, forcing Monique to straighten and pull away from him. "I need something to which I can hold. The friendship that you offer, that you and Xavier have shared with me over these years, the force behind your belief, these are things that I know I can trust and to which I can safely and securely hold." He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, allowing his lips to linger a second longer than was acceptable. "Thank you," Philippe breathed before standing, turning and walking the few steps to his brother's crypt. "I will see you tomorrow," he whispered, his hand resting briefly on the cold iron door. "Rest well till then." He turned back to see that Monique had also risen, her hands extended to him.
"Come," she said to him. "Didier and Henri are off someplace together and we had best return to rescue them from each other and themselves."
Philippe walked to Monique's side, easily slipping her arm through his. "I think you are correct," Philippe said and sighed, a slight, crooked grin transforming his face. "At least those two are a distraction ..."
… "It will be a fun distraction, Raoul," Henri insisted.
Raoul eyed the deep, dark waters of the pond with just a trace of apprehension. "I do not know," he said as he shook his head. "It is awfully deep and there are … things … in there."
Henri laughed and threw a comradely arm about his cousin's shoulders. "We have spent years fishing for those things!" He tightened his grip on Raoul's shoulders causing the other boy to turn toward him; Henri wiggled his eyebrows. "And what kind of sailor is it who does not like to go for a swim in infested waters?" he wondered. "What do you think lives in the oceans? Half-naked mermaids?" Henri asked and pushed Raoul away from him, running for the pond, tossing his clothes off along the way.
Raoul laughed and began to run after his cousin, his clothes falling in little piles behind him. "Wait for me!" he called, his long, lanky, fourteen-year old legs easily covering the uneven ground to the pond.
"Catch me if you can!" Henri called over his shoulder, as his shoes went flying left and right and he dove gracefully into the summer-warmed water, surfacing almost immediately, strong strokes beginning to pull him from shore.
"Henri," Raoul shouted, a bit miffed, "I mean it! Just wait a minute."
"Why?" Henri wondered as he stopped swimming and began to tread water.
Raoul was looking down as his hands began to double the chain about his neck. "Because I want to make sure this is secure." He looked up again. "It belonged to my mother and if anything were to happen to it, I would die from mortification." He grinned. "And Philippe would kill me."
The gold cross about Raoul's neck flashed in the sun as he dove into the water …
"Water?" Didier repeated.
"What?" Henri said as he turned to the man on horseback next to him.
"I want to know what is so damn interesting about the water," Didier repeated himself. "You were so lost in thought that this is the third time I am repeating myself."
Henri sighed and adjusted himself in the saddle. "That pond," he said as he nodded toward it, "was a favorite swimming hole when Raoul and I were about fourteen or fifteen. Many was the summer day when we would ride out here and just dive in, spending hours being carefree, silly boys." Henri turned to look back at the water.
"I did not know," Didier said softly, his hand reaching out to rest comfortingly on his friend's knee as his gaze followed Henri's. "It looks like it would be a perfect swimming hole."
"It was," Henri replied softly, watching the sun dance and flash across the water. He closed his eyes, the memories of happier days, more carefree times, pushing their way to the fore. "It was," he whispered, as he watched the images play on his closed eyelids. He watched as wet, glistening bodies flashed in the sun, splashing each other, kicking the water high, droplets flashing in the sun. Henri remembered the long chain that Raoul would always double over before diving into the water. He remembered the flashing gold cross of which Raoul was always so careful. He remembered …
Henri's eyes flashed open, a look of horror crossing his face. "It cannot be …" he breathed, his eyes glazing over, his focus turning inward.
"What?" Didier worried. "What cannot be?"
"No, no, no," Henri muttered, his head beginning to shake. "No, it is not possible."
Didier nudged his horse, dancing it sideways, closer to Henri's who was becoming skittish as it sensed the change of temperament in its rider. "Henri, what are you talking about?"
Henri still stared at the pond, still lost in what was dancing across his mind's eye. "I have spent too many years being a drunk," he muttered. "I have spent too many years being a fool." A trembling hand lifted from the rein it gently held to run through his hair. "I am seeing things. I am imagining things. I am remembering things that did not even happen." He finally turned toward Didier. "You have heard the stories about the drunken sots on the streets of Paris, right? You have heard that they see things and remember things that are not real." Henri paused for a moment, his face scrunching up in fear, his tongue nervously licking his lips. "Right?"
Didier's worry was rapidly being replaced by confusion. "So they say."
"That's good," Henri replied, his voice trembling. "That is a very good thing. Because I would be able to deal with the aftermath of a very long drunk but I do not think I could stand … I do not want to believe … I do not wish to think I am losing my mind." A lone hand reached out to touch Didier's copper hair, running gently down it. "You are a good friend." Henri's panicked voice lowered to a whisper. "Such a very good friend."
"You are making absolutely no sense, Henri!" Didier blurted out as he reached out to fling Henri's hand away from his head. "If you do not tell me what is wrong, I am going to … to …"
"What?" Henri wondered as he stuck out his chin, a bit of false bravery rising in his chest. "Push me from my mount? Throw me in the water? Sell me out to the nearest band of thugs?"
Didier's pleasant countenance grew dark. "Turn you over to Philippe and have done with you, sir!"
The two young men stared at each other for a long moment, their horses snorting, beginning to paw the ground in agitation at the charged atmosphere surrounding them. It was Henri who finally broke the silence as a loud choking sound escaped from his throat and he leaned forward burying his face in his horse's neck.
"What is happening to me?" he screamed, the sound barely muffled by the animal's mane.
Didier took pity on his friend and laid a hand on Henri's shoulder, surprised when Henri did not try to shake him off. "I do not know but if you will tell me, I can try to help."
Henri's entire body began to shake. "I cannot tell you," he cried. "I cannot tell anyone!" He turned his head to look at Didier. "I cannot tell because I do not even know. I think I may be seeing things, creating things that I wish to be true. I know that I need a drink."
"That," Didier's voice grew stern again, "is the last thing you need." He nodded his head toward the pond. "I think a dip in the water is what is called for – it will cool that damn fire in your head." Didier slipped easily from his saddle.
Henri remained bent over his horse's neck. "And you think I am just going to do as you say?"
"If you do not," Didier warned, "I am going to lift you bodily from your mount and carry you to the edge of the water and dump you – very unceremoniously – in!"
Henri, too, slid from his saddle and stood before Didier, his six foot, two inches staring down at Didier's five foot, ten inches. "And how do you intend to carry out such a task?"
"By sheer brute force, should the need arise."
Henri burst into laughter, much to Didier's consternation and confusion and clapped a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "You are the best friend I have ever had," Henri managed and grew sober, "outside of my cousin."
Didier's eyes misted over. "That is the most complimentary and nicest thing I believe you have ever said to me. Thank you."
"You are welcome," Henri told him, taking back his hand. He winked at Didier and sprinted for the pond.
"Wait for me!" Didier called.
"Catch me if you can," Henri shouted over his shoulder. "Catch me if you can."