Chapter Summary: Christine continues to be haunted by her memories. Marie vows to her sister-in-law that she will do whatever it takes to protect Christine and her child. Erik returns to Christine stirring her simmering anger. And the police find themselves in receipt of a leather pouch containing several interesting items … one of which prompts a visit to Chagny.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Christine leaned back against the headboard, her eyes closed, fingers entangled in silken strands, their tips lightly tracing circles on the scalp beneath them. A smile crossed her lips at the low hum that emanated from the man resting on her breast. "That was a contented sigh," she whispered.

"I do not think I have ever been so content." Raoul sighed again. "You make me content."

Christine laughed – a low, throaty sound. "I make you exhausted." She yelped in delighted surprise as familiar fingers crept their way up her thigh, sneaking into shadowed areas. "Raoul!"

Now it was Raoul's turn to laugh. "I did not think you still had that much energy left in you."

"Only for you," Christine breathed, smiling as her husband raised his head to look at her; she reached for the lips seeking hers. "Only for you," she whispered against them.

"You may have the energy but I do not." Raoul put his head back on his favorite pillow, closing his eyes, loving the feel of the soft skin against his cheek. "God! You are perfect!"

"All of those other beautiful women who throw themselves at you," Christine shook her head, "and you chose me." She smiled at the worry on the face that turned to look up at her. "I am too thin. I have no breasts. I have been incredibly awkward - " Christine blushed, "at everything. I am nothing like all the other sophisticated, elegant women who have crossed your path."

Raoul raised himself on one elbow, his free hand reaching up to palm his wife's cheek. "From the moment I first saw you again, I have wanted no one else. I have seen no one else. The others are nothing – nothing! – when compared to you! They cannot even begin to mean to me what you do."

"What is that?" Christine wondered.

"You are my eternity," Raoul whispered as his fingers began to trace the contours of his wife's face, running down her neck. "You are the song in my day, the glimmer in my darkness." His hand reached her shoulder. "You were my first love. You will be last love. My only love. I am so glad God brought us together again." His hand gently cupped her breast. "And they are perfect." Raoul leaned over and kissed each breast in turn, laying his head back on them.

Christine smiled gently. "Tell me that when I am swollen out of proportion with a child."

"I shall love you even more, then," Raoul assured her and yawned. "I shall love you and think you perfect when we are old and gray and wrinkled like dried prunes."

Christine reached for her husband's hand and raised it to her lips, kissing each finger in turn. "My beautiful, gentle Raoul," she said softly, listening as Raoul's breathing evened out, sleep finally claiming him. Christine suppressed a shudder as she remembered other hands, roaming freely, demanding something she was not yet ready to give. "I am so glad it was you," Christine said into the darkened room. "It will only ever be you." She closed her eyes but kept hold of her husband's hand. "Happy anniversary," she said, her voice trailing off as sleep claimed her, as well…

A lone hand caressed her gently rounded stomach as the tears fell from Christine's eyes. She lay on her bed, the room slowly coming into focus as the memory slipped back into the dark recesses of her mind. "I wonder what you would think of your perfect wife now?" Christine closed her eyes and rolled to her side as she imagined Raoul's hands moving over their growing child, the light glowing in his eyes. Her hands reached out and drew a pillow close and in it Christine could feel Raoul's head resting on her bare chest, his fingertips idly moving over her growing breasts. Christine buried her head in the pillow she hugged. "What have I done to us?" came the muffled words and Christine kept her face in the pillow as she cried out tears that once could not begin and now never seemed to stop.

Finally, as the tears slowed, Christine moved the pillow aside and climbed from the bed. She did as she had done nearly every morning since coming to the house by the sea - Christine walked to the window and opened it, looking toward the ocean, inhaling the clean scent of the sea breezes. She folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her chin upon them. Christine could not see the beach that was at the bottom of the cliff but in her mind's eye she could see another beach. She saw the children who ran along it, becoming the adults who walked the same path, hand-in-hand, dreaming and planning for the future that seemed to stretch out forever before them.

"You will forever be perfect," she said softly, hoping her words were carried to the ears of the one who watched down upon her. "You will never grow old. You will always be my smiling boy, my golden knight, my handsome lover." She closed her eyes and sniffled as the tears started again. "And you can never be hurt again. Not by those …" Christine shook her head, unable to find a word to describe the men who had forever changed her life. "And not by me." Her eyes opened and she raised them toward the sun. "I promise that is the father your child shall know. The beautiful, laughing man with the sparkling eyes and gentle touch. If I never do another thing correctly in this life, I promise that your child shall know you as if you carried her in your arms against your beating heart. I promise," she vowed as she stood, wiping at the tears and turning from the window to begin another long day alone with her memories and guilt.

The day went swiftly as Christine and Marie moved easily through the routine into which they had fallen. Marie insisted on cleaning and cooking. Christine insisted on helping. Marie nagged at Christine to slow down - the house was not going anywhere. Christine sighed, placing hands on her hips saying that neither was she. Marie reminded Christine of the doctor's orders to not overdo. Christine nodded in agreement and would sit for an hour or so, feeling guilty over not contributing, feeling guilty for endangering her child, feeling guilty over her husband's death. Marie would close the door to the room, walking away slowly, not wishing to hear the sobs wrenched from a tormented soul.

"First, she could not cry," Marie was telling her sister-in-law, "and now she cannot stop." She shook her head. "I am worried for her."

Bettina sat at the table in the sunny kitchen, having stopped by to deliver fresh lettuces and beans from her garden. "I would worry, as well, were she not finally grieving the loss of her husband," she replied. "Was she always like this? So emotional - I mean - when you knew her at the opera?"

Marie shrugged. "She was a bit flighty," she admitted and grinned. "But which of us was not? You cannot live with all those girls of so many different ages and not become a bit distracted. There is so much gossip and so many tales told behind raised hands, so many games played and alliances made."

"You did not become flighty."

"Ah, but then I was not orphaned at a young age." Marie thought for a moment. "I think if I was a child who barely remembered their mother and could only remember the father who told me fairy stories, I would be flighty, as well." She grew serious. "Not to mention that … that … that man took her beliefs and dreams and twisted them all out of proportion."

Bettina lowered her voice. "Is that the man who came two weeks ago?" She looked around the room and lowered her voice even more. "Was he that opera ghost?"

Marie nodded. "That is him. I tell you true, Tina; I do not like him here. He is demanding and dangerous; he nearly caused Madame to lose her baby! All I can think is that now that he knows the Vicomte is dead, he has come to claim what he lost before. If it had not been for the Vicomte and his willingness to indulge his wife, I may very well have been living on the streets of Paris doing God alone knows what! He allowed Madame … Christine to hire the maid of her choosing and she chose me. They gave me a good life and never treated me as if I was merely a servant. I will not allow that man anywhere near the Vicomte's child. I will not!"

"I do not think you have much of a choice," Bettina said. "It seems to me that Christine has already made up her mind since he is coming back here." She raised an eyebrow at Marie. "I would not cause waves if I were you."

"I am not going to cause waves," Marie pouted. "But that does not mean I will not keep watch. I swear, he does the least little thing out of line with his station and I shall have the constabulary on him faster than he can draw breath!"

Bettina chuckled as she rose to her feet. "Oh, our little Marie has developed the backbone of a man!"

"Tina," Marie warned as she, too, rose to her feet.

"Do not be such a chit," Bettina replied as she laid a friendly hand on Marie's arm. "I am just telling you that it seems there is something that must be worked out between your Christine and this man and you must let them do so. I do not think Christine will ever be able to find peace until she does. That does not mean you do not exercise caution; it just means you do not interfere until – and unless – the moment calls for it."

Marie smiled, some of the angry tension fading from her shoulders. "I promise," she said as she hugged her brother's wife. "And thank you for the fresh vegetables; they are greatly appreciated."

"And very good for a lady with child," Bettina reminded her. "I shall bring squash tomorrow and tomatoes when they are ready. Now," she said as she took Marie's arm, "walk me to the back lane. I must get home before the children return from school."

The two women crossed the kitchen and walked out the back door, down the garden path toward the lane that ran between the houses and the cliff's edge. They did not know that another had overheard their conversation.

Christine kept a hand over her mouth as she leaned back against the wall. She had been going to the kitchen in search of something to eat for she was always hungry these days. She had been about to push the partially closed door open the rest of the way when she heard voices. Not wishing to intrude, she had begun to turn away until she had heard Raoul's title used; it was that which had caused her hand to fly to her mouth and made her listen – silent and still – behind the door. She had heard all the words – Raoul's title, her name, the mention of the police, another name never spoken.

"Oh Raoul," Christine whispered as warring emotions raged through her veins and she struggled to sort them out. Her first thoughts and emotions were the ones that always claimed her attention. Christine lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. "Was there not a person who did not like you?" she asked. "Even now, they are so protective of your memory," Christine's chin trembled, her hands going over her stomach, "your child. But what have I done – what have I ever done – to deserve such regard? How I wish you could tell me!" Christine's eyes searched the ceiling for answers, her ears listening to the quiet of the rented home for a voice that would never come again. She began to straighten when the sound of the doorbell startled her.

Christine began to move swiftly down the hall, toward the front of the house. She paused for a moment as she felt a stitch in her side, a hand immediately reaching for it. "Slow down, silly girl," she told herself. "Slow down."

The doorbell rang again – impatient and demanding.

Christine let out a long breath between her teeth. "I am coming!" she shouted, a bit angry at the tone of the bell. Christine finally reached the front door, her hand pausing for a moment on the latch as she drew a deep breath and the stitch in her side faded away. She pulled the latch down, opening the door, the smile on her face fading. "Oh, it is you," she said to the man waiting on her front walk.

"You should not shout, it is not good for your vocal cords," Erik told her.

"This is my home," Christine told him, "and I shall do as I please."

Erik drew a deep breath, a stray thought passing his mind, wondering if coming back was the correct thing to do. "May I come in?" he wondered, willfully pushing the thought back into the dark recesses of his conscience from where it had escaped.

Christine stepped aside, allowing him to enter. "Could I stop you?"

"A mere word would suffice," Erik told her, his tone sharper than he intended. He did not recognize the woman before him and did not know how to react to her.

Christine fixed her former teacher with a blank stare. "When was a word ever enough to stop you?"

"I did not come to argue with you," Erik told her and moved back to the door. "This was a mistake."

Christine's lips curled in a smirk and she slammed the door shut in Erik's face. "Perhaps, I wish to argue."

Erik dropped the carpetbag he held and whirled on Christine. "What is wrong with you?"

Christine took a single step forward. "You have the utter gall to even ask that insipid question?"

"I see that your time as a Vicomtess has certainly improved your sadly lacking vocabulary," Erik replied.

"It was never my mind that you wanted!" Christine shot back.

Erik took a step forward. "I am sure that was what your precious Vicomte loved about you."

"You say another word against Raoul and I will kill you myself," Christine fixed Erik with a look that bespoke death. "I have recently learned many things about how to inflict pain. Or shall I remind you what those men did to my husband?"

The two people standing by the doorway stared at each other, chests heaving from emotional exertion. It was Erik who finally broke the silence.

"I truly did not come to fight, Madame," Erik told her. "I came to assure myself that you were well." His eyes could not help but go to the slight bulge beneath Christine's simple gown. Erik raised his eyes and smiled at her. "I see that you are and since you are, I believe it would be better for all concerned, if I were to leave."

Christine let out a long sigh. "No," she told him. "I do not wish you to go." She managed a slight smile at the look that crossed Erik's face. "I mean that honestly and truly. I think there is much that must be said between us."

"So I have been told," Erik muttered as his gaze fell to his feet.

"Pardon?" Christine could not hear what he said.

"It is nothing," Erik replied as – once again – he raised his eyes. "Are you sure you wish me to stay."

Christine nodded. "I am sure." She nodded at the staircase behind them. "You will find a room ready for you to the left at the top of the stairs." She put a hand to her mouth as she yawned. "And it would be wise were you to let Marie know that you are here for she is …"

"Very protective," Erik finished. "I became aware of such the last time I was here."

"I am going to go out to the garden and rest for awhile," Christine told him. "I shall see you at dinner."

"Thank you," Erik said.

Christine nodded and moved past, trusting that Erik would do as she asked - go to the room at the top of the stairs.

He did.

Erik climbed the stairs, turning left, seeing an open door; it was the same room as the last time he had been here, in this house by the sea. He entered the room and closed the door, dropping his carpetbag on the bed and moving to open the window. His gaze looked toward the horizon, the deep blue water sparkling in the bright sun of an August afternoon. Erik could hear voices drifting upwards and he looked down into the garden, seeing Christine speaking with Marie. Erik could see Marie's head shaking and he knew she was unhappy that he had returned. He could see Christine take the other young woman by the arms, their voices audible, their words unintelligible; yet he saw Marie nod and knew that she would do whatever Christine asked. Erik watched as Marie moved into the house, Christine taking a seat on a chaise lounge. He watched as she leaned back, her hands going over her stomach. "Oh, my angel," Erik breathed, "let us both find the peace we so desperately seek." He turned from the open window, his last sight that of her fingers caressing the wedding bands that sparkled in the sun.

Another man also looked at a ring, a ring that gleamed in the bright light of a quiet room. He turned it over and over in his hands, his eyes never leaving it, his expression completely unreadable. The other two men in the room with him waited while he pondered the object in his hands, one nervous and twitching, one quiet and studious. They both watched, waiting for some sign, some reaction. They searched for an acknowledgement that they had done right – one in bringing the object forth, the other in suspecting what it was.

"Tell me once again how you acquired this," Chief Inspector Robert Pichette told the man sitting across the interrogation table from him.

Clement Vachon, the proprietor of a roadside inn some little distance from Lyon pulled on the small scarf about his neck. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at the man standing behind him, the man who had insisted on dragging him to this unsavory place.

"Inspector Rousseau cannot be of assistance," Pichette said softly, his tone commanding attention, drawing Clement Vachon's gaze back to him. "You will, please, tell me again how you acquired this."

"I …" Vachon swallowed heavily. "I was cleaning the inn after a long day and was running the broom across the floor when I felt something under one of the corner tables. I could not see what it was so I got on my knees and dug it out."

"You found it in a small leather pouch," Pichette wondered, trying to keep the facts clear in his mind.

"Yes sir," Vachon answered. "It was in a small pouch that must have tumbled from the bench that is built into the wall."

"And was anything else in this pouch?"

"Some money." Vachon scratched his head. "A small packet of powder and a drawing that looked like a map or something."

Pichette sat silently for a moment. "And you have told no one else of this?"

"I was alone when I found the pouch," Vachon began. "I opened it alone in my inn." He nodded at the ring in Pichette's hand. "I hear the talk of those that pass through my inn. I know what they know. I knew you were searching for certain things, certain information and when I saw that and the writing, I thought it might be important."

"It is very important," Pichette assured him, briefly looking at Guy Rousseau, their eyes meeting, speaking more than mere words could ever hope to convey under such circumstances. "You said there were two men at the table where this pouch was found," Pichette turned his attention back to Vachon. "Can you describe them?"

"The one who sat in the shadows, I cannot," Vachon said as he shook his head. "I do not think I had ever seen him before."

"Anything about him stand out in your mind?"

Vachon reached up to rub at the top of his head, his brow furrowing in thought. "He was dressed real well. I do not often have that type of quality pass through my door. But I do not remember if he was old or young – nothing like that."

"That is too bad," Pichette muttered under his breath and more loudly. "The other man – what of him?"

"Him, I know," Vachon said, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. "His name is Louis Foucault."

"The name is familiar," Pichette said.

Vachon licked his lips. "And I heard that there might be a reward."

Pichette's hands closed about the ring he held. "There is a reward." He raised his eyes to Guy Rousseau. "Inspector Rousseau will show you to the man who will give you the money." Pichette raised a hand as Vachon slid his chair back and began to stand. "I will double the reward, if you will keep your mouth shut as to what you have found."

"You have a deal, sir," Vachon told the Chief Inspector and turned to Rousseau who was standing by the open door.

Chief Inspector Pichette watched as his primary aide led Clement Vachon from the interrogation room before returning his attention to the ring that he held. He stared at it, a simple gold signet ring, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary – save for the engraving on the front and back. His attention was drawn from the ring at the sound of the interrogation room door closing.

"Was I correct in my thinking?" Guy Rousseau wondered as he crossed to stand beside the table, his eyes staring at that ring. "In the details I allowed to be passed on through the world of the criminal element?"

"More than correct," Pichette assured him.

Guy heaved a sigh of relief; his instincts had proven correct. "Now what?"

"Pack a bag," Pichette said as he raised his head. "We leave for Chagny tonight."