Chapter Summary: Erik and Christine continue their search for mutual forgiveness. Raoul and his angel also struggle with forgiveness. Three men struggle with their individual demons. And the police receive another piece to the puzzle.
Author's Notes: Okay I think this one might need a "Tissue Issue" warning. I cried while writing it and, even though I am a wimp, I am still issuing the warning. The story of Saddell Castle and Abbey is true and I have pictures of the fog-shrouded castle and myself on a the sunny beach just beyond to prove it.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
"This is nice," Erik said, looking down in pleasant surprise to find Christine slipping her arm through his.
"It is very nice," she replied with a slight smile before turning to look out over the ocean where diamonds sparkled in the spray that danced along the top of the waves. "I love being near the water."
Erik noted a driftwood log that had come to rest near the base of the cliffs that towered over the beach. "Would you like to sit for a few moments?" he wondered, briefly turning his head to look back at the two sets of footprints that trailed in their wake.
"I would," Christine said, her free hand moving to her back, massaging the base of her spine.
"Are you all right?" Erik worried. "Have I walked you too far? Should I carry you back?"
Christine actually laughed. "I am fine," she assured him. "My weight is shifting," she glanced down at her ever expanding mid-section before raising her head and looking at Erik, "if you have not noticed and sometimes my back aches a bit. But it is no worse than a long day spent training under Antoinette."
Erik heaved a huge sigh of relief and guided Christine over to the log. He kept hold of her hand as she settled before joining her, sitting down on the log. Erik kept hold of the hand he clasped and followed Christine's gaze out over the dark, rolling water. "This is so peaceful," he said softly.
He had arrived two days earlier after having promised Tallis he would be careful, knowing that he was breaking her heart a bit more each time he left but unable to help himself. He had made the trip from Paris to Boulogne without incident – no one caring or paying attention to the man with the hat pulled down over his face. Erik had arrived on Christine's doorstep to find the anger that boiled in his angel reduced to a mere simmer. He had been received with a grudging acceptance - even from Marie. Yet he and Christine had still managed to talk their way entirely around the one subject that neither truly wanted to face – their past.
Now, on this day before he was to leave, they had walked from Christine's home, across the green expanse that separated the homes from the cliff edge. Christine had shown him the easy winding trail that led down to the nearly deserted beach, pulling at his hand, urging him forward. Erik had been hesitant, not wishing to jeopardize her child again but Christine had shaken her head and smiled at him, the doctor had been encouraging her to become more active. Erik told himself that he had taken the small offered hand reluctantly, allowing her to walk him along the ocean's edge. He told himself there was nothing for him in the woman beside him, in the long curls that waved back at the water, in the gentle sighs, the warm arm linked through his, the glistening eyes that focused with such passion on something he could not see. Erik told himself that this was nothing more than a perfect September day with a perfect angel beside him.
"Raoul did so love the sea," Christine said softly.
The spell was broken.
"So you have said," Erik replied.
"He was so gallant as a child," she continued, lost in memories, unaware of the effect a mere name possessed, "running into those pounding waves to retrieve my scarf." Christine shook her head. "And he always found time for us to visit the ocean. We even honeymooned in Scotland along the great sea lochs. It was wild and untamed and so romantic. Raoul knew what would stir the heart of dreamer."
Erik watched the emotions that played across the face of his angel, wondering when he had forgotten that she possessed the heart of a romantic dreamer. "He was a good man," he admitted.
Christine turned to look at him, her free hand going to her head to hold back hair that had escaped from its ribbon. "And Mademoiselle Ordogne is a good woman." She tilted her head at the amazement on Erik's face. "Did you think I was so blind? I remember the look I saw on her face the day I came to see Madame Giry and handed her my card. I did not realize it at the time, of course; but hindsight is always perfect."
"She is a good woman," Erik told Christine. "Far better than I deserve."
Christine studied him in silence for a moment. "We have both loved and been loved by others who were better than we." She shook her head sadly. "We are not nice people, you and I. I have been too much of the indecisive child, unable to make up my mind, always wanting what I could not have, unable to make a decision until my hand was forced."
Erik winced. "How many times, how many ways, must I say I am sorry for that!" He felt the hand he still held gently squeeze his own.
"That is not my point," Christine told him. "Please let me finish."
"Please."
"And you," Christine sighed, "you were the puppet master. You were the man behind the scenes pulling the strings of all those about you. You were like a … like a …" she struggled for a moment to find the right word. "You were like a benign despot – if such a thing is even possible. You tried to create a world full of people who would love and adore you in spite of their fear of you. You tried to hold them in your fist without knowing that they could slip through your fingers."
Erik nodded. "You taught me that all too well."
"We deserve each other, you know." A single tear slipped from the corner of Christine's eye. "We are too much alike – we both manipulate those around us to get what we desire." She turned to look out at the ocean, the pounding of the incoming autumn tide matching the pounding of her broken heart. "I used Raoul because I was afraid of you. I used him to protect me – as my shield – and he knew but he did not care. To know that he saved me would have been enough for Raoul. In the beginning I did not love him as much as he loved me, I am afraid." Christine bit back a sob. "I did come to love him more than he loved me, though; I could not help it! Raoul had a good soul and a generous heart. He had an even disposition and his anger was just as even, just as steady. He was sweet and honest, gentle and patient." The tears were streaming down her cheeks. "He was a good husband, a generous lover and he would have been the best father."
"Tallis is much like that," Erik replied softly, his eyes closing, hearing her laughter in the breezes that blew in from the ocean. "She has a generous heart which she is more than ready to offer to any stray that should come through the kitchen door. She has a laugh that could melt the winter snow and which I do not hear as often as I should like. She is simple and uncomplicated and why she loves me when I am capable of being such a beast is a mystery that I shall never solve." Erik let out a long breath. "Tallis has such a capacity to brighten the world by merely being and I do not understand why she would choose to lavish such a gift upon me. I am not worthy of her."
"I was not worthy of Raoul, either," Christine told him as she turned to look at the man seated beside her. She reached out to touch the marred side of his face, watching as Erik's eyes opened and he melted into the touch of her hand. "But maybe that is the miracle of love – it brings us to those who can lift us up, making us more than we could be on our own."
Erik studied the woman before him, wonder in his eyes. "When did you become so wise?"
"When the world forced it upon me," Christine said, her chin trembling.
Erik drew her into his arms, feeling Christine's head go to his shoulder, her tears dampening his jacket. "Oh, my beloved angel," he whispered softly. "Would that I could take away your pain." Erik turned to look back at the ocean. "Would that someone could take away mine," he thought.
Beyond the ocean side where Christine sat sobbing into her angel's shoulder, high in the mountains, the man who would forever be the cause of the tears she shed, also conversed with an angel about pain and forgiveness.
"Take away the pain," Raoul whispered to the angel who sat before him.
"Only you can do that," she replied.
Raoul shook his head. "How?"
The angel gave him a sad little smile as she tilted her head to one side. "Forgive me."
"Forgive you?" Raoul's brow knitted in confusion.
"You know that you blame me for what has happened …""No," Raoul shook his head. "No, no, no."
The angel touched a finger to his lips. "Yes," she insisted, "you do. You blame me for lying to you about our baby. You blame me for lying about the telegram. You blame me for our argument that sent you riding," the angel held her arms wide, "and brought you to this place. You blame me for the pain your family is feeling. You blame me for that other man's – Edouard's - death. You blame me for all the pain you are feeling, all the agony to which they have subjected you."
"No."
"You think I would have sought the first arms to open to me – even if they belonged to the men who torment you. You think I do not want the child for which we prayed. You think I would do something foolish to rid myself of this baby." The angel pursed her lips and turned her head away. "You think I would run back to Erik the moment I thought you gone." The angel hung her head. "You think me shallow and cruel and fickle."
"No," Raoul insisted, his tone a bit stronger.
"How could you?" The angel turned back to face him. "How could you? After everything we have been through – after all our struggles – after I was willing to stay with Erik, to be his wife, to let him touch me and love me so that you would live – how could you? Even after I was willing to walk away so that you would not be disgraced and disowned, even after I would have willingly been your mistress just to keep you with me – how could you? How could you?"
"I do not blame you!" Raoul was breathing heavily through his nose, feeling his bruised lungs pushing painfully against healing ribs.
"Raoul," the angel shook her head.
Raoul stared at the angel seated before him for a long moment, feeling something begin to stir deep within the hollow of his soul. It crept upwards through a body speckled with bruises of various colors and in various stages of healing. It stirred aching muscles and caused fingers to curl into fists. It caused a heart to race and brought tears to stricken blue eyes. It pulsed blood to a jumbled mind, increasing the pounding that echoed in the still room. It caused a chin to tremble and lips to frown. "Yes," Raoul finally breathed through clenched teeth.
"Yes, what?" the angel asked him as she raised a silent prayer to Heaven for the answer she sought
"I hate you," Raoul hissed. "This is your fault. This is all your fault! All the pain, every cut, every beating, every burn is all your fault! I was never enough for you! I could never be enough! I could never be strong enough or passionate enough or dangerous enough!" Raoul leaned his head against the wall, turning to stare out the single window at the high, snow-covered peaks of the Alps. "I did not care if there was never a child as long as you were there. All I ever wanted was you and that was not enough for you. Now you have gone and taken my child away and I shall never see you or my baby. I shall never see my family, our friends, my home." Raoul swallowed back his tears. "I shall never sleep in my own bed again. I shall never hold you in the dark as you breathe. I just want to go home." He turned back to the angel, the angry frown reappearing. "And I know that I shall never see home again and it is all your fault! I hate you! God, how I hate you!"
"What do you remember of Saddell Castle?" the angel asked.
"What has that to do with anything?"
"Do you remember the tale of how they took stones from the ruined abbey to build the castle? Do you remember they say that the castle is cursed and always shrouded in fog because of that action? Do you remember walking down to the sea loch, through the fog, coming out into the bright sun?" the angel wondered and reached up her hands to cup Raoul's face. "Do you remember my telling you that you were the sun that pulled me from the cursed fog that bound me?"
Raoul closed his eyes against the intensity of the angel's eyes and the unbidden memories she stirred within him. "Yes," he admitted reluctantly.
"Why would I ever wish to go back to that fog? Why would I ever wish to return to the chains that bound me when I held my freedom in my arms? Why would I do something so foolish when I carry your future safely in the warmth beneath my heart?" Gentle fingers brushed away the freely flowing tears. "You always trusted and believed in me even when I did not or would not. You must trust and believe in me now."
"What of my chains?" Raoul asked bitterly.
The angel reached took a hand to brush against Raoul's forehead. "Your chains are in here," she whispered as she moved her hand to rest over his pounding heart, "and in here." She smiled softly at Raoul even though he could not see. "Your chains are those that you allow those men to have. Do not give them more than they have already taken."
A choked sob escaped Raoul's lips. "I miss you so much!"
"And we miss you," the angel wept in return.
Raoul opened his eyes, lifting his head. "I do not hate you. I could never hate you." He opened his arms allowing the angel to settle her head upon his chest, into his embrace. "I cannot survive without you; you are my strength."
"I shall always be your strength when you cannot find your own," the angel sighed and lifted her head to smile at Raoul. "That is what angels do." She lightly kissed the lips that sought hers. "We are strength in weakness, hope in despair, faith in doubt," the angel settled her head back above Raoul's heart, "love in hate."
"I do love you – God forgive me – but I do love you," Raoul whispered as he placed a kiss on the angel's curls, resting his head against hers. "I shall always love you. Even if I never see you again, I shall love you and carry your love with me."
"I am always with you for we are one body, one soul, one heart," the angel smiled and placed a kiss over Raoul's heart, "one love…"
"One lifetime," Raoul finished, his eyes closing.
"Faith, hope and love," the angel whispered. "The greatest trinity of gifts God ever gave mankind."
It seems that God always sends things in threes.
The Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
Morning, noon and night.
Sea, land and sky.
Birth, life and death.
Faith, hope and love.
Three men in three different places, each – in some way – a victim of what had happened to Raoul, each tormented by their own demons.
One tormented by the demons that had caught him.
One tormented by the demons that chased him.
One tormented by the demons he saw about him.
None of the three were able to see the trinity of gifts – faith, hope and love – that would have saved them from their demons.
One sat silently in the back of a private coach, his demons seated across from him, silent, smiling, knowing they had won their battle.
One sat silently in a cell in a monastery, struggling with his prayers, his conscience, safe from the demons that lurked just beyond sacred ground.
One sat silently in a darkened corner of a quiet café, a bottle of wine untouched before him as he desperately tried to understand the demons he witnessed in the ones he loved.
One chuckled with delight at his demons.
One tried to bury his demons in the words of the monks.
One longed to drown his demons in a bottle of fine burgundy.
Each one of them was torn and tormented. Each one of them was anguished and despairing.
One was torn apart by his madness.
One was tormented by the madness lurking just beyond his reach.
One was anguished by the madness he saw about him - despairing of his ability to stop it or to help those for whom he cared.
Each one of them sought for answers that were not forthcoming.
One thought he had found his answers.
One knew his answers were there but could not face them.
One did not know the answers, much less the questions to ask.
Even the police assigned to solving the mystery surrounding Raoul's abduction and murder were having trouble finding the unknown answers to the questions they knew to ask.
"Where is Inspector Rousseau?" Chief Inspector Robert Pichette bellowed as he strode into the offices of the police in Lyon. He had been questioned all morning regarding the case of the unfortunate Vicomte de Chagny, his interrogators now on their way to the train station and back to Paris – neither side satisfied at the words exchanged.
A young inspector, new to the ranks, raised his head from his desk. "He has not yet come in, sir," he said.
"Was a reason proffered for this sad lack of attendance to duty?" Pichette growled softly.
"No, sir," the young inspector quailed.
"I want him in my office the minute his toes cross the threshold," Pichette ordered. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Yes, sir," several voices chorused.
"Good," Pichette said simply as he crossed through the desks of the junior ranks, to his own office at the back of the second floor. He opened his door and slammed it shut behind him. Pichette stood silently for a moment, his chest heaving, eyeing the chair waiting for him behind his desk. He wanted nothing more than to take that chair and heave it out the window – the sound of breaking glass and screams from passersby below would ease the tension Pichette could feel beating at the edges of his being. Yet he was a rational man and knew he could not do such a thing – no matter how great the temptation. A knock on his door caused him to whirl on his heel, a sharp retort on his lips quickly fading to a smile. His hand turned the knob. "Inspector Rousseau," he breathed, motioning the other man into the office.
Guy Rousseau took one look at his superior officer and knew something was wrong. "What has happened?"
"Close the door," Pichette said as he moved behind his desk, finally and gratefully sinking into his chair, "and have a seat." He waited until his orders had been followed before continuing. "I have been all morning with a liaison from the Ministry of Justice. He has been questioning our handling – our very competence! – regarding the matter of the Vicomte de Chagny. That this was not a pleasant exchange on either side would be an understatement. They find us provincial and ignorant, only capable of pulling drunks and whores from the gutters. I find them arrogant and pompous, completely unable to respect that we may know what we are doing." He sighed. "Please tell me that we know what we are doing."
"As a matter of fact, sir," Guy began as he pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, "I believe we may know what we are doing."
His words greatly interested Pichette and he sat up straighter. "What have you discovered?"
"I was contacted by a young gypsy girl late yesterday as I was leaving. She wished to know if I was aware of the officer dealing with the Vicomte's case. When I replied that I was that officer, she bade me meet her father in the grove just outside of town last evening; I did as she requested."
"Foolhardy," Pichette interrupted, "but necessary."
"Yes, sir," Guy replied as his intelligent eyes turned to the notes he held in his hand. "I met with the Romany named Latco – he gave no second name. He told me that his troupe had recently passed through Grenoble and were on their way to Spain."
"Lyon seems a bit out of the way for that," Pichette commented.
"Yes, sir, I thought so, too; and said as much," Guy agreed. "Latco then proceeded to tell me that he had heard of the money being offered for information regarding a certain matter in which the police were interested. I told him that it depended upon what he had to tell me."
"How much did you pay him?" Pichette wondered, his brows raising at the sum that Rousseau quoted. "What did he have to say that was worth so much?" Pichette asked, his eyes narrowing.
Guy did not need his notes for what he would say next and raised his head. "This Latco told me that he was familiar with a man named Nico Mircea. He said he had come across this Nico at a mercantile while shopping – and I assume that word was used loosely – for supplies. He said Nico remembered him from their days travelling together. Latco said that Nico introduced him to his friend," a smile curled Guy's lips, "Louis Foucault."
"You interest me greatly," Pichette said. "When did this happen? Did either Foucault or Mircea say where they was staying?"
Guy shook his head. "No sir, they did not. Latco said that Louis seemed nervous and extracted – my word – Nico from the reunion as quickly as was decently possible. Latco would not have come to us but he heard of our search from a fellow traveler. That is what caused him to turn around and head for Lyon." A frown crossed Guy's young face.
"What is it?" Pichette asked.
"It is just that …" Guy hesitated for a moment before continuing, "it is just that Latco said this Mircea follow is a bit off in the head and he considers him dangerous."
Pichette leaned back in his chair. "It would seem that we have found another of our missing pieces." He grimaced. "The one who inflicted such terrible agony upon the Vicomte." He turned his head to gaze at the map hanging on the wall beside his desk. "Grenoble is a fairly good-sized city with many villages in the mountains." He turned back to Guy. "We shall have our work cut out for us." Pichette managed a small grin. "We leave in the morning."
Guy returned the grin. "I am already packed, sir."