Chapter Summary: Meg and Val talk in the aftermath of their anniversary party. Henri returns to Chagny and gives Philippe vague, disturbing answers. Xavier and Monique argue over Philippe, bringing forth old doubts and insecurities. Didier overhears them and confronts his own doubts in a most unique manner ...

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

The furniture in the small parlor had been pushed back to the walls, the fine Persian carpet rolled up and taken away to reveal the gleaming wood floor beneath. Heavy velvet draperies had been pulled back to reveal the glistening autumn night outside, the still warm air allowing for the French doors to be opened letting the merry sound of a fountain to filter inwards. A small dining table had been setup near the hearth, fine china gleaming atop creamy table linen. Crystal goblets winked back at the candles glowing in sconces, the small fire dancing in the fireplace. Warm gold and orange marigolds stood alongside deep rich burgundy mums and the last of the summer's white roses in a round silver bowl, mimicking the bridal bouquet that had been carried one year previous. Eight empty chairs sat around the table, servants scurrying about clearing the aftermath of the celebration held that evening. And on a silk-covered sofa along the wall, a young couple sat quietly, entwined together, basking in the warm glow that still lingered about the room.

"It was a lovely party," Meg sighed as she nestled herself into her husband's side, her arms going about his waist. She raised her head seeking and finding a kiss. "Thank you," she told him as she settled her head to his shoulder.

"It really was quite lovely," Val agreed, one hand gently tracing a circle on his wife's back. "I am glad that we did not have a huge party; it would not have seemed right somehow."

"People were missing," Meg said softly.

"They were," Val said, his free hand taking one of Meg's and intertwining their fingers. "If I never told you, I am glad you introduced me to Christine and Raoul; I grew to like them very much."

"And they liked you," Meg assured him. "Christine often told me so." Meg gave herself a mental shake to chase away the sorrow that beat lightly against her heart. "I was glad your sister and her husband could come tonight," she told Val, changing the subject.

Val chuckled lightly. "I wonder what my mother would have said to that! The fact that Natalya and Serge actually dared to cross the threshold of this house – much less have a pleasant evening wherein they enjoyed themselves. And with your family! And the daughter of the family retainer! Oh – the scandal!"

Now it was Meg's turn to chuckle. "And do not forget Monsieur Chalmers, your favorite professor or Serge's cousin, Alexander."

"It was a rather eclectic group who gathered to celebrate our anniversary."

Meg sat quietly for a few minutes, content to feel the pulse that beat beneath her cheek. She was also lost in thought, having taken careful observation of those who had been in attendance that evening. "I think Maman found Monsieur Chalmers very interesting," she began. "I think it was a wise choice to have him as her dinner partner; they found a great many things about which to speak."

"You do not think she minded, do you?" Val worried, not wishing to antagonize his rather formidable mother-in-law.

"I think she was glad of it," Meg admitted. "Maman has said that she grows tired of all the intrigue in the lives of the young people about her. I think she was grateful to have someone nearer her own age here this evening. I hope they can become friends."

"It was my intention," Val told his wife.

Meg sat up so that she could look her husband in the eye. "And was it your intention to invite Alexander as merely Serge's cousin or as a dinner partner for Tallis?" Meg pulled a slight frown. "Do not try to sweet talk your way around this one."

"And if I said that I invited him as a dinner partner for Tallis, would you be terribly angry with me?"

"Oh, Val," Meg sighed, her tone one of resignation.

Val shook his head. "She deserves better," he said simply.

"She deserves what her heart desires," Meg replied. "You and I know that better than just about anyone else." A finger reached up to brush away a stray tear.

"Meg, darling," Val said as he took that finger and kissed it. "I know that she loves him for she has told me as much. Yet, he continues to go back and forth between her and Christine, seeking for something I am not even sure he knows. If he would just slow down for a moment, I know he would find it before him." Val paused, averting his eyes.

"But," Meg encouraged him.

Val turned back to gaze into his wife's bright, intelligent eyes. "But I will not stand by and watch as Tallis has her heart broken. She has always seen the possibilities of the wider world about her. She has never been able to merely just settle; she has always wanted more. I wanted to show her that there was more. I just wanted to show Tallis that there were other men out there who would find her attractive. Christine married Raoul. You married me. I needed to remind Tallis that there were great dreams still to be fulfilled. And Alexander did find her attractive and witty; he told me so."

"But what about Erik? What about his feelings toward Tallis?"

"I wish I could shake him until he saw reason," Val replied. "I wish I could take that brilliant and talented brain he possesses and scramble it until he saw what was real and what was truth and not what was fantastical and lies. I wish I could give him a heart that was whole and healthy so he could love Tallis in the way she deserves." Val shook his head. "Yet I cannot do any of that; that is something Erik must do." A slight grin curled his lips. "And if by introducing Tallis to other men who may find her desirable, it nudges Erik to do the right thing …" Val shrugged.

Meg studied her husband before lightly smacking him on the shoulder. "You are playing with fire, you realize."

"Yes, Val told her, "but what else would you have me do?"

"I do not know," Meg had to admit. "Do you really think he is brilliant and talented?"

Val took his wife's hands. "Yes, I do." He raised each hand to his lips, kissing them in turn. "From whom do you think your anniversary present came?"

"He wrote that?" Meg was amazed. "For me? Did you ask him to do that?"

"I did," Val smiled at her. "You liked it, I can tell."

"I did, I did," Meg enthused.

"I should pay him to write more music."

Meg smiled brightly. "It would give him a way to feel useful and needed. Then, perhaps, he could finally realize what Tallis brings to him, settle down and live a normal life."

"My little ballet rat," Val whispered, "ever the optimist." He stared into Meg's eyes, drawing her into his soul. "It is one of the things I love best about you." He leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss against Meg's lips. "Happy Anniversary."

"Thank you for my music," Meg whispered back.

"Shall we go find our own music?" Val asked.

Meg wrapped her arms about her husband's neck. "Yes, please," she replied as Val stood, sweeping her into his arms. "I love you."

Val could find no words as he carried his wife from the room.

And in another room in the south of France, Henri de Chagny carried what felt like the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He paced steadily back and forth across the large parlor, seeing nothing in the room about him, nothing of his family's proud heritage. Henri's gaze was focused upon something no one could see but him, something that was slowly tearing him apart from the inside. He could see it but could not hold to it. He knew it was of importance but had seen too many things after too many drinking binges to know what was true and what was false any longer. He longed to burrow his fingers through his skull and pull the vision from his head. In his darkest moments, Henri contemplated throwing himself from a second story balcony but he was too afraid – too afraid to try and fail, too afraid to try and succeed.

"I thought you were with your parents," a voice caught Henri's attention and he paused in his pacing to look up.

Philippe stood in doorway of the room, a rather shadowy figure highlighted from the back by the gas lamps of the downstairs hallway.

"Oh God," Henri breathed and turned away from the sight, sinking onto a loveseat.

Philippe was seated next to him a second later. "What is wrong?" he wondered, his voice full of concern.

"For just a moment I thought … I saw …" Henri shook his head. "I wish I could tell you," he said in a choked voice, raising his head to look at his cousin, "but I do not know what is wrong with me!"

Philippe studied the young face before him, the face that bore such a strong family resemblance to his brother's. Henri had the same blue eyes, the same long brown hair, the sharply refined features that marked their ancestry softened somewhat over the years by the English bloodline. In the face before him Philippe could see sleepless nights in the dark circles under the eyes, uncertainty in the worry lines growing at the edges of lips, fear in the haunted depths of pale blue eyes. Philippe's brow furrowed in concern and he laid a hand on Henri's shoulder and could feel the muscles trembling beneath his hand. "Henri," Philippe began, "you must tell me what is wrong! Why are you still here? Why did you not return to your parents? Where have you been?"

Henri drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I am going insane. Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I do not wish to be clapped up in Bedlam. And I cannot tell you."

"That makes no sense," Philippe replied as he withdrew his hand.

Henri rose to his feet and began to pace again. "Do you think I do not know that? I know what the words I speak sound like. I know that I sound like a complete and utter imbecile."

Philippe, too, rose to his feet and reached for his young cousin's arm, causing Henri to pause in his nervous pacing. "You do sound like you are an imbecile," he agreed, "but I think there is more going on here than you wish to say. And I am afraid that I am going to have to insist that you at least tell me something that will not cause me to clap you up in irons and send you back to your parents." Philippe gestured at the love seat, lightly tugging on Henri's sleeve. "Sit and talk," he ordered.

Henri did as he was told, resuming a seat beside Philippe.

"Now, you will start talking," Philippe told him, "and I shall sit quietly and listen."

Henri swallowed hard several times, placing his hands on his knees so that open palms faced upwards. He looked down at those empty hands and spoke to them. "I am afraid that I am losing my mind." A crooked smile crossed his face. "I know that I have often been a disgrace to our family and I think this might be a punishment. I thought it had gone away for a time after Didier and I talked but it has come back. It has come back and refuses to leave me alone. At first I only saw it in my sleep but now I see it when I am awake. It haunts me morning, noon and night. I can find no sanctuary from it."

"Is this why you have been disappearing without word?"

Henri nodded his head.

Philippe's lips were set into a grim line. "Can you tell me what it is you are seeing?"

"A vision from God," came the softly spoken reply.

"Pardon?"

Henri turned his head slightly so that he could look at Philippe from the corner of his eye. "You heard me."

"I heard you. I just do not understand!"

"Do you think I do?" Henri sighed and slumped backwards in the loveseat. "I want to understand! I do! I just do not know where to begin!"

"You will begin by going upstairs to your rooms and having a hot bath," Philippe told him. "I will have a tray sent up from the kitchen and you will have something to eat. You will also refrain from any alcohol of any kind. Tomorrow you will write to your parents; I shall leave it to you as to how much you tell them but you must tell them something. I shall do what I can for you but you must begin by helping yourself." Philippe rose to his feet. "I hope you take heed of my words," he warned Henri, "for I am closing this house within the month and returning to Paris. And whether you believe it or not, I should like you to join me there for the winter season."

"I shall do as you ask," Henri told Philippe, his tone of voice dejected and resigned.

Philippe leaned over and tapped Henri on the knee. "A more cheerful face would be appreciated. I do not think you will find me that awful of host; I have not forgotten everything regarding the social life of Paris after these years in the country. And I have asked Monique to inquire as to whether or not their family would like to join us. I think we should be a merry troupe." Philippe's tone grew soft. "It is time to let go of the ghosts that haunt us, Henri. It is time to begin living again. Raoul would want us to do so."

"I know." Henri nodded his head. "I know. I know you are correct."

"Get a hot bath, some hot food and a good night's sleep and we shall speak more in the morning," Philippe said. "I may even request your advice on seeking a wife."

Henri placed an arm over his head. "Whatever you require, Philippe," he said, listening to his cousin's retreating footsteps, the opening and closing of the parlor door. Suddenly Henri sat bolt upright, Philippe's final sentence reaching through the confused fog in his mind. "What are you going to do?"

"He is going to do what?" Xavier exclaimed.

"Philippe is closing up Chagny and returning to Paris with the full intention of finding a suitable young woman to marry," Monique repeated for the man seated at the opposite end of the table. She raised a napkin to her lips before placing it discreetly beside her plate. "I thought it was perfectly clear."

"What is he thinking?"

"What is he thinking?" Monique could not hide the hint of disgust in her voice. "I think Philippe is returning to the world of the living. I think Philippe is thinking of what he lost when Raoul was murdered and Christine disappeared. I think Philippe is thinking of what he owes to his family and his heritage. And I think Philippe is still young enough and vital enough to find a suitable wife among all the eligible young women of his set. He is titled and very wealthy and a gentleman. He would be considered a good catch," Monique frowned at her husband, "even at his age. And that is what I think Philippe is thinking."

"But what about waiting to see if we can locate Christine and convince her to come home?" Xavier asked.

Monique was tempted to roll her eyes. "Do you truly believe such a thing is going to happen? You went to Perros, you have been to Paris and there is no sign of Christine. Be realistic, Xavier; she could be anywhere! With the money that Raoul gave her, she could easily travel halfway around the world and begin her life all over again!" Monique shook her head. "She is terrified of losing her child and does not realize that Philippe would never have allowed such a thing to happen. I doubt Christine will ever return and if she does it will not be until her child is grown and able to speak its own mind." She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. "And would you trust your family's future to Henri?"

"Philippe could groom Henri," Xavier groused.

"What is wrong with Philippe?" Monique nearly shouted. "What is wrong with you? Your best friend is taking the first steps toward resuming his life and you are acting as if Philippe is committing a heinous act! You should be rejoicing that he has begun to emerge from his grief and supporting his efforts instead of wondering why he is not grooming Henri!"

Xavier rose to his feet. "I am worried about Philippe!"

Monique, too, rose to her feet. "As am I; yet you have a strange way of showing your concern!"

"I do not want my best friend thinking that he has to marry just to secure his family's future!" Xavier shot back. "If Philippe is to marry, I would prefer that he marry for the same reason he allowed Raoul to marry – for love!" His voice grew soft for a moment. "I thought that was why we married." Xavier narrowed his eyes at his wife. "Is that the answer you were seeking?"

The anger Monique had been feeling quickly fled and she moved down the long table to her husband's side, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "I am sorry," she told Xavier gently, "but you have not been here. You do not know the emotional turmoil Philippe has been suffering. It is slowly killing his heart to know that Christine will never return, that he will never get to see Raoul's child or hold it in his arms. Because of that knowledge, he would prefer that we stop looking for her. Now Philippe only wishes to do the right thing by his family, by his brother's memory. Do not be so hard on him."

Xavier lowered his head so that he was looking at the table and not at his wife. "I do not mean to be hard on him. I just … I just …" Xavier frowned. "I just do want him to rush into anything. I do not want him to be simply the latest, most eligible bachelor." Xavier finally raised his head to look at his wife. "I want more than that for Philippe. I just wish he would give himself a bit more time, let his grief fade a bit more, allow himself time to think clearly before he ends up in a relationship that will break his heart."

Monique studied her husband for a moment, the down-turned mouth, the glittering anger in his eyes. "Have I broken your heart?" she wondered softly. "Do you regret marrying me?"

"You break my heart every single day," Xavier told her, "and I worry more about your regrets than I do mine for I know I was not your first choice."

"I left my regrets behind years ago," Monique lied, hoping against hope that her husband would not know she lied and then it was time for a painful truth. "And you may not have been my first choice," she admitted, "but you were the choice that I made." Her fingers encircled the arm upon which they rested. "I could have said 'no' when my father approached me with your proposal but I did not. I chose you and you were never second best. Do you truly think I would have accepted anything less than the best that was offered to me?"

"In spite of everything?" Xavier wondered, his words hanging potent in the air between them.

Monique swallowed back the second biggest regret of her life. "In spite of everything," she told him. "You are my husband and I shall always defer to your judgment."

"Even if you do not like it or approve of it."

"Even then," Monique nodded and sighed. "Has our marriage been so awful for you?" There was no answer. "I have been happy these years. I have enjoyed being married to you. I have been content to be your wife and I shall be content to be your wife until the day I die." Her fingers tightened. "Xavier, please," she pleaded with him, "say something! Do not make me beg for your love! Please!"

A single hand covered Monique's. "You have always had my love," Xavier whispered before turning and drawing his wife into his embrace. "Any trouble that may have arisen in our marriage has been due to my doubts, my fears, my regrets." He managed to find the strength to curl the edges of lips into what might have passed for a smile. "Our problems have never – ever! – been about you. Ever! I hope you know that."

Monique's bottom lip trembled. "I know that but there are times when … when the old doubts, the old fears return and …"

Xavier cut her words off by placing a finger against her lips. "Please do not make me regret past decisions any more than I all ready do."

Monique drew her husband into her arms, turning her head and placing a kiss against his cheek, resting her head on his shoulder. "I would never willingly cause you any pain," she breathed into his ear. "I am happy with our lives, with Didier. The time to make changes has long since come and gone and we must be content with who we are now, with what we have now."

"As long as you are content," Xavier began as he laid his head against his wife's, tightening his hold about her waist, "than I shall be happy." He shook his head. "But can you understand why I would want more for Philippe? Why I do not wish him to plunge headlong into anything, to make any rash decisions? There is time for everything!"

"There is time for everything," Monique agreed, biting back the response on her lips as she had done for so many years. She drew back slightly from her husband's arms so that she could look him in the face. "I doubt you will be able to change Philippe's mind, though; you know what he is like once he has made a decision."

"That damned Chagny stubbornness," Xavier muttered. "Well, you and I shall just have to see what we can do about changing his mind. We are his best friends and we must protect his interests even when he will not."

Monique nodded her agreement. "You are correct, of course; we must most assuredly watch for Philippe's interests," she told Xavier even as she knew she would do whatever was required to place a smile back on Philippe's face – no matter the cost to any tattered dreams to which she still held.

A puzzled look crossed Xavier's face. "Why were we fighting?" he asked in a silly tone.

"I do not know," Monique responded, her expression one of innocent confusion.

Xavier took her hand and raised it to his lips, "Shall we retire to the small parlor and I can read to you before the fire."

"I should like that," Monique told him.

They crossed the room, hand-in-hand, Xavier opening the door for his wife. Neither of them aware that there had been a third party to their conversation, a third party who had quickly retreated for the main staircase as their footsteps began to approach the door.

Didier watched his cousins move toward the small front parlor, his figure hidden in the shadows of the staircase where the gaslight did not reach. He had returned to Cote de Vallee only moments before and had been about to join Xavier and Monique when he had heard their upraised voices through the door to the dining room. Didier had stood there listening to their voices reach through the door, his anger growing by the moment. He had been ready to barge through that door, declaring his presence and stating what he knew, his anger replaced by fear at the sound of the footsteps. Now he stood near the top of the main staircase, hidden in the shadows, hesitating, dithering, unsure of what to do or where to start.

A barely controlled cry of anguish escaped Didier's lips as he burst from his shadowed hiding place, running up the remaining stairs and down the hallway to his rooms. He flung the door open, standing in the doorway, one hand holding to the door, one to the jam, his breath coming ragged and uneven. A strange look passed over Didier's face and he stepped into his room, his movements measured and even. He turned easily on his heel and silently shut the door to his room, turning the key in the lock. He walked across the room, dropping the key on the top of the bureau, moving to one of the long French windows, opening it and inhaling deeply of the autumn air scented with the start of the dying of the year.

"Tell," Didier whispered into the night, "or not tell. Keep silent and remain safe. Say the words and ruin everything." He listened as his words drifted away, a grimace marring his handsome features. "No answers," he whispered. "No answers," he repeated more loudly, slamming the windows closed in a strange punctuation.

Didier crossed to his bed, sitting on the edge. He stared blankly into the darkness of his room, a strange glaze in his eyes, his bottom lip being worried between his teeth. Didier's elegant fingers plucked at the bed covering, first one hand and then the next, in a rhythm that matched the pulse pounding in his temple. From a great distance away, the young man could hear voices. Didier listened as they called to him, from his past, from his present, from his future. He listened as they grew closer and closer, their words growing audible, their meaning clearer. He clapped his hands over his ears to try and block out the words he had been hearing all his life.

"Stop, stop, stop!" he hissed.

When the voices did not stop their speech, Didier withdrew his hands, reaching below his shirt collar and pulling out a key on a long chain. He opened the drawer of his beside table and withdrew a small box into which he easily slipped the key. The box flipped open and Didier reached in and withdrew a bottle containing a clear fluid. He shook it and watched as the sediment in the bottom twirled around, disappearing into the fluid.

Didier's voice was a hollow echo in the darkening room. "A mere pinch to make someone ill. A slightly larger dose to disorient." He shook the bottle. "A normal dose to sleep." He stared at the bottle for another moment. "The whole to bring the welcome release of death."

Didier unstoppered the bottle and swallowed.

Three men in three different places, each tormented by their own demons.