Thanks to Ryio16, Phruity, VictorianDream and MistyBreyer for the continued support.
Just so you know, there is a POV switch within this one chapter.
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Time passed so slowly. What seemed like weeks and weeks had only been a little over one. Then, what seemed like months and months had just barely been two weeks. Few 'storms', as I began to call them, ever came up. I did my best not to argue, or anger my hostesses. Though, once or twice I had found it absolutely necessary for my own sanity. There were many instances where I simply put up with it and did not show agitation in the least.
One afternoon I was quietly reading in the study while Victoire was copying down three bible scriptures I had written out in print for her. Renee walked in and gave a loud sniff, as if to announce her presence.
I looked up, trying to appear serene, closing my book gently, leaving only one finger in the spine, and marking my place.
"Reading, are we," she asked in overly annunciated French as if assuming I could not understand the language spoken as she normally would.
"Yes, I had been reading, but I've stopped now." I was sure to put a little of emphasis on the obvious fact that she had interrupted me.
"Oh, is it good?" I knew she could care less as to whether it was or not.
"Quite enjoyable, thank you."
"Oh, then! What is it? Perhaps Jane Eyre?" she laughed at her own joke.
My temper rose immediately, the snide remark had not escaped me.
"No, Renee. It's actually an anthology of poems by Charlotte Bronte's sister, Emilie. Would you like to borrow it after I finish? Oh, wait," I said with false thought, "it is written in English, I fear you would not understand it. I could translate it for your convenience, if you'd like." I was thoroughly amused by her befuddled look. "Would you like me to do that?"
She did not even answer the question, but walked out of the room, disappointed by the fact she had not instigated a storm.
All I could do was simply laugh and continue on with what I had been doing.
Renee's husband, Jean, on the other hand, was one I got on very well with. He was a simple man, but so very kind and not judgmental at all. It was he, in fact, who suggested a trip to Paris after finding out that not only was this my first time in France, but we had ridden through Paris and I did not so much look outside the carriage window.
"However, I fear, Adelaide," he said, earnestly, "I would not be able to accompany you. Though, Renee," he called to his wife, who was cross-stitching, "were you not just telling me about how you needed to make a few calls in the capital?"
Her head shot up, and she showed with both her eyes and her nose flair that she could not believe he had brought that up around me. He smiled back, innocently and I did what I could to keep from laughing.
"Yes Jean! I did say that, however, it's not important…and I do not believe Adelaide, in her state, would want to go…gallivanting…through the country!"
"Actually," I contradicted, "I would love a trip to Paris!" I turned to Jean and said in earnest, "I feel perfectly well."
"Excellent," Jean exclaimed, "I will make the arrangements."
Renee looked horrified at the thought of having to go anywhere with me, and started stammering in protest, which Jean chose to be oblivious to.
"Madame," Jean said, rising to go to his study, "you will have quite an experience in the French capital, I can assure you."
We had planned our trip to Paris in only two weeks. It, sadly, could have been figured out in twenty minutes if postage back and forth did not take so long. Victoire, Renee and I were going to stay with friends of the Mariuean's, Jean's family, the Touliers. Renee also wrote, asking her sister to join us, who declined. Her letter suggested the reason of her decline was, quite plainly, my presence. This only added to the irritation of Renee and made me dread the capital even more.
We sat quietly at the dining table the evening before our departure.
"I dislike the capital," she said in-between bites, "Do you know why, Jean?"
"No," he responded, wearily, "but I can take a guess."
"Do so then," she snapped. Jean remained silent, a sign for her to continue. "That's where our darling Philippe disappeared."
As downcast as my eyes had been, I managed to lower them even more. Raoul had hardly told me details of his brother's death and I had never pressed the matter, never guessing it would come up again, as he had treated it as such a sensitive subject. As if she had read the fearful thoughts crossing my mind, Renee shot a glance at me.
"Did Raoul tell you about the circumstances of his death?"
"Yes, Renee," I answered, trying to sound compassionate, "I am most sorry about your loss."
"Yes, well," she answered, all-knowingly, "I suppose that'll remind you further to have a care, considering who you are now…I suppose."
I nodded reverently as if I understood her ambiguous statement – not ever letting the slightest hue of a puzzled glance cross my face.
We arrived in Paris in the early evening. To my great relief, we had ridden in two separate carriages. I stepped out of mine first, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and looking about at the busy city. I then became aware of the stares I was receiving and became quite uncomfortable. Quickly, I pulled my bonnet on more securely and stood facing the Touliers' flat entrance.
Victorie, at my side, began to chatter incessantly about the previous time she had been in Paris. By then Renee had stepped out of hers and was greeting Madame Toulier affectionately. I looked back at Victorie and took in her crooked collar and her unruly curls. Suddenly fearing her dishelved appearance would be a reflection of my new place as a Mother. For the first time as a Stepmother instead of a governess, I straightened her collar and pulled her curls through my fingers, and then pushing them behind her ears.
"Marman!" she called out in protest, "Stop it!"
I stopped still. I was vaguely reminded of her first question to Raoul when we had returned from Italy…'Papa, what am I to call her?' Raoul had looked so uncomfortable, as if he was worried of giving an answer that would insult us both. I stepped forward and said calmly, 'You can call me…Adelaide…if you'd like.' And since then it had never been questioned.
"What did you say?" I asked, softly.
"Stop it," she repeated with a laugh, pulling at her curls, placing them as she wanted.
"Oh," I said, awkwardly, "Come then."
I turned and held my hand out to her, and we followed Renee and Madame Toulier up the stairs into their little flat.
We stepped inside and I was quickly introduced to Madame Touliers and her husband. The maid took my shawl and hat from me, and I continued to look at the small amount of people through the door's stained glass.
"They were all watching me," I whispered quietly, nearly to myself.
"Of course they were," Renee sniffed, walking into the sitting room, "You're the Vicomtess de Chagny now."
"Oh yes," chirped in the jolly Mme. Touliers, "there was a write up in the paper about your arrival and everything!"
"What?"
M. Toulires took a copy of L'Epoque from the small cedar round table from front entrance as we walked into the sitting room and handed it to me.
Just as she said, there was a complete article. It mainly discussed Raoul's work with the Navy again, and in the last paragraph it mentioned the 'expectant Vicomtess' to be visiting Paris with Renee Chagny- Mariuean.
"My God," I murmured. "Well, I hardly made an official announcement. They know everything"
"Oh, dear," Madame said with a laugh, "welcome to society!"
My first day in Paris could not possibly have been anymore uneventful. Dark clouds loomed over the city, so Renee had insisted it was too humid to do anything but to sit in the flat and chat idly.
"We have so much to catch on, Feodore!"
It was perhaps the first day of my life to waste on such idolatry. We sat in the parlour, Victoire flipping through a picture book Mme. Touliers, Feodore, had had. I sat on the edge of the sofa, cross-stitching and taking in every bit of the conversation between Renee and Feodore.
I learned finer details about how they had met, and was quite amused by the stories I heard about Raoul's childhood.
"What a spirited child, he was," I laughed.
"Still is," chirped in Renee. "Gallivanting off with the Navy trying to prove his worth."
"He feels it is his duty," I said, defensively.
"And what burdens he leaves because of it."
I looked up, setting my work on the table against the sofa and excused myself.
Completely furious, I walked towards the front door.
"Where are you going?" questioned Renee.
"Out," I said flatly, grabbing my hat and shawl from the hooks in the corner. "I think I'll take a walk."
She pulled my hand back from the doorknob and threw it back down on my side. Stepping very closely she put her mouth right up to my ear.
"Listen to me very closely, Madame Vicomtess," she whispered in a challenging, deadly tone. "I implore you to remember what you are. You may have a title, but you are nothing but a British governess who struck gold. You, as if this was possible, are a step down from marriage to a scandalized opera singer. People may be kind to you, but really they're laughing at how regal you hold yourself, when you really have not one bit of propriety to your being."
I drew back and glared at her hateful little face. Opening the door, I began to step out, but my pride was insisting on me getting the last word in.
"And I'll remind you, Madame Mariuear," I was sure to put emphasis on the fact that she had not been a de Chagny in over 20 years, "that you do not have to be born into society to have any sense of the word 'regal'." I paused for a moment, straightening my posture quite exaggeratedly, "It is a matter of the person. You possess it," I dramatically looked at her up and down, "or you don't."
Walking out of that house and down the porch stairs, I had to strain to keep myself from laughing outloud. That had to have been the worst possible thing to say, and had most likely not made any sense…but there was liberation to it.
As I continued walking down the street, I noted the further I journeyed the more deserted the city seemed to be. Dusk was setting in. Shops were closing for the evening, and Mothers were calling out to their children in French to come inside from their little games of marbles and skipping rope outside.
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I watched her from across the street. She stood, her side facing me, but her hat covering her face. She was bending over, adjusting the dress collar of a little girl I knew had to be her daughter. The little girl was the mirror image of Christine: thin and pale, with long arms and legs and those brown ringlets of curls being blown by the wind. They had a quick conversation, the little girl giggling at something that I guessed her Mother had said. Christine turned, her back now completely facing me, and held out her elegantly gloved hand for her daughter who took it dutifully. Together they walked up to the front door of a city home, and after a knock they were ushered in by a maid, the green door was closed behind them.
I turned away from the window and held my head in my hands for a moment. I had watched Christine for only a few minutes had not even seen her face or heard her voice, and was already being driven mad by her presence.
I had watched Christine on every visit to France without fail – always knowing when her visit would be because the newspapers were always sure to announce with the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny were going to be in the capital. I looked down at the article in my hand. It announced the arrival of the couple and went into detail about the Vicomte's assignment in Africa.
After she had not been to France for over two years, I began to worry I would miss the announcement of her next visit, but after such a long absence she was finally back again. I had almost considered making a third voyage to see her in England. I cursed myself every time I boarded the ship to see her, and hated myself upon every return. But those few moments a day I could see her, even from a distance, was worth anything. I believe those times, sitting at my organ, my entire being consumed by her image, I would have sold my soul to the devil to spend only a moment with Christine. But now, I would make it become a reality. How she would fight it at first, but I was well aware of the power I'm sure I still possessed over her. I knew her soul. I knew the very soul of Christine. And she understood mine.
It was perfect, I had planned it so precisely… I had only to wait for her to walk past the Rue Scribe, and I would finally be able to hold an angel in my arms again – and this time without a plan to return her to the light.
