September 15th 1892: Christine
The sound of the door being shut echoed through my head. For a moment we all stared at the spot from which Raoul had just vanished, then we looked at each other. I could see surprise and confusion on the others' faces.
"But… but I only invited him to lunch," Larisse muttered. "If M. le Comte didn't like the idea, he could have simply said so…"
I couldn't help nodding in agreement. Of course I had a better insight into the situation than the cook, and still I had difficulties in understanding my husband's reaction. Things hadn't been good before, that was true, but they didn't justify such an outburst. Usually he'd have held himself back or asked to talk to me in private instead of shouting and scaring our children.
"What's wrong with Papa?" Antoinette wanted to know in this moment.
"Yes, what's wrong with him?" Philippe asked. "Did we do something that made him upset?"
I listened to their questions without the slightest idea what to tell them. I was too puzzled myself to make up an excuse. But they needed some kind of answer, and if I couldn't give it to them, I had to find someone who could. I threw Erik a pleading glance. Fortunately he reacted right away.
"I believe your father hasn't slept well," he told the children. "And when people don't sleep well, they do strange things and say what they don't mean. It had nothing to do with the two of you." The looked up at him, nodding. It was only logical that Philippe believed his teacher, but it seemed to be just the same for Antoinette. Apparently she liked him. Despite the serious situation I found myself smiling.
"Don't you want to go after him?" It took me a moment to realise Erik had addressed me.
"What? Oh yes…" I muttered, adding: "I'll see what I can do to make your father feel better. Then I'll be back.". I got up from my chair and was on my way to the door when a new question made me turn around.
"Will Papa come back as well?" Philippe wanted to know in a small voice, his hand clutching his teacher's. Seeing him like that made my heart hurt. Of course I was aware that I was the source of his insecurity.
Again, I didn't know what to say. Given the state Raoul had been in it was possible that he didn't want to come back here. Maybe he had even left the house.
"Well…" I mumbled.
"Perhaps your father wanted to lie down a little," Erik assisted me. "But you will definitely see him later."
I made another step in the direction of the door, only to be interrupted a second time.
"Where have you been last night, Maman?" Antoinette asked, the anxiety about her father's disappearance hidden by a layer of curiosity. If circumstances had been different, I'd have called it a good sign.
"Why do you want to know that now?" I muttered, desperate to gain a little more time to get over the shock of hearing such a question.
"Jacqueline told us Papa fell asleep while he was reading a book in the study," the girl replied. "But you were not in the study and not in your bedroom. So where have you been?"
"She was with me," Erik answered. "She helped me with a problem, a… piece of music I was working on. I couldn't get it right without a woman to sing it to me, so I asked her to help me. And since I know your mother is a busy woman, I wanted her to visit my by night." The children seemed to believe his excuse, yet I noticed the maid and the cook exchange glances. I could count myself lucky that neither of them liked gossip.
While my daughter started asking questions about the music Erik wrote, I seized the chance to leave the kitchen, suddenly afraid I could be too late. As important as explaining the situation to the children had been, it had made me lose a lot of time. The thought that Raoul could be wandering around in the streets where I'd never be able to find him made my stomach contract painfully. Yes, he had overreacted, but that only made me more worried about him.
Fortune was smiling upon me. Crossing the corridor I heard a loud noise, like something falling onto a stone floor. Since all our rooms except the kitchen and the bathrooms were equipped with carpets, it made the choice easy. I was lucky with the very first room I tried, the bathroom next to our bedroom. It was locked, so he had to be in it.
"Raoul?" I called softly.
I heard the sound again, followed by a muttered curse. Then the key was turned in the lock. Cautiously I opened the door, inch by inch, uncertain what 'd find inside. The first thing I noticed were the little dark drops on the floor. There was no mistaking the liquid: It was blood. I felt as if all air had left my lungs at the same time. It couldn't be… could it?
Gasping for breath I finally managed to tear my gaze away from the floor and looked up. Raoul was standing in front of the mirror, and he was brandishing his razor.
"No!" I breathed, running over to him. Flinging my arms around him I embraced him tightly. "Raoul, you cannot do this," I whispered urgently. "Please don't!"
He freed himself from me. "What? Am I no longer allowed to shave without asking for your permission?" he asked.
It was only then that I noticed the shaving foam on his face. It almost made me burst into relieved laughter.
"I'm sorry… I just thought… I'm sorry," I stammered, feeling more than just a little stupid for assuming the worst. But then, I had had a reason for believing it. "Where does the blood come from?"
"The razor fell out of my hand twice and cut me," he explained shortly. This brought a frown to my face. Usually Raoul didn't have difficulties with shaving.
Yet when he turned away and continued his task, I could see what his problem was: His hand was shaking so badly that he could barely hold the razor, let alone use it properly. It was a miracle that he only had two cuts and not a dozen.
"Would you like me to help you?" I asked gently. I tried to take the sharp object away from him, but he held onto it stubbornly.
"I don't need your help," he snarled. "Why don't you go back downstairs and entertain your guest?"
"Because I came here to see what you were doing," I replied, unwilling to fall for his attempt to provoke me. "Why are you shaving at all? Do you want to go out?" It only occurred to me now how strange it was that he had left the kitchen at a run, only to stand here and shave, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
My husband nodded. It was a small motion, yet it was enough to make him cut himself a third time. He cursed again, still not handing me the razor, but continuing more fiercely than ever.
"I'll meet M.Laverne for lunch," he answered. "He has to inform me about what has been going on while we were on holiday. I've sent a message to him just a few minutes ago."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Raoul had promised not to spend that much time working anymore, and here he was, meeting his business partner on the first occasion after we had come back.
"But you said you'd have more time for your family from now on," I reminded him.
It was good that he was finished shaving and only held a washcloth in his hand. Otherwise he'd have surely cut himself again, for he was shaking so much that even the washcloth fell to the floor.
"I would have been there for the children and you," he told me. Even his voice was shaking. "But you prefer someone else's company. So I'll do the only thing I'm good for: earn money. You don't need me."
"Of course we need you," I whispered. I picked up the washcloth and wanted to clean his cuts, but he didn't allow me to come near to his face. Discouraged, I let my hand sink again.
"Then why is he here?" Raoul asked. "Why does he sit at the table with you, laugh with you, eat with you? Even the servants like him better than me."
"Could it be possible that you're jealous?" I blurted out before I could think about how to approach the subject a little more sensitively. I braced myself for outright denial or him leaving again, but none of it happened.
"Yes, I am," he admitted frankly. "I don't want him to be part of your life or of the children's lives."
At last he bowed his head, leaning down to let me clean his wounds.
"But he is part of our lives, even of yours," I said. "I can't change that fact, and I don't want to change it either." My words made him wince, yet the contact of the washcloth and his raw skin could also be responsible. Maybe it was a combination of both.
When my work was over, I turned him around to face the mirror. He looked at his reflection for a moment and burst into laughter.
"This is pathetic," he muttered. "I look worse than the first time I ever tried to shave."
Now I couldn't keep myself from giggling either. In fact, I had been present when the attempt had taken place. It had happened in his family's summer home in Brittany when we had been children. Of course Raoul had not had the slightest stubble yet, but he had wanted to do what he had seen his brother do. Unfortunately he hadn't been very skilled with the razor, and the maid who had found us had nearly fainted at the sight of all the blood.
I hadn't even had a minute's time for revelling in nostalgia when my husband suddenly pulled me into an embrace so tight that I felt as if he wanted to break every bone in my body.
"Why can't we still be children, Little Lotte?" he whispered into my hair. "Things were so simple, and now they're so complicated. Why can't we go back?"
"No one can do that," I replied with a sigh. "But there are some things which are better now." I lifted my head to look at him. "We live in our own house, we no longer have to ask for permission for everything… and you're a better kisser."
I had added the last part mainly to lighten his spirits, and it worked. We shared a loving kiss before he let go of me.
"I have to get dressed now, or I'll be late," he told me, walking to the door.
I couldn't move yet, not after such emotional a moment. All I did was ask:
"You will come back, won't you?". He nodded.