Chapter Four:

The Leave Taking

-Christine-

"In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America...

It was to Forks I now exiled myself – an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.

I loved Phoenix . I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city."

- Stephenie Meyer, Twilight

The air hung close and still when we left Paris . Like a ruby lit from within, the sun was setting in all its majestic glory, painting the sky in vivid orange, tangerine, and pink as it began to disappear over the horizon.

Despite the bright light, I looked mournfully over my shoulder to have one last glimpse of my beloved birth-city.

The dying sun cast a ruddy glow over Paris, a glow which was further reflected by the metal rooftops and the rippling waters of the Seine . The city seemed to have the glorious appearance of an open jewelry box that had caught fire.

My eyes watered – whether from the light or from my own emotions, I could not tell – and I struggled to focus them so that I could see as much as possible.

Even through the blur in my vision, I could see the tall, intricately carved towers of the Notre Dame cathedral: standing straight and proud, as a sovereign lady whom the city had sworn to protect for centuries upon end. Though they were not nearly as tall, the heights of the Palais de l'Elysée, the Louvre, and the Palais Royal soared above the common rooftops. And –

Oh, there it was…

– that gaudy palace of all my hopes and dreams, l'Opèra Populaire. Its gilded finery shone and sparkled in the light of the sky, and I fancied that I could even see the bronze speck that was the statue of Apollo upon the roof.

I let out a resigned sigh. My soul felt heavy with the knowledge that I would never return to that place. I had been raised in the Opera house – I had very nearly been born there – and I had had high hopes of living out my life there. In the past, when my legs and feet were aching from ballet practice, or my heart was aching from the rumors whispered by the girls in my classes, my imagination would spin a lovely tale about my glorious future…

The details were never quite the same, but it always began with a renowned, mysterious voice teacher who, through some fated circumstances, heard my voice and decided that I would benefit much more from voice lessons than from the study of ballet. He or she would then teach me, and through the fire of music and training I would become an extraordinary, exalted creature with the voice of an angel. I would go on to become prima donna of Garnier's opera house, but I would always be grateful to my teacher, who had lifted me up and enabled me to share my gift with the world. Perhaps around this time I would meet someone, a talented tenor or violinist, and we would fall passionately in love with each other. We would marry, and after a long and successful career in opera, would pass the torch – so to speak – on to someone else, and live out the rest of our lives in a comfortable flat by the Tuileries.

It could never happen, now.

We were little more than destitute: save for the expense of a new place to live, we would have to rebuild our lives up from the beginning. Even if we were able to form a successful life in Rouen, it did not signify that I could make such a life were I to someday return to Paris; I would be lucky if I were still in the twilight of my prime by the time I could afford such a change of circumstance! Too, I had had much more training in the ballet, compared to the two years of voice lessons I had taken so long ago at the feet of…of my father.

And – selfish child! I berated myself, wondering why this had not occurred to me before – were I to receive even a hint of public notice, my name would surely attract the attention of the local police. They would know – or, if they didn't, they would surely discover – my relation to Jules Giry, and then they would come "investigating". The inspectors would be relentless: they would spare no quarter, would never grant me or those with any ties to me a moment's peace, until they had found and imprisoned my uncle. We would then be mired in that which we were so desperately fighting to escape from.

No: there could be no Paris in my future. That chapter of my life was over.

As this realization began to sink in, I felt the corners of my lips turn down in sorrow.

Tears will come next, if I continue to look…

I turned my head to face front and squared my shoulders. Rows upon rows of trees met my gaze, trees which – thankfully – only just disguised the years-abandoned trail that wound west, and then curved to the north. My Uncle Giry hoped that, by traveling this route, we would escape detection and…unfriendly persons.

I winced as several loose stones in the road caused the old wagon we now rode in to bounce and jiggle most horribly.

That did not mean that our travels would be made any more comfortable.

A strange noise – something between a sob and a hiccup being choked back – startled me, and I turned. When we had first departed, Meg had put up a stoic front, holding herself together very admirably for an eight-year-old. But now, as we entered the dark expanse of the forest…everything beloved and familiar behind us, never to be seen again…she broke down. Meg had begun to cry.

My poor, aching heart was already full, and as I looked into my dear little cousin's eyes – shining like sapphires through her tears – I felt it overflow. She looked up at me with such naked sadness and uncertainty in her eyes, and it cut me to the core to see her so.

What do I do…?

Hesitantly, I reached out with my hand to her small head, and then began guiding it towards me.

That was all it took. In an instant, she had wrapped her arms around my waist, buried her face into my chest, and had begun to cry into my blouse. For one second, I was taken aback by her sudden emotion…but then I too placed my arms about her – one around her small waist, the other across her shoulders. I rested my cheek atop her head, and let my own silent tears course down my cheeks and into Meg's flaxen curls.

When we had first returned home that ill-fated afternoon, we had been surprised to discover that the front door had been left unlocked. Meg and I – with hands clasped tightly – had trailed behind Aunt Giry as she investigated each room to ascertain the presence of anything amiss.

When our search of the ground floor proved to be fruitless, my aunt bade Meg and I remain in the parlor while she searched the upstairs. We had waited readily enough, but when it had been more than several minutes since Aunt Giry had stopped calling my uncle's name, my easily excitable imagination become excited indeed.

Please, don't let there be an intruder, I prayed silently as I opened the door and peered into the hallway –

I was instantly reassured, however. Though their words were indiscernible, I could still hear the mingled sounds of my uncle's and my aunt's voices drifting from the vicinity of the library.

I had admonished Meg several times to have patience as we lingered in the parlor: she believed that, as there apparently was no intruder, we should be able to leave the parlor and do what we wished – within reason. However, her mother had told us not to leave the room until she had returned to us, and she and my uncle were certainly in the middle of some private conference.

But then, I could not deny the truth which Meg later spoke, as she fixed me with a piercing stare not unlike her mother's:

"You can't deny that they are taking an awful long time."

Almost as if it were a reflex, I asked her not to say "awful", as it was a slang word. Then, with a pointed look that clearly said – as my ballet teacher would say – "stay put", I rose from my chair and tiptoed into the hallway. Total silence reigned now, and I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion as I crept up the stairs.

What in the world had –?

"Oh, my goodness, child!"

Thin, strong hands held my upper arms in a firm grip, and I whipped my head around and up to meet – oh! – my aunt's piercing gaze. I had nearly walked into her as she was slipping out of the library; as she let me go to place a hand over her heart, I felt my eyes slide past her, past the open door, to the library's interior –

The door closed abruptly, and I looked back at my aunt, a slight frown etched into her features.

"I was just coming to fetch you and Meg," she said, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that I noticed the low, yet urgent tone with which she uttered those words.

And then she whispered the words which would irrevocably seal my fate.

"Christine…we are leaving."

My face went slack with shock. I felt as if a great weight pressed against my chest: my heart seemed to stutter, and I had to force my lungs to breathe properly. I stared at my aunt as if she had spoken in tongues, my face draining of all colour, my hands hanging limply at my sides.

Is it a dream?

"Leaving?" I whispered. My words could not come out any stronger. "N-no, there must be some mistake…we can't leave –"

"Christine, please," my aunt hissed in an undertone as she guided me further down the corridor, "for the love of common decency, do not make a scene! There will be a time for tears later; right now, we must leave Paris with as much haste as possible."

I shook my head, confused. "I-I don't understand…why must we leave? And where are we going?"

Aunt Giry stared at me, but it was not the rude stare of one who thought my question too stupid or too ridiculous to be believed. Rather, it had the look of cautious assessment, of wondering how much knowledge could be entrusted to me.

I tried very hard not to shrink under that gaze.

She then briefly explained to me the tale of our ruin. It was a story of woe nearly worthy of the stage, which featured my Uncle Giry as the tragic hero and a speculator – one Monsieur Montparnasse – as the evil villain.

Once upon a time, my uncle had been persuaded by this double-crossing libertine to become involved in a high-risk scheme. I was not entirely sure what this meant; I had no talent for – or remote interest in – matters of business and financials. However, my aunt assured me that it was enough to know that, if the scheme had been a success, an amazingly large amount of money would have been the product; if it failed, every man involved would have had to be sent to work in a chain gang to pay off his debt.

The speculators would never know if their scheme would have been a success or a failure. What they did not know – or what M. Montparnasse did not tell them, as my aunt said – was that a relatively new law had been passed, which outlawed several of the actions that were crucial to their scheme. Someone – whether inside this circle of schemers or outside, no one save the police knew – had reported their illegal deeds. The police had done everything they could to cease all further production of the scheme, and then had gone on in search of those who had played any part in it. Some had been easy to find, but others – M. Montparnasse and my uncle included – proved harder to trace: either because they had been too cunning to leave an easy trail, or because they were considered too "low" in society to be noticed.

It was this unimportance which was to buy us time. If we wished to escape my uncle's imminent arrest, it was imperative that we leave Paris as soon as possible.

I never discovered how exactly my aunt had explained our sudden need for departure to Meg. After she had finished telling me this news, I drifted into my room in a complete daze. My thoughts were disconnected and hazy; it was as if the smoke that was continually belched out by the city's factories had blown into my head and clouded my mind. Everything I looked at seemed oddly separate from me, as if I had just walked into a stranger's house.

I reached my room. My gaze seemed to slip and slide past the objects within, half-hidden by the shadows: my narrow bed; my carved armoire, with the small collection of books and sheet music that lay atop it; my simply-painted dressing screen…

My blood ran cold in my veins as I imagined the local gendarmes in this house – my safe haven outside of the opera house – imagined them trampling their way through each beloved room, breaking things in the wake of their mad chase. I clenched my fists as I imagined them standing in this very spot, leering at the sparse yet romantic furnishings of my room, their rough masculine voices echoing in the place where I had worked so hard to build a new life…

Like a wave upon the ocean which slowly builds until it crashes upon the shore, a rare feeling of righteous fury began to swell in my chest. It grew and grew until it broke upon my arms and legs, which trembled angrily.

No! They shall not have this!

Thus spurred into action, I crossed the room in large, powerful strides and threw back the draperies. Sunlight flooded the room as I turned, pulled my portmanteau out from its hiding place underneath my bed, and unlatched it as it lay across the floor. I raced to my armoire and began unpacking clothes; I believe I nearly flew in my haste to pack everything I could.

I should bring this – ah yes, my yellow muslin! – I can leave that – what else? Stockings…

The portmanteau was nearly full by the time I had finished packing as many necessary – and several irreplaceable – articles of clothing as I thought was – well, necessary. Pivoting slowly in the center of the room, I stared at each object with an analytical eye, one index finger tapping my chin in a restless tempo that matched the speed of my thoughts.

What else what else what else…

I leaped forward and snatched the few music sheets left to me by my father, then pulled off – more gently, this time – a tall book of medium width. Within its pages, one could find an anthology of faery tales, lovingly written by the hands of my parents. I carefully placed the music sheets inside the book's leather cover, then deftly slid my fingers underneath my mattress and pulled out my diary.

How strange, the earth-shattering changes that can occur within a day…

Holding the diary and the faery tales together, I wrapped them both inside my scarf. My mother had meant it as a gift for my tenth birthday, and so I had treasured it ever since. It was a perfect size, neither too long nor too short, and made of the softest chenille that was the colour of crimson apples on a crisp fall morning. I buried my face in its folds, inhaling the inherent scent of roses that always seemed to emanate from its material, and whispered a small prayer for my family's future.

After I had placed my makeshift package and a years-old pair of house slippers on top of my clothes and other necessities in the portmanteau, I frowned resignedly.

There was room for nothing else.

I met my uncle in the corridor as I was carrying out my things. Due to the fact that my portmanteau would have been considered somewhat small for someone my age – not to mention the years spent strengthening my muscles – I was able to carry everything easily. What was not so easy was looking Uncle Giry in the eye for the first time after hearing of what had come to pass.

His face became a degree paler, and his eyes seemed to both hold and shrink from mine. My heart ached for him as I saw the naked emotion in his eyes: regret, pain, shame, and fear creating a bitter yet poignant blend within those blue depths. I felt my throat constrict as I realized that those feelings were directed at me…but then I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. I would show him that I did not blame him for what had happened to us, that I harbored no ill feeling towards him. If I felt any fear or regret in that moment, I did not let it show in my face as I told him, in a voice that sounded much more steady than I felt:

"I am ready."

Our journey to Rouen was largely uneventful. For two days we rode in or walked alongside our horse-and-cart all day, only stopping to rest for a noon meal. When the sun set, we would stop again and set up camp at a safe distance from the trail: far enough away that a traveler could not easily see us, but close enough for us to see anyone sojourning upon that road. We would prepare and eat supper, and then try to get as much sleep as we could while lying on the forest floor, wrapped up in whatever could be found. The next morning, we would rise early to eat whatever breakfast we could put together – more often than not the remnants of last night's meal – destroy any and all traces of our presence there, and continue on the road.

Meg and I liked to walk alongside the old mare and wind our cold fingers through her hair as we waited for the sun to rise above the treetops. It had been a risk getting her and the wagon, but it was a risk my uncle had been willing to take. We had certainly waited anxiously enough while my uncle's friend and colleague – one Legrand by name – had gone in search of some covert means of transportation for us: preferably, means that would not be missed in such a large city. Our relief was nearly tangible when he had returned, not with the local gendarmes as we had half-feared, but with this middle-aged grey mare and a simple, open wagon.

It was because of Legrand's act of loyalty and friendship that we were able to leave Paris as quickly as we did, and were now making our way to Rouen at our speed. Though the mare was somewhat old, she was still in possession of an innate strength and quickness of foot that helped her to navigate the sloped, abandoned terrain in a way that would have disheartened a younger horse. Had it not been for her, our journey would surely have taken at least twice as long.

Though I silently dreaded the exhausting travel that lay ahead of us each morning, I also dreaded – though not quite as much – its end. I had only ever lived in Paris; in fact, I had never left the city's boundaries in the whole course of my life, and I was unsure of what to expect. I had heard stories from my fellow classmates and others who frequented the opera house of Rouen and its inhabitants: like Paris, Rouen was also built upon the banks of the river Seine, so many of its citizens had made their fortune through the fishing industry, among others; though Rouen was by no means small, it had not grown so large that the residents did not know who nearly everyone was; it was the home of a very beautiful cathedral; and, unlike Paris, its structure had not been altered when Napoleon had held power.

I was much more inclined to believe these simple stories than some of the more ridiculously elaborate tales I had heard, many of which denounced and mocked the more conservative lifestyles of the people of Rouen. I could not believe that so many people could be as intolerant of others as they had been painted to be…yet, during the times when we were the most silent as we traveled, or in the dark moments between consciousness and sleep, I felt the chill of a slight fear descend upon my heart. Were those stories really true? How would we be treated when we arrived? Would we be able to make friends? Would anyone look upon us with friendly, unprejudiced eyes?

I knew that we had no other prospective home but Rouen. My now-deceased great-uncle on my mother's side had been so pleased with my Aunt Giry's attentiveness towards him when he had been recovering from a serious illness many years ago, that he had left her what could only be called a letter of recommendation. That cottage which lay just on the outskirts of the city was not his to give, but he had put in several pages worth of good words vouching for my aunt and her family as excellent tenants, pages which we were only to present to Philippe de Chagny – the mayor of Rouen – to be allowed to move in.

My family and I were of course eternally grateful for this; these events could not have turned out better than if it had all been by design! Yet, that same feeling of trepidation towards my fellow human beings seemed to haunt me more and more as we approached our destination.

I wish I could say that I did not care for their opinions, that I would brave any contempt and criticism, so long as my family was safe and happy…but I had learned long ago to never underestimate man's power to make life utterly miserable.

The third day after we had left Paris was very much the same as its predecessors.

We arose early, our muscles cramped and sore from traveling and sleeping on the hard forest floor. We took turns riding in the wagon or walking next to it as we made our way to the outskirts of the forest and began climbing a gentle hill. Suddenly, as we cleared the crest, we saw below us a majestic, sweeping sight:

Rouen.

A/N: I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, especially as I was planning to make it directly proportional to the amount of time you all had to wait for me to write and put it up here. For those of you who weren't aware of this, I got seriously over-involved with choirs and performances this past Christmas season - never a good idea unless you have lots of free time on your hands. But, I am back now!

This chapter is dedicated to Kates, whose writing continues to influence and inspire me, and who has been friendly and patient with me for several years now. :-) I also want to thank LadyRiah, Emerald Cloud, and pastheart for being the only ones to review chapter 3! You three are awesome!

You will leave this little authoress some love, won't you?