In Blood by LovetheScottishAngel
Author's Note: Thanks to The Duelist's Heiress and christinedaae229 for putting this story on their alert list. I also want to thank The Nobody of War and The Duelist's Heiress (again) for adding this story to their favorites. And then The Duelist's Heiress gets thanked again for being my one reviewer for the prologue. Speaking of which, I'd really love reviews on this, positive or negative (as long as the negative is constructive criticism and not flat-out putting me down/flaming me)! Even if you say something as miniscule as "This was really interesting; keep going," I'll love it.
Anyway, without further ado…
~ o ~
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
Shame—an emotion Christine always felt whenever she read the poem currently before her, When We Two Parted by Lord Byron. For whenever she read this poem, she was reminded of Erik and how deeply she had hurt him in both times that she had ended up abandoning him. There were occasionally times when she felt as if Erik was Lord Byron and she was the woman to whom he was speaking in this poem, for she felt as if he might say something along the lines of When We Two Parted if ever they happened to encounter each other again.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:—
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.
This particular stanza of the poem made her think about how Erik surely didn't want anything to do with her… and surely regretted ever trusting her, loving her, wanting to be with her. It made her remember the element of her abandonment which she regretted most—losing not only Erik himself, but also his love and his trust.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
Silence and tears—Erik surely would bring forth those two things if ever they happened to meet once more. There would also be tears on her end, but certainly not silence… she would try her best to apologize to him, she would try to beg for his forgiveness… but he probably would give her no response. There was only one thing she could think of which might make him say something to her…
"Excusez-moi, Madame la Comtesse."
Upon hearing that soft, musical voice which gave her so much pleasure, Christine turned around and looked to the source of the voice—Marielle, now twenty years of age, who had grown into the most incredible woman Christine had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Marielle, her daughter. Marielle, Erik's daughter.
In that moment, Marielle was dressed as she always was whenever she was doing her work about the house—she was wearing a long dress which was black and starkly plain, the typical dress for the maids in the Château deChagny, and her slightly-past-shoulder-length, wavy midnight-black hair was pulled back into a loose bun. And, as it was no matter the situation, her pure white mask rested upon the right side of her face, hiding the deformity she had inherited from the father she had never known.
As it was with every time she looked upon her secretly-most-loved child, her breath was taken away. Neither of her three older children could compare to Marielle in appearance; the sight of any of them could never make her heart squeeze in the intense way that it did whenever her gaze fell upon Marielle. She was tall and dark and beautiful… just like her father.
She smiled then, her heart swelling with the deep maternal love she felt for the young woman before her. "Yes, Marielle. What is it?"
Marielle clasped her hands in front of her, lowering her grey-green eyes slightly as to not make direct eye contact with the woman who was both her mother and her mistress. This stance, which Marielle always took when addressing someone in the deChagny family, always made Christine feel rather sad; she didn't like how her youngest child always seemed to make a point of avoiding the action of looking at her.
"I am sorry for interrupting your reading, but as you know, today is the five-year anniversary of Monsieur le Comte's father's death… and since it has been assumed that you will be going to view the grave with Monsieur le Comte later this afternoon, it is time for you to get ready. I have come to assist you in changing into the outfit which you will wear out."
"Oh, yes," Christine murmured, clearing her throat a bit and then rising to her feet. "Well, come in, then."
Nodding silently, Marielle stepped inside the bedroom and closed the door most of the way, leaving it just barely cracked open. Then she walked over to Christine's closet and sifted through the dresses before coming upon the black lace dress which Christine always wore when going to the cemetery and setting it down on the bed. Then she took out the black shoes which were worn with the dress and set them on the floor in front of the bed.
Then mother and daughter both stepped in front of Christine's three-paneled mirror, which was used whenever Christine was getting dressed, and Christine lifted up her nearly-gray curls as Marielle began unbuttoning the back of her dress.
"Would you like me to tighten your corset for you a bit?" Marielle inquired after a moment.
"That would be good, thank you."
Marielle then undid the rest of the buttons, then helped Christine as she stepped out of her dress before setting it on the bed beside the dress which Christine was about to change into. Then she untied the laces of Christine's corset, allowing them to momentarily loosen before beginning to tug on them and make them tighter than they had been before they had been untied.
For several moments, there was a silence between the two, but Christine knew that Marielle did not wish to be silent. She had much of Erik's mannerisms, so Christine was aware of how she acted when she wanted to say something but wasn't entirely willing to say it.
"Is something on your mind, Marielle?" she therefore asked, as she always did whenever she felt like encouraging her daughter to speak her mind.
In one of her three reflections in the mirror, Christine could see that Marielle frowned slightly in the background. "Are you and Monsieur le Comte also going to visit your father's grave today… even though it is not the anniversary of his death?"
This question surprised Christine, for it brought up a point she hadn't even thought about, but then she nodded. "Yes, I suppose we will. What about it?"
"Well…" Marielle momentarily bit her lip. "Just thinking about how both your and Monsieur le Comte's fathers are dead… it made me wonder."
"About what?"
Marielle glanced up, allowing their eyes to briefly meet in the mirror, before darting her gaze back down. "If it's not too bold to ask… do you think my father is dead, too?"
"It is too bold," a new voice interjected, and both women looked to see that Raoul had come to the door and opened it most of the way without being heard. He strode forward. "And if he is dead, the world has become a better place because of it. For your wretched father was a murderer, an extortionist… and above all, a rapist."
Marielle's eyes lowered even further in a gesture of embarrassment, causing Christine to feel ashamed. Every time Raoul managed to bring up that Erik was evidently a rapist, she bitterly regretted having ever lied to him about the way in which Marielle had been conceived, for being told that her father was a rapist surely made Marielle think less of Erik and perhaps even wish that she had never been born. And truthfully, Christine believed that such was Raoul's purpose in mentioning to Marielle that he at least believed Erik to be a rapist—to humiliate her, to seemingly punish her for even being alive.
After several moments had passed, Marielle took a step or two back from Christine and faced Raoul, keeping her head down as she curtsied to him. "Monsieur le Comte."
Raoul looked at her with an expression of intense dislike as she gave this courteous gesture and then briefly stood there, her head still bowed so that she wouldn't have to look back at him. Then he made a rather abrupt gesture toward the door and said in a hard tone, "Go get the roses."
"Yes, Monsieur le Comte," Marielle replied softly, curtsying again before exiting the room in order to do as she'd been told—which was to retrieve the bouquet of roses intended for his father's grave, which she had been growing in her room, as she always was whenever roses would soon be needed for a certain occasion.
He looked at the door for a moment, then closed it before picking up Christine's dress and walking over to his wife with a shake of his head. "How dare she ask anything about him."
Christine swallowed somewhat anxiously. "She's twenty years old, Raoul. It's only natural that she would want to know about him."
"Well, if she's so interested in knowing about him…" He unbuttoned the dress and then lowered it, and she stepped into it. "Why doesn't she go and try to find him?"
She lifted her hair once more as he pulled up the dress, had her put her arms inside the sleeves, and began buttoning it up. "She probably thinks you wouldn't let her."
"Hmph. She's right about that," he said, and he looked as if those four words were the most difficult he'd ever said—which, for all she knew, they were. Then he shook his head again. "The last thing this world needs is for them to meet."
Naturally, Christine fervently disagreed—she had often thought about how wonderful it would be if Erik and Marielle were able to encounter each other. But she knew that the chances of such an encounter ever taking place were incredibly slim, seeing as how Marielle had never even ventured outside the Château deChagny, so she said nothing in reference to Marielle and Erik's meeting.
"You know, I've been thinking about something for a while," she informed him as he finished buttoning her dress, at which point she released her hair and allowed it to fall once more.
"And what would this something be?" he inquired, and in her three reflections in the mirror, she could see him raise his eyebrows in interest.
She turned to him, taking his hands in hers and lightly squeezing them. "I think we really ought to look into getting Marielle married."
For several moments, he looked at her in silence as he processed her words, his expression clear of any real emotion. Then, however, his face broke into a look of terrible mirth and he laughed.
"Marry her off?" he demanded incredulously, still laughing. "And how do you expect to accomplish that, exactly? Who would she marry… who would marry her?"
A lump of indignant frustration rose in her throat; she herself believed Marielle to be quite marriageable when taking into consideration her age and her ability to perform basic household duties in a most excellent fashion. But, of course, Raoul wasn't thinking about those particular qualities. He was only thinking of what lay beneath her mask.
"God knows she's old enough to marry, dear," she then replied, trying not to put any angry sarcasm into the word dear. "She's twenty. Vivienne was married by the time she was seventeen and the boys' wives were still in their teens as well. And we know full well that she's more than capable of cooking and cleaning."
"True, but no self-respecting man, rich or poor, would ever marry that girl!" he exclaimed, his laughter finally dissipating. His tone, however, was still one of amusement. "Who wants a wife with a face like hers, especially when you consider that any children she might bear could look the same?"
"Some people don't judge others by their exterior," she said quietly, turning away from him and looking at her reflection in the mirror. Though he didn't know it, her thoughts turned to Erik, that man who had given her her dearest child and who was beautiful in every way. "Some look at the heart."
"Yes, well, there's nothing worthwhile in that heart," he responded, his tone suddenly becoming rather dark. "By her very nature of being a rapechild, there's probably very little natural goodness in her."
In that moment, Christine wanted nothing more than to round on her husband, slap him soundly across his flawless face and give him a piece of her mind. She wanted to scream at him about how wrong he was about Marielle in everything he'd just said—how she wasn't a rapechild and how she was the most good-hearted soul the Comtesse had ever known.
But she couldn't, and wouldn't, come to her precious child's defense, as usual. She would instead remain silent, leading him to believe that she agreed with him, and scorn herself for being a terrible mother and a woman so weak that she hadn't even followed her heart twenty-one years earlier.
"So you see, getting her married is simply impossible," he continued after several moments had passed in which she hadn't spoken. "No… she'll just have to stay with us."
"I understand," she murmured, bowing her head slightly as tears began to sting her eyes. She hated the fate that she herself had woven for her daughter, for through her own cowardice, she had given Marielle a future that only held the promise of remaining a lowly maid, largely unnoticed and outwardly unloved.
A maid, she thought to herself miserably, when by rights she should be empress of the world!
"Now," he then said, cutting into her unhappy musings as he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed it, at the same time removing his pocketwatch from his jacket with the other hand and examining it. "It's just about time for us to go. Are you ready?"
"Yes," she replied, turning away from the mirror and brushing past him so she could pick up the cloak which she wore whenever she went to the cemetery. She put it over her shoulders before buttoning it together.
"Then let's be off," he replied, and they began making their way out of the bedroom. Upon opening the door, however, they were completely taken aback to find Marielle standing there, roses in hand.
"Oh!" Raoul exclaimed in what sounded like a mixture of horror and alarm, letting out a long breath and placing a hand over his heart. "Good God, girl, don't you know better than to be standing that close to a closed door? You'll frighten anyone who comes out half out of his mind."
Honestly, Christine was uncertain as to whether she should take her husband's statement as an insult to Marielle in regard to her face or as a generalized statement—because surely what he was saying could apply to anyone in a situation similar to Marielle.
Apparently, Marielle herself took the statement to be derisive, for what was visible of her face suddenly turned pink and she lowered her head further. "My apologies, Monsieur le Comte."
"Hmph," Raoul grunted, and if he hadn't been irritated with the young woman before him previously, he clearly was then. He then snatched the bouquet of roses out of her hand, giving no word of thanks and simply handing the bouquet to Christine.
"Thank you for growing these, Marielle," Christine then said to her daughter, picking up her husband's deliberate slack and pressing her face against the roses. She inhaled deeply, the lovely fragrance of the flowers in her hand filling her nose. "They're so lovely, as always."
Continuing to avoid the gaze of either her stepfather or her mother, Marielle gave a little curtsy. "It was my pleasure, Madame—as always."
At the sound of her daughter's mirroring her words, deliberately or not, Christine smiled softly, smelling the roses once more.
"Well, we're off to the cemetery now," Raoul then informed Marielle. "We'll be back before the afternoon is out."
"Very well, Monsieur," Marielle replied, curtsying once more. "Do give my regards to your father's spirit."
"I can't communicate with the spirits of the dead," the Comte replied rather coldly, taking Christine's hand as they brushed past the masked young woman. "That's an evil magic of which I know nothing. If your father is still alive and you ever meet him, however, I'm sure he'll be more than capable of doing such a thing…"
Upon hearing her husband insult the masked man she so dearly loved, Christine clenched her free hand into a fist. Oh, how she hated it whenever Raoul took a shot at Erik, which was becoming more and more frequent as Marielle got older.
She remembered the very first time he had done so with Marielle's full knowledge, for Marielle had been present… and she remembered the look on Marielle's face when he had done so. The memory was, without question, a painful one, though it had started off innocently enough.
"Papa, are you Marielle's father?" the conversation began, with Claude—then fifteen years old—naturally directing this question at Raoul.
Both Raoul and Christine were rather taken aback by the query, and they both turned to look at him in surprise as Raoul asked, "What did you say?"
"I asked if you're Marielle's father."
Marielle was nearby, on her knees in front of the fireplace and building a fire for the deChagnys, and Christine saw her raise her visible eyebrow in interest while her gaze remained fixated on the work before her. Christine was aware that Marielle knew the general response Raoul would give—for though her paternal origins had never been discussed, Marielle had, even at five years old, already given unspoken indications that she knew the then-Vicomte hadn't fathered her.
Her expression then changed to one which indicated some kind of puzzled surprise, however, as Raoul's affronted response fell upon her ears—"Absolutely not."
Claude frowned a little, his logic inexplicably turned down. "But… Mama is Marielle's mother… and you are Mama's husband. So you have to be Marielle's father, don't you?"
"I'm not her father," Raoul insisted, his tone suddenly becoming rather angry. "Someone else is."
"But who?" Claude demanded incredulously. "Who could be Marielle's father?"
"A very bad man," the Vicomte answered, his tone and expression simultaneously darkening as he turned his eyes to Marielle, who he knew to be listening to the conversation occurring before her. "A man who is composed of nothing less than pure wickedness."
Christine felt a pang in her heart as she, too, looked at Marielle and saw her masked face fall. And she silently begged Raoul to stop, thinking to herself, She's only five… she's so young… she doesn't need to be hearing this now.
"Well, how did a man other than you get Mama pregnant?" Claude, who had a basic knowledge of how babies were made, then asked in surprise. "You're the only one who's done… that… with her."
"Unfortunately, my boy, that's not entirely true," Raoul said softly, a sudden wickedness beginning to gleam in his eye while he continued looking at Marielle, and Christine felt afraid of what he would do. "Have you heard of rape?"
"Yes… but I don't know what it is; I've never heard it discussed in enough detail that I was able to understand what it was all about."
"I'll tell you, then," Raoul continued. "Rape is where a man forces himself sexually on a woman. He forces her to do all those things that only married people should do—and which should only be done with the woman's consent."
Christine saw Marielle's face tighten in both fear and unhappiness.
"And one evening when I was out of town," Raoul continued against Christine's silent prayers with a certain kind of horrid glee in his tone, "the bad man who is Marielle's father broke into this very house and committed that crime of rape against your poor mother. And because of it, your mother became pregnant with Marielle."
Marielle then began to breathe heavily, causing Christine's heart to shatter into a million pieces. The poor masked child was trying so hard not to get upset; Christine knew she was.
All of a sudden, Christine felt a drop of moisture suddenly drop onto the hands folded in her lap and jolted as she realized that the drops were her own tears. She tried her best to stop crying, but despite all her efforts, the tears kept rolling down her cheeks and she began letting out audible sniffles.
"Christine?" Raoul's voice suddenly came, and when she looked at him, she saw that he was gazing at her with a concerned expression on his face. "Christine, whatever is the matter?"
Christine licked her suddenly-dry lips so that she would be able to speak. "I… I…"
She couldn't continue, however; she couldn't tell him that she'd lied about Marielle's conception, no matter how badly she wanted to. All she could do was cry, shedding tears of self-loathing.
"Oh, darling, it's all right," he then murmured warmly, coming closer to her and wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. "I know you feel awful whenever you remember that night… but it will never happen again, I promise… you'll never see that wicked Erik ever again."
As Christine's mind turned away from her reflection and came back to the present time, she sighed a little bit and then realized, with a jolt, that she'd been distracted for a notable length of time—for she and Raoul were in one of deChagny carriages and were only a few minutes away from arriving at the cemetery. She couldn't even remember exiting the house.
I hope Raoul hasn't been trying to talk to me, she thought to herself, biting the inside of her cheek momentarily in a nervous gesture. He surely thinks something is wrong with me if he has.
Upon glancing sideways at her husband, she saw that he wasn't paying her any attention, instead gazing out the window and watching the scenery they were passing. He seemed rather distracted, and there was a distance in his eyes which prevented her from trying to surmise what might be on his mind.
More than likely, he's thinking about his father, she thought as she looked away from him and looked at her hands, which were folded in her lap. It's been five years since he passed, but he and Raoul were always rather close… they loved each other dearly. I'm sure Raoul still misses him very much.
Her thoughts then turned to her late father-in-law. To say that Pierre deChagny had been a kind man would be a gross understatement—he had always been ready to offer someone a warmhearted word, regardless of that person's circumstances. The older man had always had Christine's respect, but the thing which had most won him Christine's deep admiration was how he'd always been unfailingly kind to Marielle from the moment he had first met her. It both shamed and pleased Christine to remember that the only person who had ever given Marielle something which could legitimately be deemed a gift was Pierre.
I'm sure Marielle misses him, too, she mused to herself in a somewhat sad fashion. After all, with him, she was treated the kindest she's ever been treated. If only Raoul had taken that particular page from his father's book… how different things could be for Marielle!
"We're here," Raoul's voice then cut into her thoughts, and she looked up to see that, indeed, the carriage had pulled up to the cemetery's entrance and he had already exited the carriage. He was extending a hand to her.
Giving him a small smile, she took the proffered hand and allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage. And as she did, she thought about how Pierre, if he had lived to an older age and had been able to talk Raoul into allowing it, probably would have taken Marielle out of the Château deChagny sometimes—and how whenever Marielle would have gotten out of a carriage in such instances, Pierre would have offered his gentlemanly assistance without any hesitation whatsoever.
But he's gone, she thought to herself unhappily as she and Raoul entered the cemetery and made their way to Pierre's grave. So he'll never do that with her… and since she's likely to never leave the Château, the odds of her ever experiencing such common courtesy are rather small. Oh, it must be terrible, having to live in such a way where you can't experience even the simplest things in life. That must be how Erik feels. Poor loves of mine!
Upon feelings tears spring in her eyes, she squeezed them shut, but it didn't prevent the tears from falling. They instead rolled down her cheeks silently, unheeded—that is, until Raoul happened to glance over and see them.
He gently squeezed the hand which was clasped in one of his. "What's wrong, dear?"
"Oh, nothing, really," she murmured, wiping away the tears with her free hand and sniffling a bit. "I was just thinking that even though your father's been gone five years, I still miss him very much. He was such a good man."
"Yes," he said softly, squeezing her hand again. "A very good man indeed."
They then continued walking through the cemetery in silence. When they at last reached Pierre deChagny's grave, they came to a halt.
For several moments, the married couple stood there without a word, looking at the tombstone and the engraving which was on it.
Comte Pierre deChagny
30 janvier 1829 - 18 mars 1902
Mari Dévoué et Père Aimant
"Lui qui a bonté plantes l'amour recueille"
As Christine absorbed the quotation at the bottom of the tombstone, which had been said by St. Basil, she slowly came forward and knelt onto the soft grass, placing the roses which Marielle had grown in front of the grave.
Thank you, Pierre, for bestowing so much kindness upon Marielle when no one else would, she thought with a particular kind of reverence. You have no idea how much it meant to me… how much it still means to me. I can only hope that Marielle will someday have the opportunity to meet another man like you.
~ o ~
Author's Note: FYI, the inscription on Pierre's grave says the following…
Comte Pierre deChagny
30 January 1829 – 18 March 1902
Devoted Husband and Loving Father
"He who plants kindness gathers love"