In Blood by LovetheScottishAngel

Author's Note: Thanks to Sweater Monkey and lissa . wade (I had to add the spaces because FanFiction is silly) for adding this story to their favorites. Additional thanks goes to The Duelist's Heiress for reviewing the last chapter.

Now, without further ado…

~ o ~

Several days later, Marielle found herself in one of the beautiful bathrooms in the main part of the Château deChagny, vomiting into the toilet with such violence that her whole body shook. All morning as she'd gone through her chores, she'd been feeling a rather strong burst of nausea running through her body, causing her to work more slowly than usual—but nothing had resulted from the feeling of sickness until that point.

When she'd thrown up the whole of the small breakfast she'd had at the beginning of the day, she leaned back a little, closing her eyes and emitting a long sigh as she flushed the toilet. She felt somewhat dizzy and tired… she suddenly had no desire except to retreat to her room and sleep for the remainder of the day.

There were several knocks at the door.

"Marielle?" the Comtesse's voice came from the other side. "Jeanette told me you were in here. Are you feeling ill?"

Marielle cleared her throat and let out a little sigh as she opened her eyes. She turned her attention to the closed door. "I am a bit, Madame, but I'll be all right. I suppose I've recently eaten something my stomach didn't agree with."

"Oh, I see. Would you like to take the rest of the day off?"

"I appreciate the offer, Madame, but that won't be necessary. I'll be out in a moment."

"All right," the Comtesse agreed with some reluctance. "Let me know if you start to feel worse, all right? You don't need to be working when you don't feel well."

"Yes, Madame. Merci."

After several moments, Marielle's mother gave no response, leading Marielle to believe that the Comtesse had evidently walked away. So, after taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet and walked over to the sink, removing her mask and setting it on the counter as she rinsed her face off with cool water.

Once she'd done this, she picked up the nearby handtowel and dried her face off, replacing her mask and then exiting the bathroom. She took the handtowel to the laundry room and set it in one of hampers, then returned to the bedroom the Comte and Comtesse shared, where she'd been making the bed and collecting dirty clothes and linens before she'd gotten sick.

Emitting a soft sigh, she picked up the folded sheet, shaking it out so that there were no wrinkles before setting it atop the mattress and straightening it so that it was on the bed properly. Then she tucked the ends of the sheet underneath the mattress and put the rest of the bed linens on the bed.

The bed having been made, she picked up the dirty clothes and linens, which she'd previously set in a pile on the floor, and exited the room, closing the door behind her and then making her way back downstairs to the laundry room to drop off the laundry she'd just collected.

Upon looking at the nearby clock on the wall, Marielle saw that it was 10:15 in the morning. That meant she was behind schedule, for she was supposed to make a fire for the Comte and Comtesse in the parlor at 10:00. The Comte would certainly be displeased at her tardiness…

Clearing her throat and attempting to brace herself for the harsh words which would soon be coming her way, she headed into the parlor, where the deChagnys were sitting quietly. The Comtesse was embroidering something, while the Comte was reading that day's newspaper.

The sound of Marielle's picking up the firewood holder and carrying it over to the fireplace alerted the Comte to her presence, and he looked at her in a rather stern fashion as he pulled out his pocketwatch and examined the time.

"You're late," he said severely. "I should have had a fire fifteen minutes ago."

Marielle opened her mouth to begin apologizing, but the Comtesse intervened, saying, "Raoul, don't be so hard on her. She doesn't feel well."

"Well, she obviously doesn't feel so unwell that she can't work," Raoul said evenly, giving his wife a somewhat hard look. "And if that's the case, she should be working at the same pace as she would if she felt entirely healthy."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur le Comte," Marielle then said softly, not looking at him as she began to place wood and some shredded paper into the fireplace. "I'll have this fire all lit up for you in a few moments."

"Hmph," Raoul murmured in a rather annoyed tone, but said nothing more and instead watched her with contemptuous eyes as she continued her work.

She took hold of the nearby box of matches and pulled one match out, striking it and then lighting the wood and paper in various places. As the fire began to spread throughout all of the wood, she then closed the small iron doors, examining the fire for several moments before making to rise.

Before she had the chance to get to her feet, however, she was suddenly hit with an incredible wave of dizziness, causing her to let out a somewhat short breath and close her eyes, a hand going to her forehead.

"What are you doing now?" Raoul then demanded, sounding even more aggravated than he had previously. "The fire's lit; get on with the rest of your work. You're already behind schedule."

"Are you all right, Marielle?" Christine then asked, knitting her eyebrows together in a concerned expression even though her daughter couldn't see it. She scooted further forward in her seat as if making to go over to Marielle.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine… I just…" Marielle emitted a long sigh as she kept her eyes closed, silently willing her lightheadedness to go away. "I just got dizzy all of a sudden, that's all."

The Comtesse frowned a little, another expression which Marielle didn't see. "Are you sure you don't need to stop your work for the rest of the day? Jeanette can take on your responsibilities if you're feeling too bad."

"I'll be fine, thank you. Just give me a moment to collect myself."

For several moments, all was silent as Marielle remained still and the deChagnys observed her, one with a somewhat irritated expression and the other with a worried expression. Then Marielle opened her eyes, clearing her throat and rising to her feet. She straightened herself.

"All right now?" the Comtesse asked gently. Raoul rolled his eyes slightly at her tone.

"Yes, Madame." Marielle cleared her throat once more and shook her head a bit as she picked up the firewood holder and set it back in the corner of the parlor where it had previously been. "I apologize… I don't know what's wrong with me today…"

"There's always something wrong with you," the Comte muttered, speaking under his breath but not so quietly that his words didn't reach his wife's or Marielle's ears. "You're a rapechild, after all."

Marielle gave no indication that she'd heard what he'd said, instead exiting the parlor and heading back to the laundry room, where she would begin to wash the dirty clothes and linens that she'd collected earlier.

After entering the laundry room, she separated all the clothes and linens into separate piles based on their color and whether or not they needed to be washed in a delicate cycle in the electric washing machine which the deChagnys had just purchased about a year previously. Then she turned on the washing machine, setting the water to run hot and then putting in some laundry soap before beginning to put light-colored items into the machine.

Once she'd placed the first load of items needing to be washed in the machine, Marielle made her way toward the area of the Château which contained the servants' quarters, specifically going to her bedroom so that she might lie down for a bit before the time came for her to begin cooking the day's lunch. For she still felt a little unsteady; her head felt as if it was the heaviest part of her body and, as she had for several days now, she felt rather tired.

I hope the Comte doesn't catch me resting, she thought to herself as she reached the bottom of the staircase which led to the servants' quarters. She slowly began ascending the stairs. He won't be very happy if he sees that I'm not doing something useful…

Upon reaching a point on the staircase which was several steps below the top stair, she crossed paths with Jeanette, the deChagnys' other maid and the only other maid who had been at the Château throughout the entirety of Marielle's life—all the others had come and gone, eventually either marrying or going to serve another family.

"Oh!" Jeanette gasped as she and Marielle saw each other, jolting a little as her face paled slightly and she placed a hand on her heart. These actions didn't surprise Marielle, for she knew that Jeanette was afraid of her—after all, she'd seen her deformed face mere moments after she'd been born.

"I'm sorry," Marielle said to Jeanette then, trying to be nice in order to show that there was no need for the older woman to be frightened of her, as she had done from the time she'd been able to speak. "I didn't mean to surprise you like that."

"D-Don't worry about it," Jeanette stammered a bit, sounding as if she'd just seen a rather terrifying ghost. She rather made a point of distancing herself from Marielle as much as she could, practically pressing herself against the wall as she began going down the staircase. "I—I'm sorry I was in your way…"

And then, with great haste, Jeanette descended the rest of the staircase and made her way to some other portion of the Château, disappearing from Marielle's view.

Well, at least she didn't scream or anything like that, Marielle thought with a sigh, looking after Jeanette for several moments even after the other maid was no longer in her sights. She's done that on more than one occasion in the past…

She then turned her attention back toward the path she'd been making for herself before she and Jeanette had encountered each other, taking hold of the rail as she took the final few steps up the staircase.

Upon reaching the top of the staircase, Marielle was suddenly overcome with an abrupt wave of dizziness, her vision blurring. She drew in her breath sharply, taking hold of the corner of the wall which separated the staircase from the rest of the servants' quarters with one hand in a desperate attempt to keep herself upright.

The feeling of lightheadedness was too powerful for her to fight, however, and her vision blurred further as she lost her grip on the corner, dimly aware that she was falling backwards but unable to do anything to stop it.

Her world was completely consumed by darkness before her body even came into contact with the stairs.

~ o ~

When Marielle came to, she found herself in her room, lying in bed with the blanket covering her. Her mask had, at one point or another, been removed and was resting on the armoire.

For a few brief moments, she tried to remember something, anything, that had occurred between the time when she'd lost consciousness and the moment in which she then found herself. Such an attempt was in vain, however; she didn't know anything that had happened since she'd passed out—except for the obvious fact that she'd been moved from the staircase to her bedroom.

Marielle then heard voices speaking in low tones just outside her bedroom door. She propped herself up slightly with her elbows, trying to focus on who was talking and what they were saying, for she felt certain that her current condition, whatever it was, was the topic of discussion.

She was able to make out the Comtesse saying the word how in a rather emphatic, questioning tone, but then she lost any and all concentration she'd had as a relentless wave of nausea struck her.

Relief filled her as she hastily peered over one side of the bed and saw that an empty basin was sitting on the floor. She reached out and took hold of it with both hands, bringing it closer to her head and then beginning to vomit into it.

After a moment, Marielle discovered that the Comtesse had been talking with her husband and Dr. Beaufort, for her bedroom door opened and all three of them entered. Marielle's face grew hot even as her vomiting continued; it was embarrassing that her illness was suddenly something of a public spectacle.

The Comtesse took her by surprise then, almost immediately coming over to her and sitting herself on her knees beside her on the bed.

"It's all right," she murmured to Marielle, her tone rather soothing as she lightly rubbed her daughter's back. "Just let it out… there you go."

When Marielle had stopped throwing up, she let out a little sigh, leaning forward slightly and beginning to set the basin back on the floor, for she felt too weak to get up from bed and rinse the basin out in the adjoining bathroom. Christine surprised her again, however, by reaching out and taking hold of the basin.

"Here," she said then. "I'll rinse it out for you."

Raoul took a step forward in protest. "Christine—"

"Don't worry about it, Raoul," the Comtesse said to her husband, moving off the bed and beginning to head for the bathroom. "It's all right."

"You don't need to do that," the nobleman responded, his expression indicating that the sight of his wife holding a basin filled with vomit offended his aristocratic sensibilities. "She can do it herself."

"Not at the moment, she can't, dear," Christine replied in a gentle tone that also contained a firmness which indicated that the subject wasn't open for debate. "She doesn't feel well."

In that moment, even though she knew it wasn't really right, Marielle felt secretly glad for her still-mysterious-to-her illness. For whenever she was sick, the Comtesse made any and all decisions concerning her and was absolutely unbending in them—and whenever the Comtesse was the one making the decisions, she always got treated a little better than normal.

For several moments following, there was silence except for the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink water running as Christine emptied out the basin and then rinsed it out in the sink. Then she returned, placing the basin back where it had previously been on the floor.

"Thank you, Madame," Marielle said softly, not meeting the Comtesse's eyes and thus not allowing her to see just how grateful she felt.

Christine gave no verbal response, instead giving the deformed young woman a soft, brief smile that she didn't see and then standing beside Raoul once more. When Marielle then looked up, she saw that the Comtesse and Dr. Beaufort looked rather concerned, while a somewhat dark scowl covered Raoul's features.

"Put your mask back on," the Comte then ordered Marielle, his eyes briefly turning their focus onto the mask, which still rested on the armoire. "No one is interested in seeing your face."

"Monsieur le Comte…" Dr. Beaufort began to protest, but Marielle cut him off.

"It's all right, Doctor. I understand Monsieur le Comte's aversion."

Then, going slowly so she wouldn't rouse any feelings of dizziness or nausea that might still be dormant within her, she rose from the bed and took the few steps to the armoire, picking up her mask and placing it back on her face. Then she returned to her bed, sitting up straight in it as she pulled the covers over her legs and up to her waist.

Dr. Beaufort then cleared his throat, placing his hands behind his back and taking a rather formal stance. "Marielle. Do you know why you've been feeling ill today?"

Marielle raised her visible eyebrow at the doctor. "Well, I would imagine it's because I've recently eaten something that didn't entirely agree with me. That's generally what makes me vomit."

"Yes, well, that isn't the case this time." The doctor paused. "While you were unconscious, I did a full examination on you to ensure that there wasn't anything wrong with you besides your nausea and dizziness and… Marielle, you're pregnant."

The masked young woman felt her face abruptly drain of all color. "Pregnant…?"

"Judging by the size of the fetus, you're about seven weeks along," he continued, apparently undeterred by her brief interjection. "But since you've apparently never ventured outside the Château, we all can't help but wonder… how did this happen, my dear?"

At this question, Marielle's face grew hot, for she knew exactly how she'd gotten pregnant. She'd only been with one man; only the Comte could be the father of her unborn child…

But, of course, she couldn't share this information. The Comte's threat ran as clearly through her mind as if he'd just made it to her the day before: "if you tell anyone… you'll be thrown out of this house before you can even blink."

Now that she was pregnant, she certainly couldn't afford to lose the only home she'd ever known. There was nowhere else she could go… if she told the truth and was thrown out, she wouldn't be able to provide a home for herself and her unborn child. She would have to lie about the nature of the child's conception.

"Well, I… I have been outside the Château, once," she finally responded, her voice dropping to a low whisper as she bowed her head, ashamed at the desperate nature of her situation. "I wanted so badly to see what the outside world was like and I knew I'd never have permission to do so, so I snuck out one night."

Because she kept her head down, she didn't see the expressions of surprise which marked all three of the countenances which stood before her. Of course, Christine and Dr. Beaufort were surprised for a different reason than Raoul—they were surprised that she'd apparently left the Château, while Raoul was surprised that she had remembered his threat and was actually listening to it.

"And you met a man, did you?" Dr. Beaufort inquired gently.

Marielle nodded, still not looking up at the three people in front of her. "Yes, at a tavern. I don't really know why I picked to go to a tavern; I didn't have any money. But as it turned out, I didn't need any, because this man saw me and offered to buy me a drink."

"I see. And what happened then?"

"Well, we each had several drinks while we talked. And after a while, he… he told me that he found me attractive. He said he was staying in a nearby hotel and wanted me to… join him for the remainder of the evening."

Dr. Beaufort nodded. "Judging by how much you remember, I suppose you weren't very drunk. Had you consumed alcohol before this occasion?"

"Once," Marielle lied, for she'd never tasted alcohol before in her life. "I was clearing the dinner table one evening and saw that Madame la Comtesse had left her wine glass mostly full. I didn't want to let it go to waste by dumping it out and I was curious to see how it tasted, so I drank it. So I suppose that helped my tolerance and made me less inebriated."

"Very well," Dr. Beaufort said. "Continue your story, if you would, my dear."

The young woman cleared her throat. "Well, after the man had made his offer to me, I didn't really hesitate to take it. I mean, we didn't know each other very well at all, but I didn't think I'd get another opportunity to get out of the Château, so I wanted to experience everything I could. Especially… especially that, the act he was implying… because I didn't think that, with my face, any man would ever want me."

A look which was a mixture of compassion and sadness crossed Christine's face. She felt terrible for her daughter; she hated that she felt as if she would never be desired because of her appearance. She especially felt bad because she knew that, thanks to the shallow nature of most of the human race, what Marielle believed was most likely true.

Marielle then sighed and concluded her lie by saying, "I know it was wrong… I know that such things shouldn't occur between people who aren't married. And I'm sorry I did it. I'm sorry I even snuck out to begin with. And it may not be of much help to say this, but for what it's worth, I didn't enjoy… doing it. It happened really fast and it hurt and it wasn't at all like I thought it'd be. I thought it would be romantic… but I was wrong."

"I don't suppose you caught this man's name?" Dr. Beaufort inquired.

She didn't give a verbal response; she merely shook her head.

"Well, why this comes as much of a surprise to anyone is beyond me, really," the Comte suddenly interjected with a scoff, and Marielle looked up at him to see that he was shaking his head and had folded his arms across his chest. He fixed her with a look of contempt. "We should have known something like this would happen someday. After all, this is the kind of behavior which is so typical of someone of Erik's bloodline. She's her father's daughter through and through!"

"Don't, Raoul," Christine protested with surprising fervor as she saw the look of shame which crossed Marielle's features, the way in which she bowed her head once again. She placed a hand on her husband's arm. "She's learned her lesson and she's apologized for what she did. This experience has hurt her enough already… there's no need to deepen the wound."

"Hmph," Raoul grunted, giving Marielle one more contemptuous glare before turning on his heel and exiting the bedroom.

Tears filled Marielle's eyes. She wasn't surprised that he was unhappy she was carrying his child; after all, if the child looked like him, it could expose the secret she unwillingly shared with him. But the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd brought her father into the conversation… it was if he believed that she'd gotten pregnant on purpose so she might, at one point or another, underhandedly inform his wife of what atrocities he had committed. And she certainly hadn't done that; she'd only done as he'd demanded, letting him take her whenever he pleased and keeping everyone else in the dark about his crime against her. She'd even lied, made it look as if she'd had an encounter with some stranger, to make him look as if he'd done nothing wrong!

"It's all right, Marielle," the Comtesse said in a comforting tone when she saw the young woman's tears, cutting into Marielle's thoughts as she came over to the bed and sat next to her. "Don't worry about him… he's just upset that you haven't been entirely honest with us. But it's all right; don't feel as if you've done anything wrong. You were just curious about some things and you… you didn't think there was any way for you to learn about them unless you took matters into your own hands."

Marielle didn't say anything in response, instead giving a little shrug as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Now, Marielle," Dr. Beaufort then said, causing Marielle to look up at him. "You ought to take the rest of the day to just stay in bed and relax; you haven't felt well all day and you were just given some rather monumental news. Now, from the way things have gone so far, it seems rather likely that you'll experience some rather intense nausea and vomiting. In order to combat that, I recommend that you get your own personal supply of salty snacks, like crackers, and keep them here in your room. Then have a few before you get out of bed in the morning so your nausea can be combated from the very start of the day. And, of course, it's very important that you keep yourself well-hydrated. Drink plenty of water and milk."

She nodded. "Yes, Doctor, I'll do that."

"Very good." Dr. Beaufort then began heading for the bedroom door, making to exit. "I'll come back in about a month to ensure that everything's going all right; by that point you'll be near the end of your first trimester. If something happens before that, though, of course you should call for me."

"I will."

"Thank you, Doctor," the Comtesse then said to the doctor, going over to him and kissing him once on each cheek as he did the same with her.

"My pleasure, Madame la Comtesse. I'll show myself out… and I'll see you both soon."

And then, without another word, he left the room, the sounds of his departure all sounding themselves after a few brief moments.

"Would you like me to get something for you, Marielle?" Christine then asked, coming back over to Marielle's bedside. "Is there anything you need… food, water… anything at all?"

Marielle shook her head. "No, thank you, Madame; I'm quite all right."

"All right." The Comtesse then hesitated before, in a rather slow fashion, she reached out and gently tucked a loose lock of Marielle's midnight-black waves behind her ear. "Then you just get some rest like the doctor instructed. Jeanette will take care of your chores. And if you need anything, just call for me."

"Yes, Madame," Marielle murmured with a light sigh as she scooted herself forward in bed slightly and then lay on her back, her head resting on the pillow. "I will."

"Here, take this off," the older woman continued, reaching out and taking hold of Marielle's mask. She began to remove it.

Before the mask had the chance to come off and completely expose Marielle's deformity, however, Marielle reached up and took hold of the Comtesse's wrist, stopping her from moving the mask any further away from her face.

"Don't do that, please," she softly implored the woman who was both her mother and her mistress. "I'll take it off in a moment when you're gone. I don't want you to see."

"It's nothing I haven't seen many times before," Christine replied calmly, gently pulling her hand out of Marielle's grip. "It doesn't bother me."

And then, before Marielle could protest any further, she placed the mask on the armoire. Then she turned her attention back to her daughter, looking at her fully-exposed face without any trace of horror or revulsion in her expression.

"There," she murmured softly. "That's very much better. And you know, Marielle, you don't have to have your mask on whenever you're in here. This is your room; you're allowed to do whatever you please in here. And if someone doesn't like the fact that you might choose to go unmasked in your room, he doesn't have to come in."

These words made the deformed young woman arch a single eyebrow. What the woman standing before her had said was rather curious… it was almost as if she knew about the thing which had actually gotten her pregnant.

But, of course, the notion that the Comtesse knew what her husband was doing to Marielle was rather ridiculous. The noblewoman had always treated Marielle very well, had always done as much as she really could to look out for Marielle's well-being. If she'd known what the Comte was doing to her, she already would have done something to prevent it from happening anymore.

So her words didn't carry any real significance… except that she seemed to be implying that Marielle's deformity made no difference to her.

A person who didn't care about how ugly she was… what a nice concept.

"Now," she continued, cutting into Marielle's thoughts. She lightly placed a hand on Marielle's shoulder, gently squeezing it. "You get some rest. I'll come and check on you at regular intervals… and like I said, you should call me if you need anything."

Marielle nodded and let out a soft sigh, turning over on her side so that only the regular side of her face was visible to the Comtesse. She closed her eyes. "Thank you, Madame."

Christine gave no verbal response, instead smiling down at her daughter for a few moments before turning and making her way out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

~ o ~

For the week which superseded Dr. Beaufort's diagnosis, no particular event of any consequence occurred. The Château deChagny's inhabitants largely went about their business as usual, none of them acting very different.

To Marielle's credit, though the idea that she was only about seven months away from bringing a new life into the world didn't particularly appeal to her for various reasons, she came to accept it rather quickly. She rather shyly began asking the Comtesse about various aspects of being a mother whenever there seemed to be a spare moment… and though she was quite some time away from being able to find out what sex her unborn child was, she began to think about different names which she might like to give the baby.

Late during the very evening which marked that seven days' time had passed since Marielle had learned of her pregnancy, she was doing that very thing while lying in bed and attempting to fall asleep—contemplating baby names. Of course, she knew that pondering upon names to give her unborn child wasn't a particularly effective way of lulling herself to sleep; her brain buzzed as she thought about all the names she knew. But she didn't mind. After all, one's name was rather important; he kept it for the whole of his life and, in certain situations, it determined his future. She wanted to make sure her baby had an ideal name—strong but not overwhelming, pleasant but not worthy of mockery, poetic but not ridiculous.

Edouard, perhaps, for a boy, she thought, letting out a little sigh which halfway expressed contentment. Or Etienne. Yes, Etienne sounds rather nice.

She was about to begin pondering upon some girl names which she might like when she suddenly heard footsteps sound, getting louder as they got closer to her door.

A sense of dread suddenly filled her. During the week that had passed since Dr. Beaufort had told her she was pregnant, the Comte hadn't come to her room at all. They hadn't even had that much contact during the daylight hours, either; whenever they had happened to cross paths, he had almost immediately gotten away from her as if she was carrying some particularly awful disease that he feared catching. Admittedly, his avoiding her hadn't bothered her in the least bit, and she'd begun to be hopeful that he would stay away from her bed during the remainder of her pregnancy.

The sound of her door opening told her that her hope had been in vain, causing a lump to rise in her throat. Was he so wrapped up in his twisted desire for vengeance against her father, in his twisted desire for her body, that he simply couldn't stay away from her even though she was now carrying his child?

"Oh!" she gasped as a hand took tight hold of her wrist and roughly pulled her out of bed and into a standing position. And before she even had a chance to gain solid footing, another hand came forward and slapped her undeformed cheek with an incredible violence that nearly rendered her breathless.

"Garce!" the Comte snarled viciously, and when she'd recovered from the hit and looked at him, she saw that the anger in his eyes burned clearly through the darkness which shrouded her room. "You think you can outwit me, do you?"

"Monsieur, I—I'm not trying to outwit you," she breathed, at once alarmed and astonished. What was he on about? "What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?" he mimicked her, taking on a somewhat high-pitched tone which she might have found funny if not for the fact that she felt so afraid. "As if you don't know! You think that having this baby will expose me!"

"No!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening. "Even if it looks like you, I'm sure Madame la Comtesse will think nothing of it; she'll just think—"

"That you rutted with someone who has eyes and hair that are the same color as mine?" he interrupted rather scornfully. "I thought you might say that. And you know, she very well might come to that conclusion if the child looks like me. But I'd rather not take the risk that she might find me out… I can't take that risk!"

"I'll leave, then!" she responded desperately. The whole of her body was trembling; she was certain that she'd never been more frightened in her life, especially since she didn't know exactly what he had planned. "I'll leave and never come back… I'll find some way to support myself and the baby!"

"Oh, no, I think not," he said rather airily. "If I let you leave, you may very well run right to the police and tell them what I've done! Of course, the chances that they would believe you may be rather slim… but once again, I'd rather not take any risks. I need my loose ends tied up!"

And then, without another word, he turned and began exiting the bedroom, keeping his vicelike grip on her wrist and thus forcing her to stumble along behind him. They made their way out of the servants' quarters and continued on from there, heading toward the front part of the house.

"What… what do you intend to do with me, Monsieur?" she inquired fearfully, her heart pounding rather wildly.

"You and I are going to get rid of this baby," he informed her, his tone both harsh and determined. "We both had a part in its creation… it only seems right that we work together to bring about its annihilation."

They then entered the kitchen, and he dragged her over to the cabinet which, as she knew from years of working in the Château, contained the wine and other various forms of alcohol which the deChagnys sometimes consumed with their meals. He opened the door with his free hand, pulling out a particularly expensive bottle of chardonnay and the corkscrew with which the wines were opened. Then, using the corkscrew, he opened the bottle and then extended it to her.

"Drink."

Her eyes widened. "But… but alcohol isn't good for the baby!"

"I know that, stupid girl!" he hissed impatiently, holding the bottle out to her more insistently. "Why do you think I'm giving you an unopened bottle of one of the finest wines I own? If you drink the whole bottle, you'll surely kill the baby… so that's exactly what you're going to do."

She shuddered from the heartlessness of his words, but somehow managed to find the strength to give the response she knew to be the right one—"No."

"No?" he demanded, his voice so harsh and grating that it made her cringe. "You dare to tell me no?"

"This isn't right," she whispered, her body shaking so much out of fear from what her refusal might make him do that she thought it a wonder that she was still standing upright. "I can't kill anyone… especially not a helpless unborn child! Please, Monsieur le Comte… I'll do anything you ask… but not this!"

All of a sudden, he laughed, but his laughter was absolutely humorless. It was a cruel, heartless laughter which made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Oh, you unfortunate, stupid girl," he sighed as his laughter ceased, shaking his head and giving her a chilling smile. "I was trying to give you an easy way to get rid of this baby… I was going to let you take as long as you wanted to drink the entire bottle, I was going to be patient with you as long as you did what I said. But since you've decided to refuse me, this will have to be done the hard way. If you'd just done as I'd instructed, you might have begun to enjoy fine wine after all this was said and done… but with the way things are going to be done now, well… I daresay you may forever recoil from the mere sight of alcohol after I'm through with you."

Before she even had time to fully process his words, he roughly shoved her against the kitchen counter. She attempted to regain her senses and straighten herself back up so she could get away, but it was in vain. The nobleman had her before she was able to run, taking painful hold of her face in such a way that he strong-armed her mouth into an open position as he forced her backwards and very nearly bent her in half over the sink. As he held the wine bottle over her head and began tilting it forward, she knew exactly what he was about to do to her and struggled with all her might, but he was too strong for her.

The moment the chardonnay made its way into her mouth, she gagged at the vile taste and fought back as much as she could, just barely managing to kick and squirm about. The drink was about the most bitter thing she'd ever tasted, and she realized that even if she'd gone along with the Comte's original proposal and begun drinking from the bottle at her own pace, she never would have gotten past the first sip by herself; the rest would have been forced on her as was happening at that very moment.

Over and over she used all her might to try getting away, but it was no use; his strength surpassed hers and he was able to continue emptying the bottle into her mouth. And, of course, since she'd never had alcohol before in her life, she was completely unprepared for its numbing effects. She could feel every one of her senses deadening, she could feel her muscles becoming more and more limp; her thoughts were still those of alarm, but the pace at which they ran through her mind further diminished as the chardonnay continued cascading down her throat.

After what felt like an eternity, the bottle was finally drained, and he attempted to shove it into her limp hand as he stepped away from her. Because the alcohol had so relaxed the entirety of her body, however, she couldn't keep a proper grip on the bottle, and thus it slid out of her hand and landed on the floor with a dull thunk.

"Well, I suppose it's all right if the bottle stays there," he mused as he contemplated the senseless young woman before him for several moments. "I'm sure you won't make it too far from here before you entirely lose consciousness, anyway…"

His voice trailed off for a moment, but then he chuckled and gave a little shake of his head as he concluded, "I must confess, at the moment, you're truly a pathetic sight to behold."

She spoke not a word, instead soundlessly swaying back and forth as she continued to stand there. She was completely incapacitated; she hadn't even processed a word he'd said. All coherent thought and understanding had been lost at about the same time at which the bottle had become half-empty.

For several moments more, he stood there and merely looked at her, and then he made no further comment as he exited the kitchen, leaving her alone.

During the two or three minutes which passed after his departure, she remained standing where she was, still lightly swaying with the grace that only a fully-inebriated young woman could possess. Then the room began to spin, however, and she staggered forward a few steps as her balance and body control began to waver. Bare moments after that, she soundlessly fell to the floor as everything went black.

~ o ~

Author's Note: FYI, "garce" (what Raoul called Marielle when he first came into her room) is French for "bitch."