Chapter 2 - The Last de Chagny

Life was perfect for the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny.

Well…almost.

Pale yellow light filtered in through a set of gauzy lace curtains, casting filigreed patterns of light and dark across the crisp linen tablecloth and gold-rimmed china, while beside a gleaming silver-plated coffee pot, pink-blushing roses and fragile peonies cascaded from a porcelain vase. An artfully arranged tray of pastries stood at the ready, overflowing with more than any two people could reasonably eat.

But only one person was sitting at the table this morning.

Ah well, there was no reason to let the coffee get cold. The Vicomte de Chagny nodded to the waiting servant, who tipped a stream of rich, dark liquid into a little china cup. Fortified by the first scalding mouthful, he reached for the customary stack of letters awaiting his perusal. One by one the seals were broken, and delicately embossed cards were slid from thick cream envelopes—an invitation to join a hunting party in the countryside, an invitation to a card game in the city, a thank you for a lovely dinner party, each written in the same impeccably formal manner.

The last five years had seen a steady flow of such correspondence. At first the couple had been invited to endless functions, mostly, Raoul was certain, for curiosity's sake, but as interest in their private life faded, curiosity was replaced with simple adoration for his lovely wife. While well-meaning ladies still sometimes remarked, "Why, she's simply charming! One would almost never guess that she had been a chorus girl!" the truth was that Christine's scandalous past was quickly forgotten in favor of her new reputation as a captivating conversationalist and irreproachable hostess. Social duties were dispatched with effortless poise and grace. Even Raoul's disapproving mother was forced to grudgingly admit that she acted the part of a perfect lady quite expertly.

As gratifying as it was to have been accepted into good society's inner circles, the couple was happiest with only each other as company. As a compromise, they split their time between a townhouse in one of Paris' most fashionable districts and a small chateau nestled in the verdant countryside. In Paris, they dined, attended concerts, and danced at balls. Out of the city, with no neighbors for miles, they once again became the two children who had run barefoot in the sand along the ocean's edge, scooping up seashells and stuffing them in their pockets. Spring afternoons saw the couple strolling hand-in-hand through the sprawling gardens, plucking over-ripe berries from thorny bushes and popping them into each other's mouths. Late nights were spent in front of a slow-burning fire, clinging to one another and whispering stories half-remembered from childhood. The next morning, they lingered in bed and spoke of the sometimes amusing, sometimes frightening things they had dreamed during the night.

They almost never spoke of him.

After that night, it took weeks before Christine could speak of any of it without choking on tears, unable to continue. The depth of her sorrow was, if he was honest with himself, a little…overwhelming. Raoul cherished Christine's tender heart, but he was at a loss to understand why she would feel such pity for a person so clearly undeserving. He supposed there was something to the student-teacher history they shared, but not being musically-inclined himself, he figured it was a bond he simply could not fully appreciate. He remained sensitive for her sake, but Raoul's private thoughts were frank: the masked man was a villain, Raoul was the hero, and the story had gone as it should have.

One night, as sweat dried on their tangled limbs, a feeling of profound gratitude swelled within him and he thanked his wife, "For what you did to save me. How you were able to kiss that monster...I can't imagine. You were so brave, Christine." In the post-midnight darkness, he couldn't see her face, but felt her entire body stiffen in his arms. He was flooded with regret. He shouldn't have brought it up, shouldn't have made her relive the horror. He tried to apologize, but she stopped him, her voice soft and careful and tinged with pain.

"I did what I needed to do," she said.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, Christine's eyes were all dark circles. When he went to kiss her good morning, she shook her head but pulled him close. "Raoul, you know this is very hard for me to talk about, but it seems we must." Her fingertips traced gentle lines on his chest; her eyes did not meet his. "Believe me, I haven't forgotten all that happened. I don't think I ever could. He behaved monstrously, it's true. But how else could we expect someone the world has deemed a monster to act?" She placed a finger on Raoul's lips to quiet the objection forming there. "He's not a monster. Please don't call him that. He's just…" She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed. "Erik. He's a man named Erik—a man with the capacity for both good and bad, like all of us. I've spent so long replaying everything in my mind, and I wish…" A pause followed, tense and weighty, at least to Raoul's mind; his stomach began to contract into a knot as the silence stretched on. Finally, Christine sighed. "Well, it's all in the past now. But I believe, I really do, that he's changed, for the better. I have forgiven him, and I hope you will, too. "

Chastened, Raoul agreed, and they fell into each other's arms…which was a nice distraction from the sudden host of new questions—Just how much thought had she given that 'man'? Did she think of him still? Since when did he have a name?—that it was probably for the best were dropped.

After that, they never spoke of him at all.

With their dark past behind them, over three years passed in an idyll of happiness and affection. But then things began to change...

The scrape of chair legs moving across the polished wood floor jolted Raoul back into the present. He snatched up a napkin to blot the coffee he'd sloshed onto the letter in his hand, at which he'd been staring absently for some time.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, darling. Did I startle you?" Christine asked. She wore a simple morning dress and a placid smile.

Raoul jumped up to help her into her seat. "Oh no, not at all. I must have nodded off as I was reading Madame Fournier's thank you note."

"Well, I'd hardly fault you for that," Christine laughed. She reached for a sugared bun as Raoul filled her coffee cup. "Anything interesting in the mail today, darling?"

Raoul rifled through the stack of envelopes. "Just the usual. I received an invitation to join a hunting party, but I'll decline, of course. A terrible practice," he said, tossing the letter aside with a shudder. "So barbaric! Oh, and here's an invitation to a dinner from— Ah, from…"

"From whom?"

"The, ah, the Baron de Montfort."

Raoul glanced over at his wife. She was spreading butter onto her bun with the focus of a painter working the canvas with a palette knife.

"Oh? When?" she replied without looking up.

"The first Saturday after we return to the city. It looks like it's a small party. Just us and a few other guests." Again he paused.

"Well, won't that be lovely." She took a measured bite of her pastry and then set about rearranging her silverware.

Raoul stared at her small, pale hands. They trembled ever so slightly. Dropping his voice to just above a whisper, he looked at her levelly and said, "Sweetheart, we don't have to go if you don't want to. Just say the word and I'll make our excuses."

Still not meeting his gaze, a small crease appeared between her brows. "Of course we should go. We've owed them a visit since...for ages now, and if we turn them down once again it will seem intentionally rude."

"Are you sure?" Raoul took her hands in his. "It won't be too hard on you?"

She snatched them back and reached for her coffee cup. "Raoul," she said with an exasperated sigh, "I said it's fine. Now, will you please just tell them we'll be there and let the matter drop?"

The tremor of her pinched lips and slight puffiness around her eyes—the result of another unhappy night—did not have Raoul convinced he ought to let it drop. But the secret to a happy marriage, as everyone said, was to know when to pick your battles.

Over the years, there had been plenty of battles that weren't worth the fight, plenty of questions and concerns it was far easier to drop.

And it had worked so far, hadn't it?

Raoul swallowed down all his uncertainties along with the cooled dregs of his coffee, then refilled his cup and smiled across the table at his wife. "Yes, my love. Whatever you want."

...

The dreaded evening came all too soon. At precisely six-thirty in the evening, the de Chagny carriage rumbled to a stop before the wide stone steps of a seven story townhouse in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Pleasantries were exchanged, formalities concluded, and by seven o'clock they and the other guests had sat down for dinner. It was a rather unremarkable affair. Everyone was charmed with Christine, as usual. She laughed at the baron's tired old jokes, feigned delight over each course, and was quick with a pleasant response to every prying question. Only Raoul noticed the way she clenched her soup spoon so tightly her knuckles went white.

Later that evening, the men joined the ladies in the salon, the smoky-sweet smell of imported cigars still clinging to their clothes. Raoul found an empty seat near his wife. He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze, and she responded with a tight-lipped smile. He turned his attention to the baroness, who was presiding over the gathering like a great squawking hen, complete with beady little eyes and a massive chest threatening to spill out of her too-tight gown.

"Well, my dear, I was just telling the ladies what a doll, what an absolute doll our little Augustin is," the baroness said to her husband once everyone had settled. "Wouldn't you say so, dear? Wouldn't you say he's simply a perfect doll?"

From somewhere within his voluminous whiskers, the baron responded with a series of gruff but amiable-sounding grunts that must have been assent.

"In fact, my dear, I was just thinking that if it's not too late, if it's not too terribly late, that we should have the nurse bring down the children. Don't you think so dear, don't you think that would be lovely?"

Again the baron's grunts were repeated, and a servant was rung for. In short order, a plain, tired-looking girl of about nineteen arrived trailing four small children, with another bundled up in her arms. The girl arranged them in a line, tallest to shortest, and, as they were introduced, prompted each to perform a practiced little bow or curtsey to the general delight of the crowd.

The baroness was in ecstasies. "And this," she said, taking the youngest child—a plump, pink-cheeked baby boy almost drowning in lace—into her arms and presenting him to the ladies and gentlemen, "is our little Tintin. You see? A doll, an absolute doll!"

Raoul nodded his agreement even though he wasn't actually looking at the child; he was observing Christine out of the corner of his eye. A too-bright smile was plastered on her face. Her hands were buried in the folds of her gown. She must have sensed him staring, for she flashed shining eyes over at him in a warning glance before turning them back to the baroness, who had brought the child before her. Christine did an admirable job of cooing over the child—who did nothing but drool in return—as the baroness bounced him in her arms. "Isn't he just the dearest thing you've ever seen?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Christine responded, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

"Children are such a blessing," said the baroness. "I feel so absolutely blessed to have such perfect little darlings. They bring me so much joy, I simply don't know what I'd do without them." She lowered her voice. "Of course, dear, we're all hoping you'll find that out soon enough for yourself," she added with a sly glance at Christine, who promptly went pink.

"Oh, yes," said Christine, her voice only slightly unsteady, "we're hoping, too." Then, with the too-bright smile back in place, she deftly maneuvered the conversation back onto the endless charms of the pudgy, drooling infant.

Riding home in their carriage, Raoul held Christine as she wept onto his shoulder.

…

The next morning Raoul found himself outside another townhouse, only a few blocks away from the one he'd dined at last night. Its stone facade was almost identical; his dread was almost as acute. He never did like his obligatory weekly visits to his parents.

Tugging off his gloves, he followed an ancient servant into the salon where his mother sat stiff-backed in her richly upholstered Louis XVIII chair. She allowed him to kiss each cool, papery-soft cheek before waving him towards a nearby chair with a withered hand weighed down by huge glittering gems on golden rings.

"Back from the country I take it?" the Comtesse de Chagny asked.

"Yes, Mother. Just this week," Raoul replied.

She cast an appraising glance at him. "You spend too much time out of doors. Your color is rather high." She ignored Raoul's grimace. "And where's your wife? Couldn't be bothered to join us today?"

Raoul ground his teeth. "She wanted to come, but I asked her to stay home. We attended a dinner party last night and were out rather late. I thought it best that she stay in and rest today."

"Hm. Too much wine, I suppose," said the Comtesse quietly, but not so quietly that Raoul didn't hear.

Heat was rising up the back of his neck. A slew of angry words were bubbling in his throat, but he would not let her win. He would have to content himself with a sigh and a shake of his head.

A self-satisfied smile was playing about his mother's lips. "Well then, shall we have our tea? We won't wait for your father, he's out on business and knowing him it will soon turn to pleasure, and then he won't find his way home until dinner is getting cold on the table." She called for a servant who spread a small table for them, and twenty minutes later, Raoul found himself staring at the tiny bits of leaf swirling in the dregs of his tea as he stirred it listlessly with his spoon. He'd had little to contribute to his mother's harsh critiques of the government, the poor, and now, the neighbors. He could only hope his little nods of approval and the occasional interjections of "quite so" or "very true" would cover for the fact that he had hardly taken in a word she had said.

"Raoul."

"Oh, you're absolutely right."

"Raoul!"

"Oh!" The sharp tone brought him to full attention with a little jump. "Yes, Mother?"

"Raoul, I asked you to stop that clatter you're making with your spoon. It's really quite rude to be making so much noise while someone is speaking."

Raoul dropped the spoon obediently, mumbling an apology.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" The Comtesse sighed and placed her teacup back on its saucer with a little clink. "Raoul, we really must speak about something quite important, and I'm going to ask that you give it your full attention. Do you think you can manage? Good, then shut the door. This isn't for any of the servants to hear."

On boneless legs Raoul wobbled over to the door and pulled it shut, his head swimming with all the possible unpleasant topics of conversation he might find himself confronted with. He returned to his seat, discreetly wiping his perspiring palms onto its velvet cushion.

Raoul felt pinned by his mother's cool, steel gray eyes. She appeared to be considering her words, for once. For once, he'd rather she just was out with it.

"Five years of marriage, and not a single child."

He changed his mind, he'd rather she'd kept it in. She continued on, regardless.

"You do realize, do you not, how important it is that you have an heir?"

"Of course I do." How could he not? It had been drilled into him since he could remember. As the last of the line, with no siblings and no living cousins, the de Chagny estate would end up in the hands of some undeserving distant relative, or so his parents had reminded him at every opportunity.

"Well then, Raoul, you understand my concern. Your father and I are growing old, and we would like to be assured that the de Chagny line will be continued before we die. Please, tell me that you are not doing anything to...prevent a child?"

"Mother!"

"Oh, don't be scandalized, this is a family matter. We must discuss it as two adults. Now answer the question."

"No...no. Of course not. It...just hasn't happened yet."

"Hm." The Countess considered for a moment, drumming her fingers on the table. She stopped suddenly. "Has she been seen by the family doctor? Is it possible she picked up some disease on the streets that might—"

"No. No, it is not possible." Under a veneer of practiced calm, Raoul was positively seething. "Mother, she was an actress, not a whore."

"Oh?" The Comtesse arched a penciled brow and took a sip of tea through pursed lips. "Is there a difference?"

Raoul was on his feet with his gloves in his hands before he realized what he was doing. "I think I've had quite enough for one day, Mother. I'm going." His voice sounded foreign to his ears, strange and tight.

"Oh Raoul, don't be so hot-headed." The Comtesse was refilling her tea with a steady hand, her eyes trained on the cup. "Sit down, I'm not through talking with you."

The door lay several paces away, and Raoul eyed it longingly. He could feel his lips trembling. Never in his life had he walked out on his mother, and as liberating as he felt it might feel at this moment, a nagging voice in his head told him that he might live to regret it. He wavered; she noticed. She softened her voice and repeated her request. She won; he sat.

She refilled his cup and pushed it towards him. He picked it up so he would have something to do with his hands.

"Raoul, you must understand. Your father and I have been extraordinarily indulgent with you," she said, spooning lumps of sugar into her cup. "You've been spoiled, really. We accepted your choice of a wife, where other families would have absolutely forbidden it—would have even disowned you if you dared to defy them…although I suppose you gave us little choice, with those hysterical threats about joining that Naval expedition to the North Pole. And I am not too proud to admit," she added grudgingly, "she has seemed to make you quite happy. So, while we have not approved of this marriage, we've tolerated it. However. If she cannot give you a son…" She blew the steam from her tea and took a small sip. "Well, Raoul, indulgence can only go so far. We must think about the needs of the family."

Raoul took a deep breath. "I know what you're implying, and I'm telling you now, child or no child, I will never, never leave my wife."

With a little shrug, the Countess drained her cup. "Very well, but just know this: If you die without an heir, you will be letting down not only your father and myself, but also generations of de Chagnys stretching back hundreds of years. I only ask you to think of that." Her empty teacup rang out with finality as she dropped it upon the saucer. The interview was over.

Ten minutes later the same ancient servant held open the front door as Raoul made his way through the foyer, dozens of pairs of painted eyes belonging to family members long since dead following him as he went.

Hello and welcome to the story!

This is a WIP and will be a long one! I'm estimating something like 50-60 chapters? I'm managing about one or two updates a month, so this will be a bit of a journey for us all.

You will notice that this story begins very Raoul-heavy, and he will always be a major character, but don't fret, there will be plenty of Erik and Christine as well. We will find ourselves with quite an unusual love triangle, which could plausibly go any number of ways. So if you're R/C or E/C, there will be plenty to enjoy. E/R, sorry, you'll be out of luck here, except from a fun dynamic. :)

Also, yes, it starts quite angsty, but it does lighten up before long...so if it seems like too much of a bummer, try to stick with it, it gets fun.

One last note: this story does feature sex and reproduction, sometimes in fairly candid — though not the most graphic — terms. If you are underage or uncomfortable with sexual content, this is not the story for you.

Thanks for reading and for all your comments and messages! They are so very appreciated and are great motivation to keep plugging along at this thing!

xoxo
Flora