Chapter 3 - The Mirror
The slender golden hand circled once, twice around the perimeter of the clock. On its third pass, Raoul sent the maid upstairs with a tray of tea and biscuits. He settled back into his worn leather armchair and picked up the newspaper he'd read twice already.
This morning, he'd slipped from the bed and tiptoed out of their room, never even considering waking his sleeping wife for their customary visit with his mother. It wasn't uncommon for Christine to be in bed long past breakfast after difficult nights, but now luncheon had come and gone and she still hadn't come down. He chewed at his thumbnail, wincing as he hit the quick.
While last night had been particularly distressing, it was by no means unusual. For most of the five years that they'd been married, they'd endured endless hints that everyone was anxiously anticipating the arrival of a de Chagny heir. When they had first married, it was amusing. Husband and wife had been eager to start a family, and often entertained themselves by plotting out a future that involved a country house overflowing with sun-kissed, golden-haired children. As the first year became the second, the hints and winks became irritating. After all, plenty of couples took a year or more to have their first child. By the end of the third year, each mention cut like a well-honed knife.
Raoul eyed his desk from across the library. Tucked deep within a small drawer, concealed behind a thick packet of uninteresting receipts from tailors and grocers, was a secret case filled with a handful of stale cigarettes. He hadn't smoked in years, but more and more frequently he found himself craving a few furtive drags, the calming smoke blown out the open window. He dragged his gaze from the desk and rubbed his hands together to calm the itching in his fingertips.
The maid appeared in the doorway and gave him a silent nod. Raoul tossed aside his newspaper and climbed the single flight of stairs to their bedchamber, saying a silent prayer that the extra sleep had done his wife some good.
Raoul had always been pragmatic, after all: every problem must have a fix. Last spring, when the situation began to look dire, he called in a visit for Christine from the family doctor, a white-haired and thickly-spectacled old man who had served the de Chagnys loyally - and most important, discreetly - for generations. After his poking and prodding failed to turn up any obvious defect in her, he recommended plenty of rest, fresh air, and perhaps a visit to Vichy's mineral baths, none of which appeared to have any effect.
She'd returned from her trip to Vichy so full of hope, and her eventual disappointment had nearly crushed him. Raoul had done everything he could do soothe and reassure her. He swore that he would love her whether she could have children or not, and would never want anyone but her. And it was true. But there was something that lay between them now: a broken promise, a crushed dream. An unspoken knowledge that if this wound were not closed, it would fester and rot.
Raoul stepped onto the landing and walked down the hall, his footsteps dampened by the plush silk carpet runner his father had brought back from his most recent trip to India. Pausing in front of the door to their bedchamber, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes and worked a smile onto his face. It was vital that he remain a buoyant presence amidst the swirling, sucking tides of pain. The heavy door was just barely cracked. He pushed it open a few inches more and peeked into the room.
Christine sat at her vanity, draped in an ivory silk dressing gown, hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She didn't turn, didn't give any acknowledgment that she knew he was there. The gilded mirror was angled in such a way that he could see her reflection, while she could not see him. A tickle that felt confusingly like guilt told him to announce himself, but there was something so enthralling about the intimacy of this unguarded moment. He gripped the doorframe and drank her in.
The face reflected in the mirror appeared faded and indistinct, like it belonged to an old, worn portrait: lifeless, but lovely. He watched as she attempted to pinch some color into her cheeks; it spread like twin pools of blood on a white linen sheet. One by one she opened crystal bottles and porcelain jars, dabbing oil onto her wrists, dusting powder over her forehead and down her nose, each motion delicate and deliberate, but without enthusiasm. Finally, each curl was twisted up and secured with a hairpin, not perfectly, but charmingly.
She sighed and picked up an oversized powder puff. As she looked up and her eyes met that of her reflection, she went very still, her dark eyes widening.
Raoul's heart skipped a beat. Had she seen him?
For a long moment, Christine gazed into the mirror, her face a blank. Eventually, enough time passed that Raoul felt certain enough she hadn't seen him after all, and he allowed himself a long, slow exhale. She appeared to be staring off into some faraway point his eyes couldn't see. As he pondered what that might be, her brow drew up, creased with distress. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her head hung forward, heavy. Her shoulders began to heave with short, sharp, shallow breaths.
Clearly, she was about to cry.
Raoul chewed his lip. He knew he should go comfort her, but he just couldn't seem to get his feet to move. Instead he hesitated, clinging to the carved door frame with one hand. He was reminded of when he was a small boy on holiday at the seaside, hanging onto the salt-eaten wooden pier, trying to work up the nerve to let go and swim out into the ocean. He took a deep breath and loosened his grip.
Then, slowly, slowly, her head began to tilt back.
Raoul froze as her chin arced gently toward the ceiling, exposing a pale, creamy throat, marked with a thudding, insistent pulse. A pink flush bloomed upon her cheeks, warming the air between them, setting Raoul's own face ablaze. Unblinking, Raoul watched the rise and fall of the swell of her breast as her breaths became deep, rich, tremulous.
Slowly, slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted into the slightest of smiles.
Slowly, slowly...her lips parted.
Suddenly, a yelp sliced through the room. Christine's eyes flew open.
A sliver of wood from the door frame had pierced one of Raoul's clawed fingers, drawing blood.
Christine sat stunned, as if he'd upturned a pitcher of ice water over her head. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, blinking her glossy eyes as if she'd just awoken. Her still-flushed cheeks burned even hotter as she finally turned to face him.
"Oh hello, darling," she said, her voice unsteady, but sweet. "I didn't see you'd come in." Her mouth pulled into a shy, lopsided smile.
"Ah, are you...all right?" Raoul asked haltingly, the words gritty in his dry mouth.
"I…" Christine's eyes darted back to the mirror. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine."
"Are...you sure?" asked Raoul. He hoped his face wasn't burning as red hot as it felt.
Christine shook her head and replaced her powder puff in its box, then stood and held out her arms to him. "Darling, really," she pressed her lips into a smile. "Nothing's the matter." Raoul went to her and let her wrap him in her arms, her warm cheek pressed against his chest. "I must have been daydreaming a little, that's all."
"Oh?" Raoul replied in an unexpectedly high pitch. "What about?"
There was a pause. "I...really can't even remember! Nothing in particular, I suppose." She pulled back and looked up into his face. She wore an apologetic expression, but her smile was tight. "You know how women can be sometimes."
Raoul swallowed hard over the lump in his throat, and returned a smile every bit as tight as his wife's. "Alright, then. If you say so."
He reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, trying hard to ignore the queasy feeling which churned his stomach. As his hand leveled with her face, Christine cried out and snatched his wrist. "Oh Raoul, you're bleeding!"
A glossy bead of bright red blood clung to his finger.
"Oh, yes." Raoul's mouth stretched into a sheepish grimace. "When I was coming in, I, ah, grabbed the door frame and, uh, must have managed to prick myself on a splinter."
"My poor darling," Christine said with a little frown. Leading him by the wrist, she swept back to her vanity. She opened a small jar, pulled out a bit of cotton, and dabbed at the droplet. Raoul felt a bit silly given the minor nature of his injury, but watching her ministrations made his heart flutter like an infatuated school boy's, and the tension that had filled the room evaporated instantly.
"I'm sorry I slept so long," she said as she gave the spot one last dab with the cotton and released his hand. "How were your parents? They weren't upset that I wasn't there, were they?"
Raoul's face darkened. "No, it was fine. My father was out, so it was only my mother anyway." Though he had promised his wife that he would never be anything less than entirely truthful, he'd also promised himself that he would never, never allow his mother's heartless words to reach his wife's ears. He tugged on a loose thread on his cuff. "It was a nice visit," he said in a tone much less convincing than he'd hoped.
"Really? You seem a little..."
He sighed. "Oh, you know how she is, it was the same old ridiculous ranting. Consider yourself very fortunate that you weren't there." He bent and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Are you going to finish getting dressed? I was thinking we might take a walk down to the park before dinner."
"That sounds lovely."
"I'll leave you to it, then. I'm just going to fetch my overcoat." He turned to leave. "Ah yes! I almost forgot, you received a letter today." He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
She took it unenthusiastically, but her face lit up when her eyes fell on the sender's name. "It's from Meg!" she cried with delight.
"Is it?" called Raoul over his shoulder as he made his way into the adjoining room to retrieve his coat. "How nice! I wonder how she's liking married life!"
They hadn't seen Meg since her wedding, six months ago. Despite Madame Giry's very vocal disapproval, Meg had given up the stage to marry a Swiss banker, a pleasant - if a bit dull - man more than a few years her senior who could keep her in reasonable comfort and, as Meg often said, off her poor, abused toes. Shortly after the wedding, Meg was whisked off to Switzerland, and while Madame Giry claimed to be mourning the loss of her dream of seeing Meg as a world famous prima ballerina, they knew that the old woman was too proud to admit that she simply missed her only child. Not that she was alone in her grief - Christine had wept for days when Meg left.
"She said she had a lovely honeymoon," Christine called out. "And she's been busy setting up her new home... She complains about the cold...and the Swiss cooking." Christine chuckled lightly. "And she-"
Christine fell silent.
"And she...what?" asked Raoul as he strode back into the room, fastening the buttons on his overcoat. He looked up and caught sight of her bloodless face - his own immediately creased with concern. "What's the matter? Is everything alright?"
"She...she..." Christine began, but tears were leaking from her eyes. She shook her head and thrust the letter towards Raoul. He scanned the sheet with a knitted brow. Just above the signature, in Meg's gently looping hand: "And, darling, I've saved the most exciting news for last - I'm expecting a baby! Can you believe it? We're both absolutely thrilled." His brow went slack and he looked up at her, stricken.
"Oh, Christine... I'm so sorry," he said, letting the paper drop and pulling her to him. Helpless, he held her tight as she sobbed, her burning tears soaking into the shoulder of his coat.
Finally, when her tears were spent, Christine drew a few ragged breaths. "I need to say something," she said, her voice low, husky. She swiped at her tears. She looked up at him, but couldn't quite hold his gaze, settling instead for a spot on his chest. "This is getting so very hard for me, Raoul. I want so much to give you a child, and I've - I've failed you." She held up a hand to silence him before he'd even managed to open his mouth in protest. "No, you know it's true. I've failed you as a wife."
"No!" Raoul cried "How could you even-"
"Please, let me finish," Christine said, cutting him off forcefully. "I've failed myself, too. Our plan was for me to quit singing and have a family. If I'm not a mother...what am I?" She looked up at him then, her pleading eyes like a punch in the gut.
He cupped her tear-scalded cheek in his hand and thumbed away a stray droplet. At that moment, he made a silent vow that he would do anything, anything to take this pain away.
"You're my wife," Raoul said softly. "And you're everything to me."
Her lips tasted of salt, and when he drew back, rather than comforted, she looked tired, weary. Hopeless.
Though he attempted to radiate confidence throughout his body, he could feel that his face was on the verge of crumpling. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead pressed her to his chest, smoothing her hair with a shaky hand.
"Everything's going to be alright," he said, after he'd managed to steady his voice with a few slow breaths. "We'll have a baby, it's just...taking us a little longer."
"But, Raoul-"
"Shh... I mean it. It'll happen for us, soon. I promise."
He meant it. He really did. He would do whatever it would take to find the fix to this problem.
But in his heart, he knew that this was one promise he might not be able to keep.
A/N:
So, I realize I forgot to mention something: I'm not really sure which version of PotO this is based on. I guess it's not based on any one, exactly. I know I've said in the past that prefer Leroux or Kay's Eriks, and that I definitely think that type of deformity is the only way to go, but...I changed my mind? As far as this story goes, it really needs a half-faced deformity, for what will become obvious reasons as we go on, and while a Kay Erik could work for this, personality-wise, Leroux is definitely out. (Though that's not to say some aspects of his personality won't still show up.) So for those who can't stand movie-verse, don't worry - this isn't definitely isn't that by any means, though again, touches have and will continue to show up. Maybe I didn't need to clarify all this, but I do want to explain what I'm going for here, and why I put it under the "Book" universe for lack of a better idea. Feel free to picture any sort of universe that makes you happy. And if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about in the first place, then just carry on.
Thank you to all of you who have been reading, and a special thank you to those who left reviews! This story really makes me second- and third-guess myself every time I post, so I appreciate knowing that it's being enjoyed. :)