The French Riviera
July 1926
The tar road turned to gravel as the black Ford Model T turned off the winding country lane it had been travelling, just as a hand-painted wooden sign with white cursive lettering and a delicate lavender print indicated arrival at the 'Chateau des Lavandes'. Plumes of orange grey dust ballooned behind the automobile, whose thin tires, accustomed to city streets, protested, floundering on the unstable fragments of rock.
Inside the vehicle Raoul de Chagny, 24 years old and handsome, ran a hand through his blonde hair, which had grown too long, as he had not yet had time to cut it back to its usual length in the fashionable style. He had left London in a hurry.
Ahead of him deep green cypress trees stood tall and straight, guarding the recently mowed lawn along the extended driveway leading to the chateau. After the lawn were rose gardens, the roses were in bloom, but were beginning to wilt and to show patches of brown as spring turned to summer. On the perimeter of the grounds were wild lavender bushes, and behind them, a densely forested area of oak and almond trees.
As they rounded a curve in the road Raoul caught a glimpse of the chateau, a large mansion of light sandstone and dark wood, and the wilder, rambling garden behind the house, as she had mentioned in her letters. In the distance Raoul could make out a lake, and the silhouette of a servant filling a bucket of water under a giant willow which cast dappled shadows on the large expanse of water.
As they neared the house, a German shepherd, barking in sharp bursts and its tail wagging, bounded towards the automobile, which shuddered to a halt.
"It's all right, Winston." Raoul said to his driver, craning forward towards the nervous chauffeur. "She mentioned Della in her letter. Just keep on driving – she just wants to run alongside us."
As promised Della accompanied the automobile as it followed the driveway's curve around a circular island garden bed of pink rhododendrons and lavender, behind which three stone steps led to the entrance of the grand building. The entrance was attractive, a bougainvillea vine with dark red flowers climbed up around and framed the dark wooden double doors, one of which was opening now.
As Raoul stepped out of the vehicle a flurry of blue and gold flew out of the door, and before he had time to blink, he was engulfed by someone soft and slender. She was laughing, which made him laugh in turn, and the German shepherd started to bark again and ran in circles around its mistress' legs as they embraced. Swept away in the sweetness and chaos of the moment, Raoul wound his arms around his friend and picked her up off the stone tiles, spinning her around, as they had done a hundred times as children.
"Raoul - oh, you're here! I'm so glad you finally decided to come…I've only been asking for six months! I could die from happiness!"
"Little Lottie – not so little anymore!" Roaul teased, using Christine's late father's nickname for his only child. "Look at you! Mistress of a mansion in the French Riveria."
"Isn't it heaven?"
He gave her another spin and she shrieked with laughter, the dog barking and yapping at her feet, her heavy tail wagging. "Hush Della!" Christine said. "Quiet! What's got into you? She's not usually so excitable!"
Laughing he lowered Chrstine to the ground and she crouched down to calm the dog, who proceeded to place her muddy black paws on the expensive looking blue dress, and lick Christine's face.
"Oh no Della – I love this dress." She complained.
"Mud – one of the many hazards of rural life," She said, grinning up at Raoul, the twin dimples that had always accompanied her smile more deeply etched into her cheeks than Raoul remembered. "This is the most excitement we've had since the chickens escaped – she practically lost her mind then too. Goodness knows how Della is going to survive my birthday party!"
"Yes indeed, 24 years old in just a few weeks. A veritable old maid!"
"You mustn't tease me about it!" Christine said, with an exaggerated expression of horror. "I'm rather sensitive about my age these days. I have half a mind to tell all the attendees I'm actually turning 20. Can you believe some of the village children call me 'Madame' now instead of 'Mademoiselle'!"
"That's because you're married." Raoul pointed out.
"Yes, there is that." Christine said, her dimples disappearing.
She turned her attention away from Raoul then, giving instructions to the team of servants who had appeared at the door and proceeded to unpack Raoul's suitcases from the car. Raoul thanked and paid his driver, who left, again pursued by Della.
"Is he…?" Raoul asked, as the last of the suitcases were carried away, glancing inside at the interior of the house, which looked dark and uninviting compared to the summer warmth outside.
"He is not back yet." Christine said, with a pointed look at Raoul.
Raoul glanced at Christine. There was silence for a moment. Christine chewed her cheek, unsmiling.
"I didn't mean…" Raoul stuttered. "…I mean, it's just – "
"It's ok." She said, though he could see her elation at his arrival dissipating slightly, her shoulders hunching, as if she was a pricked balloon slowly deflating. "I knew this would be a little –"
"I don't hate him." Raoul pressed. "It's more his feelings towards me… I simply – I mean it was clear he wasn't that happy to see me at the wedding. Are you sure he doesn't mind me staying?"
"It's my house too!" Christine said firmly.
Raoul was unnerved by her noncommittal response, and vaguely wondered if all his suitcases were about to be thrown out of the house they had just entered.
"Raoul, let's not talk about this now." She said, and shook her head as if shaking something unpleasant away. She took his hand, leading him inside. "I'm just so happy you're here. After two whole years of just letters, I get to see you – the real you, in the flesh! And we have so much time before he gets back."
Raoul followed Christine, and as she turned her back to him to lead him through the house, he realised her hair had grown long since he had seen her last. Then, it had been cut short and artificially straightened, in the fashionable style for the wedding. Now it was long again, and fell in its natural golden curls down her back. Women had had always envied Christine's thick luscious hair. Raoul remembered a mild furore amongst their friends when she had first cut it short for the wedding. "It's my hair, and I'll do what I darn well like with it." Raoul remembered her sniffing, disdainfully. But she had looked beautiful with it short too: a photograph of her in her wedding gown had made it into the papers, Raoul recalled, despite her husband's express wishes for anonymity.
The interior of the house was spacious, with a grand entrance hall culminating in a curved staircase leading to the upper floors. A dining room was to the right, and a study and living area to the left. A small hall linked these rooms together behind the staircase. At the back of the house was a courtyard with another long table, which looked out onto the rambling back garden. The furniture was in the new style, all geometric patterns, naturalistic motifs, and curved waterfall edges.
"I'll show you your room later." Christine said, pulling Raoul's attention away from the furniture, "You'll adore it, it overlooks the lake. But first, let me show you the garden – the real garden, while it's still light."
They went outside into the garden at the back of the house, where it was not clear where Christine's estate ended and merged into the country hills, amber waves of grass and grain speckled with cattle and horses. Oaks, cypress, and almond trees provided shady relief from the summer sun, vegetable patches and rambling lavender groves broke up the lawn next to the large lake, upon which Raoul could see a manmade island of wooden planks.
"I love this side of the garden." Christine said happily, surveying her domain. "The house is named after all the lavender, you know. The other side is pretty, I do love roses, and bless him for planting them for me, but it's too…proper."
"Do you ever swim?" Raoul said, gesturing towards the lake.
"Of course! Well, I do. Erik hates water." Raoul stiffened slightly at the mention of his name. "And Della loves to swim. We'll definitely go in while you're here."
Christine gave Raoul a tour around the garden, accompanied by Della, showing him where she had planted sweet corn and cucumbers, which had swelled fat in the spring and were now almost ready for harvest. She showed him the greenhouse where the gardeners worked, and the chicken coop, whose inhabitants which provided eggs to the household. They walked around the lake, and through a small grove of apple and pear trees she called 'the orchard'.
She seemed to grow more tense as the sun set, and kept glancing back towards the house, which had grown darker as the sun made its way downwards in the sky.
Two hours after they had first set off, exhausted, and sunburnt, Dalla, Raoul and Christine walked back into the house. Cicadas chirped in a steady rhythm and the red orange sun was setting slowly behind the forest in silhouette as night fell.
They walked into the darkened hall of the mansion, Christine turned on lights as they went. The electric light was bright and clear, the best Raoul had seen outside of London. Raoul trailed behind Christine and Della, the dog's nails clip clipped on the hardwood floor.
"The dog is allowed inside?" Raoul said in surprise.
"Oh, no, not really." Christine said, but made no attempt to send her out.
"I hope you adore French cuisine – the cook we have is brilliant, I will make a list of things you have to try while you stay here." Christine chatted as she walked around, turning on the lights. Raoul followed behind her, examining the tasteful paintings and ornaments in the various rooms. The interior design was different to the old English style in Raoul's parent's house, airer and more modern. "I know you aren't mad about soup," Christine continued, "but how do you feel about onion soup? It's a French – "
Christine gasped in surprise and stopped short, and Raoul crashed into her from behind.
"What is it!?" He cried, and as he grabbed onto a tall maple wood chest to steady himself from toppling over, a painted blue vase sitting atop the chest fell to the floor and shattered, the roses it had housed splashing across the floor in a mess of water and petals.
In the gloom ahead of them was the silhouette of a very tall, slim man.
"Erik." Christine said, her hand on her chest as if to slow her pounding heart. "You scared me. I didn't realise you were back yet."
As Raoul's eyes adjusted, he could better make out Erik's form. He was dressed casually in brown trousers and a rolled-up shirt without a tie, which made Raoul feel slightly foolish in his suit. His face was lined and severe in the low lighting, and he looked older than Raoul remembered. He had a long angular nose, a high forehead, and black hair. But the shadows in the room still covered the right side of his face where Raoul's eyes – guiltily – flickered, as he knew there, a flesh toned mask concealed what was rumoured to be a grotesque and gory scar.
Erik didn't reply to his wife, but surveyed the ruined vase on the floor. Raoul could not tell if the man was about to shout at him or make a joke.
"Making an entrance as always, Mr de Chagny." Erik said in a low voice.
"Sir – I am so sorry, I'll pay for a replacement – " Raoul cleared his throat several times, but his throat seemed to constrict.
"It doesn't matter, Raoul." Christine said sharply. "I never liked that vase anyway." Then in a lower voice she said, "Erik, be civil."
What followed was one of the tensest silences Raoul had experienced in his life. The couple's eyes bored into each other, and as Raoul's eyes flickered between them, he could not have said who looked angrier.
"Mr de Chagny," Erik said at last, his polite tone contrasting oddly with his expression, "Would you kindly excuse my wife and I for a moment?"
"Of course." Raoul said, as Erik nodded to him curtly and pulled the long concertina doors to the living room together, separating himself and Christine from Raoul, who remained in the hall with the shattered vase.
"Williamson, clean this up, would you?" Erik barked out as the doors closed. An elderly butler appeared with a broom. "Good man"
The shouting was muted behind the doors, but when Christine and Erik raised their voices particularly loudly Raoul could still hear almost each word, and he stood awkwardly in the hallway, as Williamson arduously scraped shattered ceramic and dying petals off the floor.
"…cannot believe you invited him here without telling me…"
"I did tell you! I asked again and again..."
Williamson's eyes met Raoul's, and Raoul found himself squirming uncomfortably under the old butler's gaze, instead fixating on a bed of lavender outside the window. He could faintly smell its sweet scent in the twilight air.
"…and I told you under no circumstances! You will tell him to get on the next available train!"
"…will do no such thing! … two whole years without seeing my best friend … you said yourself you wished I was happier…"
"…you are a married woman…"
After several more minutes of quieter arguing which Raoul could not overhear, he sat down on a chair miserably, his stomach grumbling, wondering whether the last train had already left for the day and whether Erik would let him eat something before he went. Then after a few minutes of quiet, Christine burst through the doors, her face tear-stained and pink. She stopped short, seeing Roaul sitting in the hallway.
Raoul stood up quickly from the chair, which scraped along the floor noisily behind him.
"I'll go get my things." He said quickly.
"You overheard us."
"Not … everything."
She closed the doors behind her, pulling them together with far more force than was necessary, which made a loud clatter.
"Well, as you can obviously already tell," She said, with a strange watery laugh that bordered on frenzied, "Erik and I are not on the best of terms at the moment."
"I'll go." Raoul said.
"It's not about you," Christine said, as though Raoul had not just overheard their argument to the contrary. "Erik's just being… " Christine shook her head and squeezed her wet eyes shut.
"I'm really quite happy to go, Chris." Raoul said truthfully. "I don't want to intrude where I'm not welcome."
"Raoul no, you can't go. Please stay. Please. I think I've convinced Erik to – to be nice. All I've been looking forward to for ages is you coming here. I'll be devastated if you go, I'll cancel my birthday party! Please stay."
Christine was persuasive, and after several minutes Raoul was won over, more by hunger and fatigue than anything else. He agreed warily to stay, at least overnight. After dinner, which was a tense and brief affair, the master of the house notably absent, the friends went to bed.
As Raoul ascended the stairs and went to his room, the old floorboards of the house squeaked, and the eyes of painted figures in the rustic rural scenes covering the hallway walls appeared to follow him as he walked to his bedroom. Raoul shivered with the various eyes trained on him, and as he readied himself for bed, had a slight and irrational paranoia that he was being observed.
Several hours after falling asleep, Raoul waswoken by the sound of voices. They sounded as though they were coming from outside. He tiptoed out of bed towards his balcony, which was open to let in the cool air. Behind the white curtain, moving slowly in the night breeze, in the dark courtyard below his window he could make out the outlines of Erik and Christine. Christine was wrapped in a blue nightgown, and her arms were crossed against the slight chill of the night air. Erik still wore his clothes from that afternoon.
"He must leave. Tomorrow morning."
"Absolutely not. Erik, I haven't seen Raoul in two years. He is my oldest friend, my best friend. He is the most important person in my life other than you. The party wouldn't be complete without him, I thought you'd be happy for me – "
"You knew damn well I'd be no such thing. Invite him to the party if you must, like those other idiotic boys I detest, I've already allowed that, haven't I? But to have him in our house – "
" 'Allowed'? Well thank you very much, Erik, for allowing me to invite my friends to my birthday party. What a generous husband you are."
"You know I didn't mean it like that."
"Actually, I don't know anything of the sort."
"You're changing the subject. Christine, he's a young man, you're a beautiful woman. You really think I'm idiotic enough to believe that you two are just platonic – "
"We are. How many times do I have to say it? We are friends. You remember at the wedding – "
"I didn't want him there either, you'll recall."
"That's because you don't know him! You've never bothered to get to know him! I want you to be involved in our friendship, not watch it angrily from the outside! Do you know how rude it was, to not have dinner with us tonight? A visitor comes to your home – "
" – uninvited – "
"And you treat him like some sort of criminal. Don't even have dinner with him –"
"I didn't particularly get the impression he wanted me there."
"Can you really blame Raoul, given how cold you were to him at the wedding?"
"Forgive me, Christine, for not wanting to invite my bride's former lover – "
"How many times am I going to have to say it's not like that?"
"'Friends'. You simply cannot expect – "
"We are, Erik! We are friends, and nothing more. And if you don't trust me when I say that – "
"It's him I don't trust."
"– then I don't know how you could have married me."
"How could you say that?" Erik asked quietly after a short silence. "You know damn well I would die for you."
"Do I?" Said Christine flatly, clearly unmoved. "You won't even do this one small thing for me."
"I let him stay the night, didn't I." Erik growled. "That's no small thing. An old flame of my wife is staying in my house, and I didn't cast him out into the street the second I saw him."
"Erik, you're driving me crazy."
"I'm driving you crazy?" Erik hissed. "Tell me this Christine, has he ever kissed you? Because that's all I can think about, and it's driving me practically mad. All those years of 'friendship'. And in all that time, not a spark? Nothing at all?"
There was an extremely long silence. Raoul realised he was holding his breath, just as Erik let out a short, humourless laugh.
"I knew it."
"Once." Christine said icily. "When we were twelve years old. Maybe I had a little crush. My father worked for his father, and he was this charming boy, around my age, who I'd see around. He told me in no uncertain terms he wasn't interested – but we were friends ever since."
"Every stupid young boy in your year at Cambridge was in love with you. You expect me to believe de Chagny is the one, very convenient, exception?"
"That's not remotely true, Erik."
"It was very nearly true."
"Look, we're going in circles. You're just going to have to trust me with this."
"I can't." Erik said flatly. "He needs to go. Tomorrow."
"He's not leaving. You can accept that or not – but he's staying."
"Fine, then I'll go. To Nadir's. You two can do whatever the hell you want, but I'm not going to be around to watch my wife and that – "
Christine burst into tears.
For a while Raoul could not hear anything but the sound of Christine's soft sniffles. Erik was talking in a low voice, but his words were too soft for Raoul to hear.
"Erik." Christine said at last, her voice trembling. "You know I'd send him away in a heartbeat, if you gave me what I really – "
Erik groaned. "Please, don't play that card with me. Not tonight."
"You never want to talk about it."
Another long silence, then Christine spoke again.
"You know, he's actually really nice, Raoul. He's one of the best people I've known. I just need you to trust me on this one."
Erik replied, but his voice was again too quiet for Raoul to make out what he said. After a long silence, and a resigned sigh, Christine and Erik retreated inside, and later, Raoul heard the corridor floorboards squeak as they went, finally, to bed.