Chapter 39 — Champagne and Oysters

It was true, Raoul was an idiot.

Not really—not actually. But he did choose to be, sometimes. It was a survival strategy; what other way was there to endure night after night of another man sleeping with your wife?

A wise man, one who understood everything and let nothing slip his notice, would have been torn apart by doubt and jealousy long ago…although…to be fair, a wise man wouldn't have concocted this plot in the first place. But Raoul didn't want to be wise. He wanted to be happy. And what created bliss more surely than ignorance? That old adage wasn't just a snappy little saying, those were words to live by: if something might make you unhappy, then, well…don't acknowledge it!

Don't see it. Don't hear it. Don't understand it.

Choosing happiness by ignoring un-happiness was a decision Raoul made every day, starting when he was only a child. What other choice did he have? He'd been raised by a procession of grim, hard-eyed nannies, most of whom were quicker to treat a scraped knee with a swat than a kiss, overseen by an indifferent, largely absent father and a mother with the devastating combination of impossible standards and an ability to find fault in absolutely anything. Raoul wouldn't have his famously sunny disposition had he not learned to play dumb to frosty remonstrations, disinterested sighs, and pointed mentions of sons who hadn't thoroughly disappointed their mothers.

And then, of course, obliviousness had served him quite well during that whole business years ago at the Opera.

Imagine how much worse—and more complicated—it all might have been if Raoul had seen the way Christine had looked at her dark Angel as she walked toward him, open-armed, that night at the graveyard…or if he'd heard the rich, lustful yearning in her voice as she grasped the violently trembling hands of the shrouded Don Juan and sang of buds bursting and bodies entwining and two becoming one and so on…or had understood why she felt it necessary to kiss her captor a second time, when once seemed to have done the job just fine, or why either kiss had to be so…so enthusiastic…so…amorous…so— Oh. Oh God…

Aha! See?

And this was why ignorance was essential.

There was no chance that husband and wife would be as happy as they were had Raoul demanded a full accounting of such things, rather than taking control and banishing from his mind all that threatened their bliss.

That strategic ignorance now served him better than ever.

When Christine had given him Erik's letter insisting more time was necessary, did Raoul do the math on that? Of course not! Refusing to comply was not an option; certainty that the timing didn't add up would only create feelings he didn't want to feel. It cost him nothing to pretend he didn't know any better.

And when Christine tried again and again to bring up the topic of singing, despite the fact that the subject ought to have been put to bed after that near-disastrous outing at the park, did Raoul take the bait? Absolutely not. All of the subtle hints, the oblique references, Raoul let each slide by, smiling and nodding like a fool, letting them fly right over his head. Even when she began to use a much less subtle approach, attempting to engage him directly, with a demeanor which alternated between icy disappointment and near hostility, he managed to ignore that, too, arranging his face into his most vacuous expression and swiftly changing the subject, reminding himself that her frustration and irritation were just another hardship to weather on the way to happiness.

As difficult as it was, he had to remember there was only himself to blame. Of course Christine would have grown nostalgic for her old theater days when Raoul had brought her back to the opera to, ah…spend time with her old voice teacher…who, as it turned out, had actually been quite a bit more than that to her—so much more that Raoul could not think about exactly howmuch more or he would lose his nerve and scuttle this whole endeavor, which would make a waste of all they had already sunk into it.

And if Raoul could manage to play dumb for long enough, this upwelling of nostalgia would be brought to an end, one way or another. In only a matter of months, they'd be ensconced in their new life in Perros, away from the city and the theater and him, and the reminders of the past that were tangled up with the three. Even better, God willing, Christine would be with child, and the idea of singing again would be swiftly forgotten, supplanted by her new role as mother.

For a brief period at the end of that third month, Raoul had been nearly certain that goal had at last been achieved.

He hadn't wanted to say anything, for fear he would jinx it or get Christine's hopes up only for her to be disappointed, but after so long living life in an inexorable cycle of month after disappointing month, he'd learned to keep a close eye on the calendar; when the expected time rolled around and there came no crestfallen request to send the usual note off to Erik, Raoul's optimism grew by the day. He watched her expectantly over dinner each night, waiting for a word, a look, a smile, anything to indicate that she was about to at last tell him the good news.

Then, one morning, just as Raoul had been considering whether he ought to have a bottle of the real good stuff sent up from Chagny in preparation for their imminent celebration, she came to him. After several false starts and the near-shredding of a handkerchief, she wiped the welling tears from her eyes and confessed, in a whisper, that the month had ended in another failure. And what could Raoul do but pretend that he wasn't stunned and confused and terribly, terribly disappointed? With a smile, he swallowed the sob he felt rising up his throat, tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his over-bright eyes, and kissed her trembling lips.

"You know what, my love?" he'd said, sweeping from his mind the debris of his shattered hopes, leaving it clean and empty and ready for nothing but the future. "I think this is the perfect time for a little trip."

…

Their trip to Perros had been everything Raoul had hoped for.

Well…maybe not everything. But close to it.

Quite a bit of thought had been spent on how best to sell his vision of their future to Christine. While she was no longer quite so vocally opposed to the idea of relocating as she had been at first, obviously she'd be even more receptive if he could get her to see just what she stood to gain, first. So rather than show her the house straightaway, he decided they should spend some time simply enjoying the town, and each other, reigniting those old connections, so that once she saw the house, she wouldn't be able to say no.

She was quiet on the train, responding to attempts at conversation with stilted smiles and murmured agreement, and Raoul began to feel the first stirrings of doubt. By the time they arrived in Lannion and mounted the coach, all doubt was gone: he was convinced this had been a terrible idea, and would backfire spectacularly, and the trip would only serve to cement her resistance. But when they stepped from the coach onto the cobblestone streets of Perros-Guirec and Raoul drew in a deep, resigned breath, the air was clean and cold and pleasantly sharp with the scent of salt and seaweed, and instantly it was as if a weight had been lifted from him, borne off by the breeze from the North sea.

Being back at the seaside together felt like being given a fresh start, and in that spirit, the first order of business was a good old-fashioned courting. That first evening, they purchased bowls of cider and walked arm in arm along the stark, frigid shore before returning to the inn's cheerful tavern to dine on oysters and drink champagne. It was a much needed change from late nights with ever more disappointing pastries and every book on French military history ever written. After, they retired to their room, made toasty by a crackling fire, and snuggled together under a mountain of quilts to listen to the waves wash against the granite rocks and…went to sleep. That was all. Which was exactly as Raoul had expected! Given that the trip by necessity coincided with her monthly indisposition, Raoul couldn't be disappointed, could he? Besides, he was feeling uncomfortably overfull after finishing off Christine's portions of cider and champagne and oysters, which she didn't have the stomach for after a long day of travel. And, to be honest, as nice as…marital relations were, that didn't hold a candle to the simple pleasure of falling asleep with his wife wrapped in his arms.

The more time they spent together in Perros, the more clear Raoul's vision of a new life became—one beyond Erik.

That next day, they wandered the market, buying trinkets and sweets, sharing a bag of lemon pastilles, laughing as they watched gulls launch a coordinated attack to snatch little fish from a fishmonger's stall, and there wasn't so much as a mention of music or singing or anything! After luncheon, they brought armfuls of flowers to Papa Daae's grave and Raoul comforted Christine as she cried on his shoulder. He hardly thought at all about the time, years past, when it hadn't been just the two of them here. That night at the inn, they held each other and dug deep in their memories for those old Dark Stories of the North—leaving out a certain one, of course.

In the end, Raoul's efforts worked, brilliantly. Christine bloomed in the seaside like the hydrangeas which ran riot there in the summer, and by the time their carriage pulled through the open gate and down the oak-shaded drive, there was a light in her eyes that Raoul hadn't seen in years, which only sparkled brighter when they caught sight of the big stone house, its granite walls sunrise pink in the late morning light.

It was even more perfect than the agent had promised. Perched on an outcropping of cool gray stone overlooking the bay and half-hidden by maritime pines, it felt both remote and homey, like an enchanted cottage from one of their childhood stories…if the cottage was actually a rather stately manor home. He helped Christine from the carriage, and the two stood side-by-side, the glittering silver expanse of the ocean stretching out before them. Raoul squeezed Christine's hand and closed his eyes, soaking in the sound of the surf and the sea birds, the sun warm on his smiling face, and when he opened his eyes he found her smiling back at him.

Christine wandered the overgrown garden as Raoul received the keys and exchanged a few words with the solicitor; he'd decided this initial viewing was best made unaccompanied—just Raoul and Christine and a dream for their future.

"It's, ah, a…little more rustic than what we're used to," Raoul warned her as he turned the tarnished key in the old iron lock.

The interior was still very much a fairytale, but one from a dusty old book with fraying pages and faded ink. With ceiling beams and simple finishes, the house felt like a peasant's hovel compared to the ornate stateliness of their Paris townhome. It took a lot of imagination and optimism to see it as it could be, but fortunately, Raoul had never been short on either.

"It does need some work, but I'm told it's mostly superficial. Structurally it's quite sound, so it should be easy to have it fixed up. But that means you can have it done just as you like! It would actually be nice to have the chance to make it ours—just ours—don't you think?" Raoul said, babbling as counterbalance to Christine's silence as they wandered from room to room—a parlor, a smallish dining room, a bare bones kitchen, and so on; she hadn't said a word since they'd stepped inside, and Raoul could feel his palms growing damp within his gloves.

"Well," he swallowed, "are you ready to head upstairs?"

Christine nodded wordlessly, and Raoul grew more and more quiet himself as they drifted through the dusty bedroom suites, peeking in on the antiquated bathrooms and releasing clouds of moths from musty closets, a pit forming in his stomach as he became more and more certain that the subdued, closed look on her face couldn't be anything other than disappointment.

At last they entered a large room at the end of the hall, one with arched windows facing the sea, overlooking a long sloping garden that led to a rocky beach dotted with tidepools. "I'm told this one is, ah, well, it's the nursery," Raoul said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Though it could be used for anything!" he hurried to add, when Christine's face began to crumple. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"No, it's not that," she said, through rising tears.

"Oh." Raoul glanced around at the peeling wallpaper and sun bleached floorboards and grimaced. "Is it that bad? Do you not like it?"

Christine shook her head and wrapped her arms around her stomach.

"It's perfect," she whispered. And then she started to cry harder.

…

Raoul had played dumb to the reason for Christine's tears, of course, smiling and gathering her up in a hug, pretending right along with her that they were tears of happiness. But the true cause was obvious: the house was the perfect place to raise a family…and yet there was no guarantee they would ever have one.

After three months of failure, Raoul was beginning to worry himself, though he would never let her know that. Several times during the rest of that trip, he'd caught her staring down at her hands resting on her empty belly, and his guilt and fear of continued failure were so unbearable that he could feel hairline cracks beginning to form in his confident exterior, and spent the remainder of the trip with his lips pressed tight to stop their pathetic quivering.

To combat that diminished confidence, back in Paris, he committed himself to doubling up on optimism by signing the papers for the purchase of the house, moving immediately ahead with the renovations, and steeling himself for another month of sending his beloved wife down below the opera to—well, there was no need to be specific about it, was there.

That fourth month was difficult, on Christine and Raoul both. The increased pressure for success caused her to be anxious and withdrawn as she prepared herself to go, and all those late nights meant that she often spent her days exhausted. Frequently, she needed the next day to recover, sleeping late into the mornings and yet still in need of another nap in the afternoon. On the mornings she did manage to join him for breakfast, she had an appetite for nothing but toast and weak tea. Raoul felt terrible, helpless to ease the strain of the arduous and distasteful task he had asked her to endure, and more than ever he prayed that her suffering wouldn't all be for naught.

The prolonged stress also caused her to be a bit moody, Raoul had found, happy one moment and tearful the next. Preoccupied with the uncertainty of what the future held, she reacted unpredictably to questions regarding plans for their new home, sometimes eagerly joining him to compare tile options, other times responding—sometimes snappishly, sometimes morosely—that she wasn't in the mood. That preoccupation must have also explained the occasional bouts of agitated flightiness, which, while uncommon, were very unlike her.

One night, at the end of that month, she'd somehow managed to misplace her hat while waiting for Raoul to meet her at the gate. Which was…odd, because he wasn't entirely sure he remembered her wearing a hat, just a hooded cloak…and weren't her hats typically secured with several rather intimidatingly large pins which required some—some effort to remove? And it—it couldn't have been blown loose by a gust of wind, not—not underground like that—it was drafty, sure, but…

But…

But then again, the nights had all begun to blur together, so Raoul really couldn't be sure what she wore and when. And how stupid he was to question it! What else could she and the man escorting her have been up to in the dark—speaking in urgent, hushed voices, shoes scuffling against the stone, breathing heavily with the exertion of anxious searching—besides looking for a hat? Right? Right. Right.

Ah—anyway.

Even the stress and exhaustion and moodiness was far preferable to the days of Christine crying in bed till noon, sad and brittle and hopeless. In fact, when she was feeling well, it was like having the old Christine back—better, even! On those good days, she was happy, enthusiastic, affectionate—and best of all, she'd finally stopped bringing up the singing thing. Their bond felt stronger than ever, forged to unbreakability in the fire of this unconventional trial, and Raoul could at last get a glimpse of what life would be like, if he could hold out just a bit longer.

The failure of that month had been devastating. For Christine, especially.

At least, that was the only possible explanation for why she couldn't look at him as she broke the news, and why she spent the following week largely taking refuge in her rooms, seemingly lost in a fugue of tormented, guilty misery and despair.

Or maybe she was still inexplicably upset about losing that hat.