High City on a Hill (Ch12)

[igenlode]

The art exhibition scene and its follow-up turned out to feel rather less accomplished when I came to type the chapter up then I had remembered them in retrospect :-( And the forthcoming beginning of Chapter 13 is definitely going to need some work. I have adopted the classic approach of starting it 'with a bang', namely the sound of a gunshot, and then spending three pages of flashback explaining where and when Hertha is and how the characters got there, and upon rereading the result I don't think the readers are going to make the intended connection between Hertha sitting around and worrying in the foyer and the canonical shot that gets fired by mistake without any consequences in the auditorium just before the start of "Don Juan"...

My narcissus bulbs are failing to show any sign of life whatsoever, even though the garlic, spring onions and beetroot have all been growing merrily, at least up until the current freezing cold snap (which finally finished off my Roma tomato -- it was ridiculous to have a tomato still putting out new growth in December in any case!). The narcissus bulbs may well have been already too elderly when I rescued them, or have rotted in the ground, or not have been planted deep enough -- I can still see the leaves at the top, which are just looking soggy. I'm not heartbroken, as I wasn't all that enthused about them in the first place.

---

This is definitely a very bitsy chapter; as I wrote of it last year, "the end of the previous chapter and the start of this chapter are both pretty porous, in that they are basically a lot of very brief scenelets", and the dividing line between the two is not well delineated.

Chapter 12 — “I Need to See the End”

It was full dark by the time we drew up in the Place Clignot-les-Pins. I had been expected back from the dressmaker’s hours earlier, and the household was in a state of suppressed tumult and concern. No-one had dared worry my mother with my absence —I was a married woman, after all, and not a child— but my father would be home imminently for dinner, and it was clear that nobody had been relishing the prospect of having to explain to him that I had gone out to Madame Walbroek’s establishment that afternoon and failed to return.

For my part I had no desire to talk about my encounter with the Ghost if it could be avoided, and I did not suppose Christine was in any hurry to introduce the subject either. Stories of sinister alluring figures in deserted graveyards could only sound like hysterical delusion at the best, or a lame excuse for some more culpable assignation.

I was tired, and hurting, and consumed by terrified guilt at what my reckless behaviour might cost, and how I would ever be able to tell Raoul. The last thing I wanted to do was to try to convince a parcel of servants of the whole improbable experience; I wanted a bed, and a doctor, and my mother’s arms, and if I could not have the latter then I would say whatever it took to get rid of the crowd of worried faces.

So Miss Daaé was introduced as a house-guest whom the Vicomte and I had been entertaining over the winter, and in whose company I had lost track of time. I had slipped and fallen in my haste, that was all. Christine volunteered to fetch medical assistance, which meant she could be dispatched hastily out of the door, and I was cosseted and half-carried to the couch in my father’s study to await the coming of Dr Leverdier.

“I mean to go through with it,” Christine managed in a fierce undertone in the last glimpse I had of her. “I’ll play Aminta, if that’s what it takes — to stop him.”

And then she was gone, and there was nothing for me to do but hold tight to the heated bricks in flannel that Anny had been sent to fetch from the kitchen, lie as still as I could, and try to choke down my fear.

I was not miscarrying. Dr Leverdier, when he came, could not have been more profuse in his reassurances, and eventually I was even able to believe him. The discomfort had eased, and such things, he assured me, were quite natural and only to be expected from time to time. I had done quite right to call him in, but he did not think the child had suffered any harm in consequence of my fall, although doubtless I had been very much shaken. He would prescribe me a draught to soothe my nerves, and a tonic to be taken in preparation for the happy event, when in its due course that should come to pass. For the present he would suggest a week’s bed-rest, and —with an avuncular twinkle— “no more hasty gadding about, young lady.”

When he had gone I retired to my bed and wept, for relief and for other things.

~o~

Raoul came to see me twice in the space of that week, clearly both concerned and uncertain in the face of female ailments. He was not sure how to speak of what had happened, and it made it all the easier to evade.

I would tell him sometime, I promised myself. Some time when the Ghost was exorcised from our lives and we could speak of Christine with a wry mutual smile, and admire her on the heights of her career somewhere far, far away. There would be a future for us together, the calm, quiet, friendly future I’d always imagined....

A tear slipped unaccountably free and slid down my cheek, and Raoul, seated at my bedside, took my hand into his with an anxious look. I found a smile for him and squeezed his fingers in return, assuring him that all was well, that women in my situation wept easily and it meant nothing. As comfort it fell short for both of us.

At the end of his second visit he asked me to come back home. I said I could not. In the long hours after he had gone, I found myself thinking again and again of all the reasons why I should have said yes.

Confined to bed as I was, I could not help but feel a burden upon the household. Meals were brought in to me on trays, and my parents’ new cook, Benita, persisted in serving me a succession of specially-prepared dishes containing chickpeas. Apparently these were intended to constitute some sort of sovereign remedy for symptoms of the kind I had undergone; at any rate, I sincerely hoped the diet was not being inflicted upon everyone else on my account.

I spent my days propped up amid a mound of pillows, reading, answering letters, and sorting through and untangling my mother’s embroidery silks, a task that took me back to childhood. They were in a sadly neglected state, and I was moved to take up my needle and make a few tentative essays of my own. But it was an art for which I’d never had the talent or the patience. I regarded the outcome ruefully, and consoled myself with the thought of all those exquisitely embroidered garments laid up for my benefit at the Hôtel Chagny. It was just as well, perhaps, that my baby would not be dependent on its mother’s handiwork.

For the most part, however, I did try to rest as I had been instructed. I lay back and dozed, and did my best to think calm, welcoming thoughts for the baby’s benefit, taking reassurance from the flutter of movement that answered, and promising both of us that I would never take such risks again. I had to admit that for the moment it came as a welcome respite not to have to lace myself into clothes that gaped and strained around my changing figure, and to take the weight off aching feet. My bodily discomforts could only increase in all the weeks still to come, and I could quite see that the remaining time until my confinement might begin to seem very long indeed.

On the fifth day, feeling guilty for putting Anny to yet more trouble, I managed to persuade her amidst her other duties to drag in one of the chintz chairs from my mother’s dressing-room and establish me in it, so that I could take my rest sitting back in the sunlight, and need not ring quite so often to have items picked up that had rolled off the coverlet. Mama came in to sit with me for a while, turning over in a desultory fashion the things on my dressing-table and talking almost in the old way about plans we might make together and the incidents of my own infancy. It was quite the most animated I had seen her since I had first arrived, and I began to feel more hopeful after all.

News from the Opera came unexpectedly a few days later, in the form of a long and inconsequential note from Madame Firmin, who had heard of my indisposition and hastened to send her condolences, along with a rambling recollection of every ailment of her own of which it had put her in mind. The new production at the Opera Populaire, she mentioned in passing, had begun at last to seem as if it might open in time. Miss Daaé had thrown herself of late with great determination into the difficult role of Aminta and been of assistance to Signor Piangi in mastering the title part, and Madame Firmin’s husband had ceased tearing out his hair in despair and begun to speak quite cheerfully of the prospects of staging the premiere in two weeks’ time. She had heard a little of the music but was sure it was much too advanced for anyone like her to understand. Still, she hoped I —and the dear Vicomte too, of course— would be able to do her the honour of sharing their box for the performance, and perhaps we could have a nice cosy chat while the music was going on.

From which I gathered, with wry amusement, both that the Ghost’s self-proclaimed masterpiece was not likely to be a commercial success, and that the good lady had not been made privy to the plans to use this production as bait to entrap the composer. If past precedent was anything to go by, then boredom was doubtless destined to be the least of her concerns.

It was not until afterwards it dawned on me that I had not been taken into my husband’s confidence either. It was from Christine, of all people, and not from Raoul that I had learned what was intended.

~o~

The last of the spring gales seemed to blow themselves out almost overnight, in a succession of wet and windy days when the clouds chased lower and lower overhead and rain slashed at the windows. When it was over the weather dawned warm and bright, with a scent of early lilac on the breeze, and a little of the light came back into Mama also. She was able to exclaim with me over the splendid outfits sent round by the dressmaker, and assist me in puzzling over the various support garments I had been induced to purchase in addition, some of which were of a novelty and ingenuity that contrived to leave us both perplexed. For my part, I was alarmed by the sheer size they seemed to presage for my future —surely I had never seen an expectant woman quite as large as that?— and was assured by Mama, with almost her old brisk twinkle, that I could look forward to expanding to just such dimensions before I was brought to bed, and that by that time the prospect of finally being delivered would seem nothing short of a blessing.

“By the end, believe me, however dire the promise of the birthing-chamber, one simply wants the whole business to be over... but it is worth it, dearest. And the worst is soon forgotten.” Then the shadow of another memory came into her eyes, and I made haste to praise instead the quality of the trimmings, and the cut and cloth of the costumes laid out before us.

It was a great relief to be comfortably dressed again, and observe the flattering effect. My pleasure was complete when Raoul came to call, and was able to persuade Mama to come out with me to the new exhibition at the Galeries Recharmaud.

It was not the fashionable hour, and the rooms were not too crowded. Mama and I made a sedate promenade amongst the paintings, exchanging a few words of greeting or compliment with the occasional acquaintance, and Raoul, pleading frank ignorance, managed to draw her into conversation on the merits of the artwork. I tucked my hand into his arm and contrived not to smile at his most obviously ingenuous remarks, and Mama looked indulgently on us both and began to discuss Tissot and the English school of art in quite her old manner. I could almost have kissed him. Instead I laid my head against his shoulder and we strolled on, a quiet family party amid the rest.

There was a long banquette in the next room. I pleaded exhaustion and sat down with a sigh to relieve my aching feet, leaving Mama to inspect the pictures more closely. Raoul bent over me, attentive, and I reached up a hand to keep him at my side, returning his smile with a teasing look of my own.

“So, Vicomte, when do I get my invitation to the opera?”

“You still want to come?” His face lit up in unfeigned pleasure for a moment; then came hesitation. “Only this time— Hertha, perhaps I should not. It might not be... entirely safe.”

“You’re planning to trap the Ghost — and you’re expecting trouble.” I didn’t give him time to respond. “Raoul, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve spoken to Christine Daaé and I know the whole thing. And whatever risks the child and I might conceivably run, it’s nothing compared to what she will have to face.”

“You— spoke—” He caught his breath. “Then it was you, you, who convinced her to take the role? I owe you, oh, so much—”

“That was no doing of mine. The Ghost brought it upon himself.” It was my turn to hesitate; but an evasion now would be a lie indeed, and one I would have to live with, after. “We had an encounter with the Opera Ghost, Christine and I. That was when I... fell.”

Raoul’s exclamation was enough to jerk heads round in the next room. Mama swung on her heel and started forward in our direction, and I made desperate signs to halt her. “No, Raoul, listen—”

I told him the whole as quickly and quietly as I could, conscious of eyes all around, and for a blessing he made no attempt to interrupt.

“That was not your fault.” Low and intense, when I had finished. “Hertha, do you hear me? Whatever you said, whatever you did, he chose to attack you without thought for the consequences. If you had lost the child—”

He broke off.

“He will pay for that, I promise you.” It was said between his teeth. “And you will never —never— blame yourself again.”

A sudden unthinking warmth brought tears to my eyes, and I buried my face in his coat as my husband’s arms came around me, warding off a guilt I’d barely even acknowledged. “Oh, Raoul—”

He did kiss me, but gently on the forehead, for comfort, as he drew me to my feet. Fresh tears rose, but I told myself it was only gratitude.

“You see, don’t you”—I kept my voice commendably steady—“why I need to be in at the end? Why I want to be there and to see him taken down?”

“Yes, of course.” He was clearly reluctant. “Only... last time was bad enough. If things go wrong, this could be worse. We don’t know what atrocities he might be capable of, if he thinks himself cornered.”

Another public disaster would ruin the Opera Populaire. And if it came out that the management had known in advance and failed to warn those in the audience, they would find themselves pilloried the length and breadth of France. No wonder Firmin hadn’t told his wife.

“If the opera house blows up, I rather think we’re all going to have other concerns.” But that was not fair. Not fair to force him into an argument here, either, with gossiping ears avid for raised voices or any hint of a quarrel. “Can we talk about this later? Here’s Mama...”

She’d given us tactfully as long together as she could; but there were limits on how many minutes even the most diligent connoisseur of art could plausibly spend on studying the same set of paintings. I answered her troubled look with a smile, and made a show of tucking myself very visibly into my husband’s arm to reassure her that all was well between us.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t think my feet are up to coping with any more art today. But Raoul has been good enough to keep me company, and I’m sure he won’t mind taking us back now. Will you, Raoul?”

“That would be most kind,” Mama said quietly. “I am very grateful to you, Vicomte, for taking such care of us both.”

Raoul flushed and demurred, and I found his hand and wrapped it tightly in my own.

~o~

I still had every intention of attending the opera. Raoul could hardly try to tell me it was too dangerous while allowing the cream of Paris society to supposedly risk their lives, and from everything I knew of the Opera Ghost I remained convinced the danger was far greater for Christine. Even the fall of the chandelier had been principally an attempt on her; the deaths and destruction that had resulted had been in a sense collateral damage.

(And the garrotted stagehand, my conscience whispered, dangled like a toy? Was that an act so lightly to be dismissed?)

But I would not be behind the scenes, or down amid the crowded spectators in the parterre. I would be seated majestic and resplendent in the security of the managers’ box, and Box Nº 5 —reserved on the prior assumption that sitting there would be the most likely way to provoke the Ghost into an appearance— would be left strictly empty after all. And I would not, I promised faithfully, attempt to rush to the assistance of Raoul or anyone else; I was to remain strictly where I was, save in the case of fire or flood.

Not that I was likely to be rushing anywhere for the next couple of months, I reflected ruefully on the evening of the performance, dressing myself for the occasion with Mama’s aid. Madame Walbroek had worked wonders, and I would be able to sail through the crowd after the manner of a magnificent galleon. With the dressmaker’s aid, my augmented bosom now provided the perfect shelf on which to repose the Chagny emeralds, which had been passed down to me on my marriage and which Raoul, waiting downstairs, had fetched from the Hôtel Chagny for me to wear at the specific request of the old Vicomtesse. I was not sure if it was a kind thought on her part, or a reminder of where I was supposed to belong.

But in any case my progress was likely to be slow and stately, and I would undoubtedly not be risking either myself or the child by leaping to my feet and attempting to secure escaping malefactors. Not unless, that was, they were considerate enough to manifest themselves in a neighbouring seat and remain there obligingly while I heaved myself upwards.

Mama put the last finishing touches to my hair and clasped the great emerald necklace about my throat, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Dearest, you look superb.”

“Well, I have to do my husband justice — especially now.” The child chose that moment to grow wakeful, as if impatient for me to join its father, and caught me short in the middle of what I’d meant as a smile. “Raoul is very handsome, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ah, but he’s still so young.” Mama’s low laugh was music to my ears, along with the teasing note in it that had been missing for so long. “At my stage of life, I’m afraid one comes to appreciate a distinguished older man. Now, the old Vicomte his father must have been truly charming in his day. Don’t tell this to your father, but if the gentleman in question had forty or even twenty years fewer on his plate—”

“Mama!” My eyes flew to hers in the mirror, half-delighted, half-appalled, and after a moment she lifted her hand to my cheek.

“Sweetheart”—she hesitated—“is all well in your marriage?”

I could say nothing, and Mama sighed. “I hoped you would be happy, but... remember, he is still— very young.”

I closed my eyes briefly and felt the tears slip free. “I know. But it’s so hard... and I’m so tired, Mama...”

“Oh, darling, it is hard — it’s always hard. Men see so little of what is in our hearts... but I think you should go back. Your father and I can manage here alone. It was kind of you to come, and I’m grateful beyond belief, but you can’t risk throwing away your own future in consequence.”

Conscience told me unhappily that she was right. I owed it to my child and to myself to make the most of what I was fortunate enough to have, and not to run away from the hurt that came with it.

“I’ll... think about it. Soon. After tonight.”

“That’s my Hertha. My brave girl,” Mama said softly, though I did not feel so at all. She patted my cheeks dry with her handkerchief, and brushed over a light dusting of powder to hide any trace of tears. “And now that handsome husband of yours is waiting downstairs to take you to the opera and pay you all the attentions in the world.”

It wasn’t quite the reason why we would be going to the Opera Populaire tonight, but I could scarcely tell her that. I choked back a sudden impulse to giggle that was half a sob, and went below in my stiffened armour of whalebone and satin to take my place in the carriage, with Raoul at my side.