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“She doesn’t have any clue, you know.”
It was a statement, not a question, that pulled Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny from his consideration of his bare feet pressing into the wet, wave touched sand of Trestraou Beach in Perros-Guirec that late summer evening. The hazy sky, painted orange and dark blue by the sunset over the water, reflected back at him from the wet sand, and he scratched at his peeling, sunburnt arms as he looked up in a daze at his older brother, Philippe, who walked at his side.
“What?” Raoul asked, his voice cracking as it had been doing so often that summer. He cleared his throat, then repeated the word in what he considered to be a deeper, more manly tone, though it only made Philippe chuckle with its undertone of childish affectation. “What?”
“Christine.” Philippe clarified, looking to the tall, awkward girl who ran ahead of them, leading his two young nieces to a tidal pool to show them the crustations she had discovered living there earlier in the day. “She has no idea that you are smitten with her.”
“I’m not smitten with her.” Raoul grumbled under his breath, his face turning even redder than his sunburn as he looked away. He reached up to pick at the spots that littered his face, a habit that Philippe discouraged. He reached out and smacked Raoul’s hand away and the latter returned to scratching his arms. “What would you know of it, anyway?”
“I know that I was fifteen, once, and charmed by a girl at the seaside.” Philippe offered by way of explanation. “Monsieur Dupuis’ daughter, if you want to know the truth of it.”
Raoul stopped.
“Monsieur Dupuis? The fishmonger?”
“One and the same.” Philippe laughed at Raoul’s shocked expression.
The two brothers couldn’t have looked less alike as they did in that moment. While Raoul was fair-haired and stalky with the last baby fat of his childhood and none of the height he would gain in the ensuing years (he was, in fact, at the most unforgiving point of life between childhood and manhood), Philippe was tall and lean with a dark complexion wrought by the summer sun, and dark hair and a moustache that made him appear to be more of Italian or Spanish stock than the northern French from which they both derived their roots.
“Well? What happened?” Raoul pressed, the tone of his question betraying his own feelings for the fair Christine Daae in his need to glean some sort of hope from his brother’s experience.
Philippe put his arm around his little brother’s shoulders and leaned into him conspiratorially.
“Well, obviously I didn’t marry her.”
What he didn’t say was that marrying the fishmonger’s daughter had never been an option for him. As heir to the de Chagny title, his parents had forbidden him any thought of marriage outside of the peerage, and while he was an obedient son, it didn’t keep him from skulking through life, turning his nose up at any society darling who saw fit to turn her attentions his way.
In his twentieth year, Madeleine Dupuis had married a local fisherman, and by his twenty-fifth year, she had departed this world, taking with her her fourth child. That same year, his mother and father also perished, the result of a carriage accident on Christmas Eve, leaving him his two teenage sisters and a five-year-old Raoul to continue raising.
No, Philippe hadn’t married Madeleine Dupuis, nor anyone else for that matter, and had confirmed himself a bachelor for life, not so much content with as compelled towards a life without love. That didn’t mean he didn’t know it when he saw it.
“Raoul! Quick! Come see before the tide comes in!” Christine’s crystalline voice rang out over the increasing rush of the waves. Her golden curls were lifted in the breeze off the water as she turned back to him, her large blue eyes catching the last of the sun that was threatening to fall below the horizon.
“Coming!” Raoul squeaked out as he abandoned his brother and awkwardly trotted towards her. “Coming, Christine!”
A well-trained puppy dog, Philippe thought, as he slowly sauntered to catch up to the four children. He was glad Raoul hadn’t pressed him for more information; he knew that was a conversation he would be forced to have at some point in the not-so-distant future, but for the present, he just wished he could give the boy a thousand days of innocent summer filled with magic and adventure instead of the worries and responsibilities that would come with a titled adulthood.
***
Christine’s father, along with Madame and Professor Valerius, the French music teachers with whom they resided, were out for the evening performing for an end of summer fete, hosted by another of the aristocratic families who summered at Perros-Guirec. With no interest in attending the occasion, himself, Philippe had offered to sit with his sisters’ children, as well as Christine, that night with the latter staying over since it was expected that all the adults would be returning late. After supper, he had seen the little girls off to bed, though they weren’t content until Christine had sung them several songs and promised that she would be there when they awoke the next morning.
When they finally slept, Philippe retired to his library to read, the tall windows open to the porch to which Raoul and Christine had stolen away. After a short time, the book he had been reading was abandoned on his lap and he closed his eyes as he listened to the rush of surf on the rocks below the house, mingled with the laughter and chatter of the two who sat just outside the window. Raoul had been a bit of a sullen child since the death of their parents, but when he had met Christine the summer of his eleventh year, he seemed to be lifted from his grief and restored to a new vibrancy by the spirit of his little friend. Christine had gifted him with laughter and joy, and in the course of that first summer, had taught him how to be a child once more, or perhaps, for the first time, Philippe admitted to himself.
Something had changed that summer, though, when Christine arrived on their doorstep in June. She had grown a head taller than Raoul, though she was a year younger, and her more mature manner of dress hinted at the beautiful young woman she was rapidly becoming. Philippe had watched on as Raoul swallowed hard and stumbled in his speech upon greeting her, and the older brother knew then that they were all entering a challenging new phase of life.
That night in August, he listened to them lamenting the end of summer with Raoul’s impending return to Paris and Christine’s to her home in Sweden. He must have drifted off, though, when he was startled awake by the door to the library opening. His eyes flew open, and he quickly righted himself where he had slumped in his chair.
“Oh, you’re still awake.” Raoul huffed as he came into the room.
“I would hardly be a fit chaperone if I wasn’t.” Philippe replied, yawning and picking up his book and pretending he had been reading all along. “Are you in need of something?”
Raoul began scanning the bookshelves intently.
“I was telling Christine about Legendes Rustiques.” He said, failing to hide that he was struggling to see the titles on the upper shelves. “She was telling me some Swedish folktales, so I thought I would read her some of our French ones.”
Philippe stood from his chair and approached Raoul, easily reaching over him and pulling the volume in question from the top shelf. The younger brother snatched it from his hands indignantly.
“Take a lamp out with you.” Philippe instructed. “You don’t need to be ruining your vision by squinting to read in the darkness.”
Raoul rolled his eyes but unquestioningly took the oil lamp that Philippe extended to him, lifted from the library table next to the door.
“Don’t stay up too late.” Philippe then added, but Raoul was already out of the room and through the front door.
***
“Raoul, no books at the breakfast table, please.” Philippe gently chided the next morning when he and the children were all settled at the table that had been set on the front porch for their meal.
With another roll of the eyes, Raoul set the small volume aside, while Christine, her best manners on display, spoke to Philippe with the great fondness and familiarity she felt towards him.
“They really are marvelous stories, don’t you think?” She said enthusiastically, the heels of her boots tapping rhythmically on the boards of the porch, an anxious tick that always displayed itself when she was excited by some idea.
“Indeed!” Philippe replied as he cracked open his soft-boiled egg and sprinkled it with salt. “After all, I’m not inclined to keep books in my library that aren’t marvelous. Tell me, which tale is your favorite?”
“I think they’re all wonderous.” Christine provided as she distractedly poked her fork in the crepe on her plate. “But if I must choose one that most captured my imagination, I would have to say it is the story of Lubin et Lupins.”
“Ah, a woman of remarkable taste!” Philippe exclaimed, pounding his fist to the table, causing Raoul to jump in his seat. “I must say, that is my favorite as well.”
Christine beamed with this validation of her taste in literature and her heels tapped faster.
“I mean, do you think it could all be real?” She then asked. “I know our folktales in Sweden most certainly are.”
“How do you know that?” Raoul asked skeptically, his crankiness with his brother unintentionally redirected at the girl.
Philippe shot Raoul a castigating glance when he saw Christine’s face fall. He couldn’t stand to see such an expression overwriting the sweet child’s pretty features.
“Because they are true.” Philippe was quick to admonish Raoul with a stern tone and hard look. “Are you possibly suggesting that our Christine could be fibbing about such an important subject?”
“No.” Was Raoul’s short reply, and now he made butchering work of cracking open his own egg, its contents spilling over the sides of his egg cup and onto his plate, a mess of runny yolk and splintered shell.
“Anyway,” Philippe continued, “I very much believe it to be a true story; after all, I have seen the lupins with my very own eyes.”
A silent look passed between Raoul and Christine, a wordless communication they had developed over the years. From that passing glance, it was determined that it would be Raoul who would press his brother for more information.
“Umm…you saw them?” His voice was a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and a small tinge of gleeful fear. Philippe decided to disregard the skepticism that suggested the disbelief of an adult, instead finding himself more inclined to delicately dance with the curiosity and that special thrilling form of fear- the two more childish attitudes- he hoped to encourage a bit longer. He sat back in his chair and thoughtfully bit into a piece of toast, lingering in the tense silence for dramatic effect.
He looked at the ceiling, watching a spider weaving its web at the joining of beams, for all the world seeming to Raoul and Christine that he was seeing back to some long distant past.
“I was the same age that you are now, Raoul, on that night many, many, many years ago. It was an August night; the night of the full moon.”
“Tonight is the full moon…” Raoul trembled out, a shiver coursing through his body. Christine took his hand and squeezed it under the table.
“Oh? Ah, yes, well I suppose it is.” Philippe confirmed, as though the knowledge was catching him completely by surprise. “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this then; it might prove a bit too frightening.”
“No!” Raoul and Christine both said at once, their eyes large and eager. Every summer, they had spent many of their days roaming about and knocking on doors, begging to be told the folktales that were buried in the hearts and minds of the old farmwives and fisherman that called Perros-Guirec home when all the summer holiday makers had made their way back to their cities and estates. Never had they imagined that such a suspenseful story could be found so close to home.
“Are you sure?” Philippe challenged. “I shouldn’t wish to cause you to be fearful of the night.”
“Keep going.” Raoul pressed. “We won’t be scared.”
Philippe pretended at considering their suitability for hearing the tale. When he determined they were well and truly on the edges of their seats, he continued.
“The night was bright with the full moon, and I had agreed to meet some of the boys from town to go steal grapes from the vineyard on the other side of the church. I was tasked with bringing Father’s decanter of brandy so that we might fortify ourselves with the courage afforded by drink, and after our adventures in the vines, we were to go to the churchyard cemetery to watch for ghosts among the graves…”
“Did you see any?” Raoul interrupted with far more interest than he intended.
“Of course, but that isn’t the point of this story. Anyway,” Philippe went on, glad to see he was building the intended suspense, “there were three of us, and we passed the decanter around as we gathered and ate grapes. Every once in a while, I thought I would catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, and then again, I thought I would see the glinting of eyes in the vines. I had never imbibed in such strong spirits, though, and I assigned what I thought I saw to an imagination addled with drink.
“The world began to spin, and what stars could be seen in the sky seemed to dance about. I tripped through the vineyard, frequently stumbling over my own feet; the combination of liquor and grapes began to rest uneasily in my stomach, and I begged the other two boys to let us return home. They seemed far less touched by the drink than I, and they laughed at me as each took me by an arm and hefted me back in the direction of town.”
Philippe paused and looked at Christine.
“I’m sorry. This is, perhaps, an indelicate story to be imparting to a young lady.”
“No, it’s fine!” Christine insisted, her heels beginning to tap again. “The men at the fairs that Papa and I performed at in Sweden were frequently drunk”
“And I’ve seen you drunk many times.” Raoul reminded him innocently.
“Not that many times.” Philippe was quick to correct. “But all right; I’m not tarnishing either of you. So, as we were making our way back to town, I had the uncomfortable feeling that we were being watched; that uneasy tingling feeling that creeps up your spine and into your hair and makes your scalp feel tight upon your skull. It is said to be the sensation of a spirit in your presence or that which comes from a person treading upon your grave. Mother had only just, that spring, returned from travels in America where she had been taken with the notion of spirit communication and had participated in seances at gatherings in New York; she had brought her newfound interest home with her, filled with striking tales of the world beyond the veil. While I pretended to be a skeptic, I had, in fact, been very much affected by her stories of phantoms and spirits, and the world was alive to me with all the possibilities of what might lurk in the shadows just beyond our view. Father claimed it all to be hogwash, but Mother and I knew different, and for me, at no other point more so than that late August night, filled with drink, when the separation between this world and the next seemed razor thin.
“Nothing could hide away from the brightness of the moon and our shadows were long upon the landscape as the church came back into view. The night was silent; we were far enough away from the water that we couldn’t even hear the waves and not even a breeze stirred the air around us. It wasn’t a surprise to us, though, when we heard what we thought to be dogs yipping and howling away in the distance…”
“You’re making this up!” Raoul burst in, his voice high and agitated. “You’re just reciting parts of the story!”
“How could I be?” Philippe asked innocently. “The book wasn’t released until three years later!”
Somehow, neither Raoul nor Christine detected the fallacy of this logic.
“Let him tell the story, Raoul!” Christine whispered, squeezing his hand all the tighter. To her, the thrill of the scare outweighed any logic, while Raoul was, in fact, just plain scared. He would never admit this, though, and just nodded at his brother to continue.
“As we approached the wall surrounding the graveyard and church, we soon realized that the sound of the dogs was far closer upon us than we had imagined. It was then that we discovered that the shadows that seemed to bounce across the wall weren’t ours; that, while they were oddly human in shape, they did not actually stem from a human source.
“Suddenly, the shadows turned towards us, as though spotting us for the first time; large, blood red canine eyes glowed bright as embers as they bore into us. The heads of the shadows seemed to split open showing huge, yellow teeth, and a snarl like a roar burst forth from no less than six of the dark figures. We froze in place, all now painfully sober in the face of the grotesque forms, watching as they all rose to their full height on the hind legs of wolves. It was then that another roar lifted from behind us, and I slowly turned to see that what I had sensed to be following us wasn’t a specter, but another of the fearsome beasts. It was now so close that its shadow enveloped our own, and with screams that must have been heard in town, we set to running, our only hope that we could find our safety off the clear expanse of the moor…”
Philippe once more paused, looking at Christine who now clung to Raoul’s arm and was shaking with excitement while Raoul sat painfully still, all color drained from his face.
“What…what happened then?”
Philippe reached for the cigarettes he often smoked after meals, taking his time to remove one from its silver case before lighting it and taking a few contemplative drags.
“That was the night Maurice Boudin disappeared.” He finally said. “He fell behind and was never seen again.”
***
Of course, none of it was true, but Philippe felt an obligation, as the patriarch of the family, to fill Raoul’s head with stuff and nonsense just as his father had done him at a similar age. He considered it to be a right of passage, of sorts, for them both, to be the purveyor of cautionary tales and capricious stories of a youth misspent. Wasn’t that, after all, one of the primary duties of a father figure: To scare a young man away from ideas of mischief, danger, and foolishness?
He applauded himself for his excellent work as, after his final pronouncement as to the unknown fate of poor Maurice Boudin- a fiction itself- he stood from the table and walked into the house, leaving his younger brother and his charming little friend to natter on to each other about what they had just heard.
After her late night, his sister, Agnes, was just coming down the stairs.
“You look pleased with yourself, brother.” She observed, her lopsided smile matching his own, stopping to kiss his cheek.
“If Raoul should ask, everyone knows of my encounter with the lupins.”
She smacked his arm, offering him an unconvincing frown of reproach.
“You are growing more and more like Father with each passing year.” She informed him, though not unfondly, as her efforts and tone might otherwise suggest.
“I’m just having a bit of fun with the little chap.” Philippe defended himself. Then his voice grew soft. “He isn’t going to be a boy much longer. He’s pining for Christine this summer, but what of his next? He will be sixteen, soon. He may be late to growing, but eventually he will, and then he will have to set aside all the pleasantness of childhood, and I will admit to indulging in some forbearance of that inevitability.”
Agnes could see the veil of sadness that crept into her brother’s eyes, could read the millions of thoughts that passed through his quickly stirring mind. She had been fifteen years old when they had lost their parents and their other sister had been thirteen. Philippe, despite his best efforts, hadn’t been able to protect them from the realities of life and they had been thrust into adulthood far too soon, but with Raoul he still had the semblance of a chance.
“I know you mean well.” Agnes finally said, her crooked smile returning. “Just be careful not to mistake any fear he might display for something even more fearful for us: Bold curiosity.”
“I think I know him well enough to be certain that he will be sleeping with his covers pulled over his head tonight.” Philippe assured her confidently. “Though I’m not so certain about Christine. That girl has a spine of iron if you ask me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were to tackle a lupin and tame it as a pet!”
***
“I wonder what lupins eat?” Christine pondered aloud some hours later as she and Raoul sat in their favorite hiding spot amongst the rocks that edged the beach, eating cheese sandwiches and fruit that the de Chagny family cook had prepared for their day’s adventures.
Raoul had been unusually quiet most of the morning, just listening to Christine chattering excitedly about the story Philippe had shared. It was, perhaps, the first time he had begun to grow weary of her enthusiasm, but none the less, he worked hard to not say anything that would betray this.
“It would seem that teenage boys are on the menu.” He finally replied, so low that Christine could barely hear him over the waves.
“You don’t know that it is just teenage boys; they very well might prefer the succulent tenderness of a teenage girl, instead.” Christine challenged, smiling at him, hoping to draw him from his sullen mood of the morning that she had very well noticed. “After all, there were none on hand that night, so how is one to know for sure?”
“An interesting hypothesis.” Raoul conceded, leaning back against one of the rocks as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose we will never really know for sure.”
“Unless…” Christine then said, her smile turning mischievous. Raoul could read her change of thought as clearly as though it had been written upon a page. He interrupted her as he sat up straight once more.
“No!” He exclaimed, the color beneath his sunburn and spots draining from his face once more. “No “unless”, Christine! Now see here: I am a year older than you and a boy, so I am putting my foot down right now! We are not going to be finding out if the lupins prefer to eat boys or girls. I’m sure everything Philippe told us was a falsehood, anyway.”
“Then why are you so scared?” Christine hissed back at him, all her gentleness removed by his insinuation that being older and a boy somehow made him superior. “If it is all a falsehood, then there is nothing to worry about if we recreate that night; it would be nothing more than a midnight stroll to the vineyard and church.”
“I just think it’s wrong.” Raoul argued back lamely. “I mean, we shouldn’t be out at night alone and we shouldn’t be stealing grapes. We certainly shouldn’t be stealing Philippe’s brandy, which we would have to do if we were to truly recreate those events.”
Christine’s mischievous smile returned.
“But wouldn’t you like to prove Philippe wrong?” She then goaded, knowing all too well the weakness of her friend, and she watched as Raoul gave this thought, his shoulders relaxing if not the rest of his demeanor.
“I’ve often wondered what the world looks like at midnight, especially with a full moon. And anyway, the original story of Lubin et Lupins takes place in Normandy, not here in Brittany, so there is nothing to worry about, right?”
The last word was spoken with the hope that Christine wouldn’t find any holes in his logic, even though part of him knew she would agree with anything if it meant getting her way. As he watched her smile grow, knowing she had won their argument, Raoul silently considered the fact that he did believe Philippe’s tale, and of the two of them, Christine was the faster and better runner. What had he gotten himself into?
***
Every night, Philippe went to bed at eleven o’clock on the dot. Raoul knew this to be the case because, since he was five years old, every night at 10:55, his door would creak open and Philippe would slide silently into the room, move to the bed and kiss Raoul on the forehead then just as silently slip back out and down the hall to his own room.
From a young age, Raoul had been plagued by nightmares of all variety and would often find himself waking up in the middle of the night and stealing away to Philippe’s room where he would crawl into bed and curl up against his older brother’s side. Philippe would always wake up to the quaking boy, pulling him into his arms and holding him close as he whispered his assurances that he would never let anything happen to him; that his nightmares weren’t real.
But on that night of the August full moon, Raoul lay in bed after his brother’s visit, and he knew his nightmare then was waking and very real and he couldn’t retreat to Philippe for reassurance. At ten minutes to midnight, he left his bed and quietly dressed, then poking his head out his door to ensure the house was well and truly asleep, he crept downstairs and into the library.
Once there, he took the decanter of brandy from the sideboard and placed it carefully into the haversack that he had slung over his shoulder and finally, went to Philippe’s desk where he knew a small pistol to be hidden away in the unlocked top drawer. This, too, he placed in the haversack before making his way to the front door and out into the night.
At first, he didn’t see Christine, but after a few moments, he heard her running down the path to his house. When she came around the bend, his breath stole from him; she was dressed in a flowing white lawn dress and her golden hair was adorned with a crown of wildflowers. She seemed to glow in the blue light of the moon and if he hadn’t known her, Raoul knew he would have mistaken her for one of the ghosts said to haunt the shores and bluffs and moors around Perros-Guirec, eternally searching for loves lost at sea. It was then that he knew for certain what he hadn’t been able to admit to Philippe as truth: He was smitten with Christine Daae and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Do you have the brandy?” Christine asked as she approached, and the question broke him from his reverie.
“Yes…yes…of course.” He choked out, then added. “You…you look…radiant.”
“Why thank you, monsieur!” Christine giggled, and she twirled around so her dress lifted and billowed showing her ankles and calves, completely unaware of the torture she was inflicting upon the poor boy who was clueless as to why the sight made his entire body tingle in a way that was completely different than what fear had inspired earlier. It was a question he would have to ask Philippe later. If there was a later.
Raoul had little time for contemplation of his strange feelings as Christine grabbed his hand and pulled him down the steps, dragging him behind her as they made their way back to the path that would lead them into town, then the treeless moors beyond.
“Slow down!” He finally begged as he found he couldn’t keep pace and his calves began to burn with the effort of matching her longer strides. “We’re away from the house and can slow down now.”
“But what if they only come out at midnight?” Christine asked, her breath far less labored than Raoul’s. “We should have left earlier so that we wouldn’t miss them.”
“I’m sure if they go to the trouble of showing up, they will stay around for a bit. It would be senseless, otherwise, no?”
“I suppose you’re right.” Christine agreed grudgingly. “But we should still make haste. After all, who truly understands the timing of the supernatural?”
“Certainly not us.” Raoul concluded.
All conversation drew to a halt as they entered the town, the familiar dirt path emptying them out onto the cobbled market square, their shoes clattering over the well-worn stones that were usually busy with life in the light of day, now eerily quiet in the dark of night.
Soon, they were at the other edge of town where the moor began to rise up sharply, the old Catholic church they both attended on Sundays sitting at its top, now an unfamiliar black hulk against the moonlit sky. Christine and Raoul both stopped and just stared at the sight before them, each silently considering what awaited them. Christine looped her arm through his as they stood in silence, and once more, he felt that strange sensation rising in him, powerful enough, even, to override his fear. She smelled of lavender. She was so close the scent teased at him, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an attempt to block out the distraction of her nearness. It didn’t work, though, and almost as though his thoughts weren’t his own, words began to spill out of him.
“I won’t always be like this, you know.” He blurted out, and Christine just looked at him with confusion.
“What do you mean? Like what?” She asked, and she felt the arm that she held shaking beneath her touch.
“Like this.” Raoul tried to explain. “Like me as I am. Little and chubby and covered in spots. I’m not going to be like this forever. Philippe tells me I am a “late bloomer” but that I will be tall and strong like him soon enough. I just hope it isn’t too late.”
“Too late for what?” Christine pressed, still unsure of what he was trying to tell her.
“For you!” He groaned, and his heart nearly crushed in his chest with the weight of the admission. “I’m afraid you are going to meet someone bigger and stronger and more handsome. That you are going to fall in love with someone else and leave me behind.”
As soon as he said it, Raoul felt Christine tense. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t seem to be looking anywhere else, either, and as time passed, he could feel himself shrinking back once more. He unlooped his arm from hers and had begun to walk away when Christine spoke.
“But I already love you.” She said, her voice soft and almost tearful. “I thought you knew that.”
Raoul stopped and turned back to her. She suddenly seemed small and frightened as though his walking away from her was the worst thing she could ever possibly imagine, even being eaten by lupins.
“I love you.” She said emphatically once his eyes were trained on her once more.
“How can you?” Raoul asked miserably. “I’m…this.”
“Yes, of course you are.” Christine sighed, frustrated that he would question her on the manifestations of her own heart. “I love who you were when we met, who you are now, and whoever you will become.”
“But why?” Raoul again pressed. “I have nothing to recommend me. My voice hasn’t even changed all the way. What’s so special about me that you could actually love me?”
“It’s because you have always loved me.” Christine said simply. “You have never asked me to change, never thought me odd, even though I know I am. You always treat me kindly and want to protect me even when you are being indulgent of my whims. There is ever so much to recommend you, Raoul de Chagny, and it’s high time you start to realize it.”
And with that, Christine stepped towards him and boldly leaned down, capturing his lips with hers. Raoul froze in place, his arms hanging limply and awkwardly at his sides. But when he realized it wasn’t all a dream or a mistake, he wrapped his arms around Christine and settled into the kiss. He had imagined the moment- of course he had- but it was nothing like the perfection of the reality he was now experiencing. Was he truly himself? Was Christine in her right mind? Surely she had gone mad, or they had already been consumed by the lupins and had found themselves in his own version of heaven.
When the kiss ended, Christine stood back to her height and smiled at him.
“Do you believe me now?” She asked, and Raoul nodded dumbly in reply. “Good. Now we can go find the lupins.”
And Raoul agreed enthusiastically, knowing that he could now die a happy man.
***
When they reached the vineyard, they forewent the picking of the grapes, instead choosing to hide amongst the vines and kiss some more. After a time, though, Christine broke away from Raoul and reached into his haversack, pulling out the decanter of brandy.
“We’re not doing this right.” She informed him as she removed the stopper from the cut crystal bottle.
“I rather think we’re becoming quite good at it, actually.” Raoul tried, but Christine shook her head as she kicked back the bottle and took a long swallow. She began to cough with the burning of the alcohol but handed the bottle over to Raoul.
“No,” she sputtered out, “I mean in recreating Philippe’s story. We aren’t doing it properly. We need to pick the grapes and watch for the eyes in the vines.”
“But what difference does it make to the lupins?” Raoul asked, remaining seated even as Christine climbed to her feet. “I mean whether we’re stealing grapes or kissing, we’re still here, and if the lupins are hunting, they will find us either way.”
“But if we are kissing we aren’t recreating Philippe’s story!” Christine shot back, and she began to snap bunches of grapes from the vines, dropping them into her own bag that she carried, intermittently grabbing up the bottle and taking more swigs.
“And what if this yields nothing but bags full of stolen grapes?” Raoul asked as he unsteadily got to his feet, swaying a bit as he was washed over with the unfamiliar sensation of drunkenness quickly coming on.
“Then I shall make you a grape pie.” She told him.
“And if the lupins should find us?”
“Then there won’t be any need for grape pie.”
Just then, Christine grabbed onto Raoul’s arm and shushed him before pulling him down to crouch behind the vines. In their silence, both heard the ominous sound of something large moving through and brushing against the vines in the next row of trellises from where they hid. Christine spread the vines and peered through, and just as she did so, they both spotted ragged black fur pass them by.
“We have to go before it comes down this row and finds us.” Raoul whispered, and to his shock, when he looked over at Christine, she actually looked frightened.
“I’m sorry, Raoul,” she began as she pressed herself to him and hid her face against his shoulder, “I didn’t really want it to be real! Oh, how foolish I am, and now we’re both in danger!”
“Shh…” He said, stroking her hair and back, stilled for a moment as he realized she was wearing a corset beneath her dress. He succeeded in shaking himself from the power of this revelation so that he could continue to silently sooth her but was rattled when he saw a tall, dark figure passing across the opening at the end of their row. “Christine, we have to go.” He insisted, standing and helping her to her feet.
By then, both were feeling the effects of the brandy, and while Raoul was simply a bit tipsy, Christine was sobbing, her fear unshackled by the drink. Raoul begged her to quiet her tears, but with each attempt at soothing her, she became more and more distressed until he believed it quite possible that the entire town could hear the echo of her fatalistic wails.
“We’re going to die!” She wept out, and she tore her crown of flowers from her head and tossed it to the ground as they emerged from the vines back out onto the moor. “We’re going to be the ghosts that haunt the moor forever, our love cut short in the very prime of our lives!”
“God help me if this is my prime.” Raoul groaned as he tried to figure out some way to keep her focused or drag her back in the direction of home.
“We must get to the church!” She then exclaimed. “These beasts are of the devil and we shall find sanctuary there!”
Just then, as if called to them by Christine’s declaration, they heard footsteps rushing towards them from the vineyard. With the sound, they both suddenly seemed to be endowed with a greater sense of purpose, and grabbing Christine’s hand, Raoul dragged her onwards, not wasting time to look back. Soon, Christine overtook him, just as he had suspected she might, though not quite as thoroughly as he imagined.
“Go into the graveyard! It’s consecrated ground!” Raoul called out as the church came into view. “It shouldn’t be able to pass through the gates!”
This she did, but as soon as she was through the gate, her stomach lurched and she stumbled against a headstone before falling to her knees. When she looked up, the name emblazoned across the headstone caused her to cry out in fear and horror: Maurice Boudin. This time, when her stomach turned, she leaned forward and lost every bit of food she had ever eaten to that point in her life, or so it seemed, and then fell backwards onto the cool grass of Maurice Boudin’s grave.
Just then, Raoul ran into the cemetery and his heart skipped a beat when he saw Christine passed out in the grass, but he scrambled to where she lay in the middle of the yard, the safest place he could imagine until he could figure out some way to get her safely inside of the church. He could hear the footfall getting closer but then, to his absolute horror, the black figure reached the gate and passed right through. Now he knew what he had to do so that he might protect Christine. As the creature crept closer and closer, he drew the pistol from his haversack, took aim, fired, and then all the world was plunged into darkness.
***
When Raoul next awoke, it was in his own bed, the familiar sunlight of morning and sound of gently lulling waves spilling in through his open windows. As he sat up in confusion, his stomach ached and the room spun, but he was dressed in his normal night clothes and he saw his empty haversack hanging in its normal place on the back of his bedroom door. Nothing else seemed out of place; even the clothing he had worn the night before were neatly folded at the end of his bed as though they had never moved and were still just waiting for his plans to be executed.
Crawling from his bed, he went to his door and cracked it open and from downstairs, he could hear his entire family gathered in the dining room for breakfast, their cheerful voices rising up to him as if it were any other Sunday morning when they were preparing to all walk together to church. Closing the door, he hurriedly got dressed in his Sunday best then went out into the hall, avoiding all the squeaky boards and runners on the stairs that might betray his presence, then flew across the foyer floor to the library.
The decanter was in its regular spot on the sideboard, completely full, and when he opened the top desk drawer, the pistol was in its usual hiding place. He slammed the drawer back shut and leapt from the desk, though, when the door opened and Philippe stepped into the room. They blinked at each other for a moment.
“Are you looking for something?” Philippe asked as he approached Raoul at the desk then reached past him to pick up his cigarette case.
“No, sir.” Raoul replied, a bit too formally. “I…I just thought I might have left my book in here is all.”
Philippe looked at him as he leaned against the desk and lit a cigarette.
“I think you had quite the nightmare last night.” He then said. “I heard you calling out in your sleep. Maybe you should take a break from the book; find something a bit lighter with which to fill your mind.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Raoul reluctantly agreed, but then he noticed something. “Big brother, why is your arm in a sling?”
Philippe looked down at his left arm.
“I was moving some things in the attic this morning.” He said nonchalantly. “Pulled a muscle in my shoulder or some such. It should be back to rights in a few days.”
“You never go up into the attic, though.” Raoul then said, and he followed Philippe as walked back out the door and upstairs. “You said it’s too dusty and makes you sneeze.”
“It is and it does.” Philippe replied pointedly. “But Agnes was wanting something and the servants have the day off.”
“Surely it could have waited until tomorrow.” Raoul argued, tripping lightly behind his brother as he made his way down the hall to his bedroom. “I mean, it can’t have been that important.”
“You know how insistent our sister can be once she turns her mind to something. And I knew just where it was.”
“Well, what did she need so urgently that it couldn’t wait?” Raoul continued to press.
Philippe groaned as he reached his door.
“One of Mother’s old beaver furs.” He said as he opened his door. “Now, are you going to allow me some peace so I can get ready for church?”
Raoul ignored him and followed him into his room.
“In August? Why does she need a fur in August?”
“Women are strange at times.” Philippe replied in an annoyed sing-song tone.
Raoul stopped then suddenly took on a sheepish air that caught his brother’s attention.
“Umm…about that…”
Philippe was about to open his wardrobe when he caught sight of Raoul reflected in the mirror on its door. He sighed then stepped away, coming to sit on his bed, patting the spot beside him for Raoul to join him.
“All right, little brother. What is it? Something is clearly on your mind.”
Raoul hopped up on the bed but couldn’t bring himself to look at Philippe.
“Um…so…I was wondering, what does it actually feel like to like a girl?”
Philippe closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The time had come.
“Do you mean “like” as in a friend, or “like” as in a sweetheart?”
Raoul’s legs began to swing anxiously, his heels bouncing off the side rails of the bed.
“Sweetheart…I think…”
“Ah.” Philippe said, suppressing a smile.
“I mean, does it make you feel tingly all over? And does your heart beat fast and all you want to do is touch them and kiss them? And if you do, what do you do about it, especially if you touch them and kiss them but you still feel tingly all over and it feels like you should be doing so much more, but that so much more just feels wrong because she is your best friend and it all just feels so weird. What do you do then?”
Philippe leaned away from him a bit, taking him all in.
“You said you weren’t smitten with Christine.” He reminded him.
“You said she wasn’t smitten with me!” Raoul charged back. “But then she was wearing a white dress and I saw her ankles and legs, and then she was wearing a corset.”
“Yes, yes, and you were kissing her in the vineyard, I know…”
Both Raoul and Philippe drew in sharp breaths.
It was then that Raoul began to look around Philippe’s room, his eyes searching for any bit of evidence he could use to confront his brother, and it wasn’t long before he began to spot clues. One of Philippe’s white shirts dangling from the hamper, a tear edged in red on the left shoulder, then on the chair that sat under the window, a pile of dark brown, nearly black fur. Without saying a word, Raoul got to his feet and slowly approached the fur, as though if he moved too quickly it would leap to life and attack him.
Finally, he lifted the old fur cloak from the chair and, as he suspected, he discovered the hole in the left shoulder. He looked back at Philippe and his brother just smiled at him.
“I’m going to have to teach you to be a better shot, little brother, so that next time you don’t miss your aim at the specters that hunt you in the night.”