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Raoul and Christine’s marriage was a very convenient arrangement. It didn’t involve sex, but it was still (or perhaps as a result) one of the most peaceful and amiable marriages Raoul knew of. Raoul provided Christine with money and a place to live. Christine stopped Raoul’s relatives from pestering him about getting married. Raoul didn’t stop Christine from singing or having casual flings with her fellow opera girls. Christine didn’t stop Raoul from going off with the navy for months, occasionally years, at a time. They also provided each other with companionship and love, which was the most important thing.
Also, Christine usually helped Raoul get through society events and dinners, but tonight she had utterly failed him.
“You don’t have a temperature,” Raoul said, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. “Please. We could leave after an hour.”
“Raoul, I will vomit on the steps if you force me to get out of this bed,” Christine said. “If you manage to get me to the party, I will probably faint. I don’t think I could even get a dress on. I’m sorry.”
Raoul sighed. He couldn’t badger her further—it wouldn’t do any good and besides, it was a nasty thing to do when your wife had a fever. “Then I’ll stay in with you. Everyone knows I’m a solicitous husband.”
“Raoul,” Christine said firmly, “this is your mother’s seventieth birthday party. I know you’re a good husband, and I appreciate it, but you have to go.”
Raoul bit his lip.
“You’ll be fine. Trust me. You’ve been getting better at this every year.” Christine patted his arm. “You don’t have to stay late. You can say you’re worried about me and leave if you want. But at least go, make an appearance, and wish your mother a happy birthday. Wish her one for me too,” she added.
Raoul’s mother was one of the only people in the de Chagny family who hadn’t complained about Raoul marrying down. When he asked her about it she’d said that everyone said her marrying his father was a wise choice, and she’d regretted it for as long as he lived. So if Raoul married someone who wasn’t exactly socially acceptable, she wasn’t going to be the one to object.
Raoul owed a lot to his mother. And he did owe her an appearance at her seventieth birthday party, even if he could already feel a headache forming. Silently, he shimmied into a dress outfit. Christine, despite being halfway to delirium, helped him with his tie.
“You’ll be fine,” she repeated as he left.
He hoped so.
The party was kind of a big deal. The de Chagny family wasn’t one of the big names among Paris’s aristocracy, but it was up there, and Mme. De Chagny in particular was much loved. All her children had helped to plan it (admittedly Raoul had mostly run errands and had less to do with the planning, more with the follow through) and the guest list was a mile long. It was the first time in almost a decade that the de Chagny manor had been so crowded with guests. They bulged out the doors. Raoul hesitated outside for a long moment before heading in.
A hand on his elbow. “Monsieur de Chagny! Is that you? Ah, remember, we met at that dance a month ago. How is your wife doing? Yes, well…no, I’m not married, don’t you remember? Anyhow this is a first rate party, I’m much enjoying myself…”
“Monsieur de Chagny, is that you?”
The first eight people he talked to congratulated him on his mother’s long life. He didn’t know seven of them but he smiled and nodded.He thought he spotted Philippe in the parlor but by the time he made his way over, he was gone. One of his sisters swooped in and brought him a plate of food, and he held it awkwardly as he wandered over to his mother’s side. Over the rumble of the crowd he told her he and Christine offered their best wishes.
She hugged him. He inhaled the scent of lavender. Maybe he could just stay by her side for the rest of the evening.
“Madame! Can I say what a pleasure it was to be invited to your little soiree?”
(Hardly a good description of the party, but…)
A middle aged couple forcibly placed themselves between Raoul and his mother. Then another. Somehow he was now in the dining room. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. Maybe he should have it cut. Christine was always saying he should.
Christine…
She’d given him a handkerchief that smelled of her perfume for the evening. He took it out of his pocket and breathed into it. His heart was going a little too fast.
“Monsieur de Chagny! What luck running into you here. I was wondering if…”
His voice sounded normal coming out of his mouth, if a bit expressionless. Was he remembering to smile? Yes, he was remembering to smile. He could feel the strain in his cheeks so he had to be. He could barely hear the person talking to him over the sound of the music. It was a combination of flutes and violins playing a light, happy tune. Later this evening they would play something slower and more serious. He remembered picking out the songs with his oldest sister. She said his taste was out of fashion, but his mother liked that it bordered on romantic. A seventieth birthday was not a romantic event but she was fond of that sort of music regardless.
“…can you hear me, Monsieur de Chagny?”
“Yes, monsieur. Can you repeat yourself?”
The room spun. The lights were bright, and all the women were wearing colorful dresses. At some point a drink had replaced the plate of food, and it was already half empty and the aftertaste of wine was in his mouth but he didn't remember bringing the cup to his lips. His hand clenched Christine’s handkerchief in his pocket.
“Monsieur de Chagny?”
Then there was a hand on his arm, large, warm and firm. It pulled him away from the crowd. A rush of cool air on his face. He blinked and he was outside. On the balcony, where no one was right now except a few quietly conversing couples.
He breathed in. Out. In. Out.
How had he gotten here?
A hand touched his back. He startled and turned, and there stood none other than La Carlotta Giudicelli. Prima donna at the opera house still, though now she shared that title with Christine.
She also happened to be Christine’s lover, since about a year and a half ago. Raoul had been avoiding her ever since.
(Not that he resented her for sharing Christine’s bed—she gave Christine something he couldn’t, something he had no desire to. But he had a feeling lovers and husbands weren’t supposed to interact or acknowledge each other’s existences. Even when there was no jealousy, it just seemed…against protocol, improper. Somewhat embarrassing.)
“Monsieur de Chagny, are you well?”
He blinked. He’d drifted off again for a moment there. “Yes. I am fine. What are you doing here?”
“I was invited. I have a friendship with your wife, monsieur, if you remember.” Carlotta’s voice was dry. “If you would rather me not be here…”
“No, no, of course not, you’re very welcome. Um…” What was he supposed to say? “You look very nice. It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise. I heard Christine is sick.”
“Yes. I will be getting back to her soon. Thank you for your concern.” He put his hands in his pockets. Did he sound curt? Perhaps he sounded a little curt.
“Is it bad?”
“It is not so bad as it might be. She should be well in a few days.” He shrugged.
Carlotta shrugged too. She glanced back at the door to the house, then back to him. “Well, I’ll be happy to see her when she comes back to work…”
Raoul bit his lip. “You can come see her tonight, if you wish.”
“I would not intrude.”
“Your relationship with my wife is very important to her. I am sure she would be glad to see you.” Maybe she would feel too uncomfortable visiting Christine with Raoul there? It probably was a bad idea. “If you wish, you may go to visit her now. I may be at this party for a few more hours.”
Carlotta gave him a look. “I don’t think you could take another few hours, monsieur. You seem about to collapse yourself.”
Raoul flushed. “Crowds…are not my forte.”
“Using operatic terms? You must pick things up from Christine.”
Raoul shrugged.
“Christine would murder me if I left you in this state,” Carlotta said. “I will stay as long as you do. And I may take your offer to come home with you and visit her.”
They stayed outside for a long few minutes, making conversation. It was a bit awkward, but much better than the crowd inside. And talking to Carlotta was really not as bad as Raoul had imagined. She was interested in talking about Christine, which happened to be Raoul’s favorite subject. She was interested in talking about Christine in a non-derogatory manner, which was unfortunately rare for Raoul. He cherished the opportunity to gush about her music and just gossip about her recent performances without Carlotta smiling at him in a condescending manner. He wasn’t sure what she thought of his relationship with Christine, or if she knew the details of it, but at least he was fairly sure she wasn’t thinking, “this is the idiot who married the opera whore and is somehow still enamoured with her.”
He could talk about Christine without needing to focus on defending her. It was nice. And Carlotta was happy to discuss the finer points of Christine’s performances, with more expertise than Raoul had. And when he told anecdotes about Christine, she smiled fondly. Yes, they both knew how Christine was.
But they had to go back inside eventually. Raoul braced himself for the noise. Carlotta handled the crowd better than he could, though. She answered people’s questions before he could, and when she saw his eyes begin to glaze over she’d take him to a quiet corner for a minute or get him a glass of punch. She was much more helpful than he deserved, especially since they barely knew each other.
Finally, they left together. In the coach, Raoul told her, “Now they’ll think we’re having an affair.”
“It doesn’t bother me unless it bothers you,” Carlotta said. “Everyone knows I have affairs with everyone.”
Raoul shrugged. Oh well. It might reflect badly on Christine but she’d appreciate Carlotta coming to visit, so it was worth it. “Thank you for helping me through the party. I really…well I really don’t know how I would have done without some help.”
“It was for Christine’s sake,” Carlotta said. “She cares about you, you know. Quite a lot.”
Her voice was forceful, and she looked at Raoul as if daring him to question it. He chuckled. “Yes, I know.”
“Good.” Carlotta looked out the window. “She really is a good one. I used to resent you for having her.”
It was very blunt. Raoul swallowed. “I suppose I am a bit useless. I’ve always known…”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Carlotta said. “Really, you’re not all that bad.” She looked him up and down. Then she offered him her hand. He shook it firmly—her grip was strong.
They didn’t talk much for the rest of the ride. But the road was quiet and the night was cool, and he was sitting next to a friend. He wasn't sure how he ended up here but the evening could have gone worse. Christine would probably say he had not done so badly at all.