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Philippe hadn't heard from his little brother in two years.
Raoul had gotten into gambling, unfortunately. He asked Philippe for a loan here and there, always to pay off his debts, but he would end up even worse off than before.
At some point, the Comte had to draw the line.
"I can't encourage this," he'd told him, "I'm cutting you off, Raoul."
Raoul had argued, but there was really nothing he could do.
So, while Philippe had cut off the money, Raoul had cut off contact.
Christine wrote to him occasionally with life updates, as did Gustave, who missed his uncle but wasn't permitted to see him.
He sat at breakfast, drinking orange juice as the maid approached him.
"The paper, sir," she held it out to him.
"Thank you, Imelda," he said, smiling as he took it with his free hand.
VICOMTESS KILLED IN AMERICA!
Philippe's smile dropped instantly as he felt his heart sink. There was a shattering sound as his glass hit the floor, which Imelda hurriedly went to tidy up.
He read through the story quickly, his vision beginning to blur with tears.
"Sir, is everything okay?" Imelda asked, the glass pieces collected in her apron. "I'm sorry, that isn't my place to ask-"
"No," he answered quietly, "Sorry, Imelda, I am retiring to my bedroom... Please see that I am not disturbed."
"Of course, sir," she said, concern etched into her face as she grabbed a rag to clean up the spilt drink.
He sat on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands as he sobbed.
He had the brief thought that he should call his brother and nephew, see how they were doing, if there were any answers as to who murdered Christine... but he didn't know where they were staying or how to contact them.
So, he would just have to mourn alone for his sister-in-law, and wait for Raoul to reach out to him.
If he ever did.