xiii.

HE HAD GOTTEN HER AN ENTIRE TRAIN COMPARTMENT to herself, and Laurentine could still not understand it. The compartment had been luxurious and spacious, clad in a gleaming golden lighting emanating from lamps, a beautiful glass window displaying the passing landscape outside, and soft cushioned seatings all to herself.

He had gotten her an entire compartment to herself, and try as Laur had to appreciate the gesture, in her heart she could not help but fight against the part of her that thought the gesture entirely cruel.

An almost four hour journey from Paris to Marseille—a city Laur had never been in-to a new life that she had agreed to for not as much herself as she had for her sister. An almost four hour journey during which she had been left entirely alone with no one but Berlioz for company.

Laurentine was grateful for Berlioz's company indeed, but her heart was conflicted as her stomach tied itself in knots with every acre that the train passed by, bring her away from Paris and closer to Marseille each second.

Could not Édouard Arsenault at least have sat with her? Could he not have allowed his presence—if not his voice—to offer some sort of consolation to her?

Laur had swallowed her dismay, though it had refused to go down her throat.

She had been served food by the waiters in her compartment, but aside from feeding a little bit to Berlioz, Laurentine hadn't eaten a thing. She couldn't eat a thing, though it was much past midnight and she had not had her dinner before leaving her mansion. Her stomach needed the delicious food she had been served, but her heart couldn't manage to oblige it, and Laur had silently decided against eating and had let the waiters take away all the food.

She had been on the brink of crying at the realization that she was willingly refusing dinner to herself-she who loved to bake sweet things, berated herself for often not having the time to spend in her kitchen, spending her days off from the opera house with her elbows covered in flour as she labored lovingly over desserts that only Adelaide, Manon and Benoit—and Monsieur Caldwell at times—appreciated.

But she had been interrupted then, by one kindly waiter who had entered her compartment again and asked for her pardon, producing a pen and a napkin hesitantly for her to sign. Laur had smiled then, grateful to him for possibly saving her from being swallowed by her sadness, autographing the napkin for the kind man with a flare as she thanked him and he gushed about the excellence of her latest performance.

Since her engagement three days ago, Laur had went to the opera house for only a single night, though the directors were imploring her to take time for family and were more than happy to let her have as much time off that she wanted—as long as she remained signed with the Roses Bleues opera house. It was a favorable position, a secure position for Laur that her fame and popularity in the opera sphere had rendered her such a valuable asset that she need not worry about ever not being able to use her voice and perform.

Laur hadn't performed her latest performance at the Roses Bleues thinking of it as a farewell performance, for she was going to live in Paris—if only for a few weeks or months at a time as per her fiancé's business engagements in Paris. So it hadn't been a farewell, though she supposed the audience believed it to be, for the news of her engagement with the bank business tycoon—a term that Adelaide had read in amusement in a newspaper headline—Édouard Arsenault, was common news courtesy of most media outlets in France.

So her latest show at Roses Bleues had been a full house, and the directors were both excited at being sold out, and anxious that the farewell concept would manifest itself into reality.

Now, the train had come slowly to a halt, and from the glass window of her compartment, she saw the train station of Marseille in a swirl of smoke, rushing figures of well dressed men and women, as anxiety and excitement danced on their facial expressions while they waited for their loved ones or worried about leaving their loved ones.

Outside, overhead, the sky was still dark and a giant clock hung up on against the wall of the station quarters displayed the time. It was precisely ten minutes to two, and the night was still aggressively dark, even though in Paris Laur was used to seeing the sky lightening into soft blue once 2am hit.

She stood in her compartment, stroking Berlioz's fur as she watched the people outside—all immersed into their own present dilemmas-and listened to the people inside the train—calling out to their families and companions and preparing to unboard the train.

Laurentine had no one to call, she knew no one on this train but her fiancé—well, at least she knew him to an extent, regardless of the circumstances of their engagement. So she was not sure if she should go out of the compartment to look for him. Where had he sat? In which compartment had he sought solace from her? She couldn't be sure, and she had no heart to venture out on her own.

So she waited for him to come to her, and she had only stood for a few minutes when Édouard was at the door of her compartment, clearing his throat to get her attention.

His hair looked slightly disheveled, though his suit was in perfect condition and his dinner jacket was pristine, as was his gleaming white shirt collar. Laur could tell that he had rested his head against his compartment wall or his seat for the whole train ride, and was not aware that his curly hair was no longer how he liked it to be.

But she liked it. She liked how he looked, she adored his messy hair—whichever state it was in. She liked his hazel eyes, and at present-as they were sparkling with a determination and a sense of duty—she liked them more.

Her grievances against him—for leaving her on her own in a big compartment on a train enroute to a city that was more or less foreign to her—were forgotten then, as she tried to make sense of her emotions.

"I hope you had a comfortable journey, mademoiselle?" He uttered then, his voice hard, eyes concentrated in hers.

"Laur, please," Laurentine managed, her brows furrowing slightly. She was already feeling so heavy, could he not at least call her by her name to ground her a little? To give her a sense of familiarity in this completely unfamiliar place?

He was her fiancé now, why was he acting like a complete stranger? Why was he acting like she had somehow acquired a disease and was not fit to be frank with anymore? He had gotten her a separate compartment, was she supposed to thank him for it? When not so long ago she had been so very eager to go on intimate dinner dates with him? Mon Dieu, what has happened, how had everything gone so terribly?

"You are my fiancé," She spoke, her heart feeling weighed down. It was the first time she was saying the word to him—labelling him with the word in front of him.

Édouard Arsenault's gaze hardened in hers as he blinked, dipping his head slightly in what she perceived to be a firm nod.

"Laur," He uttered her name then, resigning himself to her request with an acceptance that did not take him much effort. "I hope you had a comfortable journey."

"I did," She managed a forced smile, her stomach empty and her resolve feeling weak. "Thank you."

"My mother and sister await us at my estate," He nodded then, his eyes strong in hers. "We will be taking a carriage straight home, it is only a fifteen minute journey from the station. But still, if you want to, we can make a stop along the way."

Home. Laurentine tried not to shiver at the word. Her home was back in Paris, it was his own home he was talking about. From here on out, his home was supposed to be home for her as well, and Laur's chest had long since started weighing at the thought of that compromise.

"No it is alright," She offered softly, "I do not want to keep your mother and sister waiting."

He managed a curt nod, before stepping aside and making way for her to exit the compartment. Laur held Berlioz close to her as she maintained her smile and glided past Édouard's waiting form. In the compact space of the compartment hallway corridor outside, Laur's elbow gently brushed against his chest as he let her pass, before falling to step behind her, trying to rein in his senses which had now been scattered viciously like a pack of cards because of her floral and vanilla scent in his nose, the touch of her entirely clothed elbow at his entirely closed chest.

She smelled divine, and he wasn't sure if he had ever noticed it solely before. He had held her in his arms that rainy night at the police station—but that night and everything that had been between them before it seemed like a buried memory. Édouard knew he had changed their story, from whatever it could've been, he had changed it to this.

There was now only before and after that night at the police station, and there was no going back.

Édouard Arsenault was no blind fool to not sense the discomfort in Laurentine Bonfamille's manor. He was aware that he had made a beneficial proposal to her. Like a jester he had played upon every morsel of insight she had offered to him of her troubles, and he had used it all to convince her to marry him. Unlike a jester however, he planned to keep his word.

Why had he done it? He asked himself as he stepped out onto the station behind her, watching preoccupied faces at the platform turn to gape at the form of his lady, clad in her vibrant cranberry colored coat with jewels sparkling at her ears and nestled at her neck, her luscious golden hair—falling in perfectly molded waves at her back—covered underneath a sleek black wide brimmed hat that she had adjusted now to release a delicate black lace covering to conceal her face a little.

She stood out, her regal star-like bearing—her presence like that of a gem found amongst a stash of mundane rocks.

Why had he done it? Édouard Arsenault—owner of France's leading banks, investor, financier—asked himself again. But at that moment when he walked up beside her, and she turned to look at him with her blue eyes glittering like diamonds and her glorious smile embellished on her goddess-like face, Édouard realized exactly why he had done what he had done.

She was impossibly beautiful—both inside out, and she had been ripe for the taking from the start. He would've courted her for however long he would have to, but circumstances had relieved him of that tedious endeavor.

She would marry him now, there was no courting to be embarked upon. She would become his wife and he would have his prestige entirely completed. A successful and renowned banker, investor and financier with a perfect wife. His mother was pleased at the prospect, and he could finally focus entirely on his ambition and his plans. Ambition—especially in this world of 1881—was a fruit ripened for wealthy and married men with their secure positions in life both domestic and economical. These were the only men who succeeded and were diverted by no distractions. Édouard Arsenault would now entirely be such a man.

Laurentine Bonfamille looked at him through the teasing sheerness of the delicate black veil that had appeared before her fair face, her blue irises glittering in a cautious hope and her soft ruby red lips slightly parted.

Édouard had to turn his eyes away from her, his jaw firming as his control tested him. His wife-to-be was damningly beautiful, and he would covet her accordingly. But their circumstances had made conditions appear—conditions that he had conveniently brought up before she could have—and by such conditions they would abide.

It would be easy for her, Édouard knew that. He would give her every material comfort she wanted and her life would more or less go on as she lived before. But he? He was irreparably altered. He was altered and the mere sight of her as his lawful wife would be torture, but he would bear it. He would look away—he would stay away if he had to. For she didn't want him and had only agreed to the marriage because of all that he had promised her. Édouard was often blind to other things whilst deep in his business endeavors, but he wasn't blind enough to not see that.

Their carriage appeared before she could say anything to him, and for that he was grateful. He took her gloved hand and helped her inside. All of her baggage and a single case that he had brought, was moved into the carriage by station men and Édouard paid their services off with a ward of hard cash slapped into the palm of a single station hand, gesturing for him to distribute. Then Édouard stepped inside the carriage, took a seat opposite to Laur, and punched the carriage roof. The driver yanked at the reins, and the carriage hauled forwards.

Laurentine Bonfamille, was a plethora of bundled up nerves that were threatening to entirely take over her composure. She was being taken to her new home—or at least, one of her new homes. She was on her way to meet the family of the man she was going to marry. It all seemed like such an explosion of shock. How had she not had time to become used to the information during the train journey to Marseille? Why had she not made herself privy to it? Why hadn't she prepared herself more?

Mon Dieu, she knew nothing about Édouard Arsenault's family. Alright, well, she knew his mother was a fan of opera and had listened to some of Laur's own performances as well. She knew that his younger sister was fond of modern physics and aspired to be a physicist, and she knew his younger brother was a vagabond and presently in Avignon?

Laurentine knew only these few things and they had been what her fiancé had chosen to tell her about his family. When he had told her these things, they had only just met and she had been entirely taken with him. But after he had asked her to marry him, he had given her nothing else.

What if his family did not like her? What if his mother—a fan of opera as she was—did not like how Laur was off the stage? What if the woman found Laurentine's personality to be nothing at all? Or would the girl be judged for her looks? No, no. Nobody could be that harsh, surely. But wouldn't a woman thoroughly evaluate someone her son was looking to marry in accordance with personal set standards? What if Laur felt short of all that? What if Édouard's sister—a potential physicist, no less—thought of her as nothing special at all? Mon Dieu, what did Laur even know about physics?

Would Édouard not marry her then, if his family did not approve?

Laurentine cast a glance at him, watching his hazel eyes fixed in determination as he gazed outside the window, a curve in between his brows, his jaw set. She did not know what she would do if he refused to marry her as per his family's wishes. She would be free to be who was before, yes, but what of all the promises? With what face would she plead with him to still consider Adelaide's safety in England? She would have no right nor strength to ask then. As his wife, she would be obligated to receive his fulfillment of all promises.

Laur wanted that. She wanted to be secure in asking things of him which he had already promised. She wanted to hold him to his word. And besides, she doubted that her heart would survive if he decided to discard her upon his family's opinions.

Laurentine's heart had betrayed her. It was not on her side anymore. It was attached to him, and that was why she was hurting. She had fallen for him and hoped he would fall the same way but he never had and never will. Still she wanted to marry him. She sounded insane even to herself, but if her thoughts were written down somewhere—haphazard and chaotic as they were—surely a reader could be able to make sense of it. Surely another would understand.

The ragdoll kitten in her lap sensed her inner turmoil in some way, for politely, he was off. He wiggled himself out of Laurentine's lap and jumped to the opposite seat, the moving carriage unable to deter him. Then, meowing, Berlioz slowly approached Édouard Arsenault, tucking his nose carefully into the gentleman's side.

"I'm sorry," Laur managed, reaching her hands out to take Berlioz, but the gentleman met her eyes for a beat and shook his head slowly before turning to the kitten and putting his gloved hand on top of his head.

Berlioz—delighted at the permission—crawled into Édouard's lap and nestled himself there, circling his body and curling to rest.

Édouard stroked the kitten's fur with a careful movement, before lifting his eyes and meeting Laurentine's. Her blue eyes softened in his gaze, yet his hazel eyes remained firm before he looked away and fixed them outside the passing scape in the carriage window.

Laur blinked away the sudden plunge of something inside her chest, and settled back into her seat, trying to keep the emotion from rising up to her throat.

Perhaps he would be the same as he had been before with Berlioz. The kitten had loved him like her from the start, and Édouard had reciprocated her kitten's fondness for him. Perhaps he would remain the same with Berlioz, but with her he would never be the same again. That fact alone was enough to sear inside her like a hole burning and darkening in her heart.

In the silence encapsulating the carriage ride, as Laur tried hard not to look in the direction of her fiancé, and allowed the Marseille city scape outside to distract her in vain, the carriage pulled up in front of a stunning and elaborate mansion, it's grounds and lush gardens guarded by an elegant and dauntingly designed iron gate being held at the side by stone pillar foundations.

The same intricate iron design made a fence extending at both the right and the left, meeting the neighboring houses' own fences. The neighboring estates could not compare to the extravagance of the Arsenault estate, they were much too demure in comparison. For the latter was a glorious georgian structure with cream pillars and intricate designs framing multiple bow windows and French door windows. Mansard roofs embellished the extravagance and timelessness of the estate. In the core front of the mansion, in the middle, was a huge and beautiful palladian window—it's glass starting to catch the softening of the night sky in a serenity.

Édouard Arsenault held Berlioz carefully in his arms as he stepped down the carriage. Laur saw uniformed footmen descend from the brown front door, walk down the pathway and past the gardens in a queue, and aid the guards in opening the iron gates wide before the footmen slipped outside, instantly beginning to unload the luggage from the trunk of the carriage.

Laurentine heard them greet Édouard, the older footmen referring to him as Master Arsenault while the younger footmen called him Monsieur Arsenault, as they inquired about his journey and he in turn asked about the happenings in his absence. The difference in his addressing by the footmen made Laur understand the beginnings of her fiancé's position. This estate—as well as the bank business itself—used to be his late father's, and in Marseille he would always be held under that label of a second generation businessman, his father's heir. Elsewhere, in Paris and in Bordeaux—or other cities he ventured in for business—would he be seen as his own man, not merely his father's heir.

Laurentine wondered if Édouard liked that. He hadn't ever specified a distaste against the situation in front of her when they had talked—when they could talk to each other. But she couldn't ask him now, and she doubted if she ever could anymore. What was the point? Would he even answer her questions? They were not courting, there were going to be no dinner dates. There was only going to be only marriage, and then nothing after that. He had no cause to answer her questions, and she should have no cause to ask.

She shut her eyes briefly, and tried to get her breathing in order. Her nerves were still acting up—racing inside of her as her heart dully pounded. She tried to compose herself, and the moment she opened her eyes, her fiancé was at the door of the carriage, his gloved hand extended for her as he cleared his throat.

Berlioz was safely in Édouard's other hand, being held against his torso with his palm carefully under the kitten's belly, cupping him as the ragdoll kitten meowed softly.

Laurentine managed her smile, her heart flitting still as she placed her own gloved hand in Édouard's and allowed him to support her descent as she stepped down on the ground in front of his mansion.

The estate was bigger than any Laur had seen—or even been to—in Paris. She had liked to think the Bonfamille mansion was the grandest in Paris, even though some in the Banlieues—like Genevieve Garnier's place—came touchingly close.

But there was no marker in Laur's mind for Édouard's home. It looked like an estate Louis XIV might've procured for himself as an escape from Versailles. The estate was so lavish and perfect, it looked fit for Kings and Queens. Mon Dieu, was Édouard's estate in Bordeaux the same? Had the one he had acquired in Paris just as breathtakingly grand?

"Mademoiselle," A footman appeared in front of her—an elder man with a shiny balding head and a pot belly, but his form uniformed to perfection and not a crease in sight.

He bowed to her.

"Welcome," He spoke kindly, "It is a pleasure to have you here, I trust your journey was convenient?"

"Oui," Laur managed smiling, "Thank you."

"My name is Jean-Paul, mademoiselle, and I implore you to remember me for anything you might need. At present, your quarters are ready for you. The family awaits to meet you in the ground floor drawing room, I have been instructed to bring you and Master Arsenault straight to them. I shall lead you to your rooms afterwards so that you can rest from your journey."

Laurentine nodded once, grateful at the warmth in his words. It felt like a balm to the turmoil in her soul.

"Thank you, Jean-Paul," She uttered again.

The man smiled, before looking at Édouard too.

"Now, if you both will please follow me."

Laur's blue eyes found her fiancé's before she even took a step forwards, and she found that he was looking at her. His hazel eyes intense, but closed off and firm. He too extended a hand to gesture her forwards, Berlioz still held against his chest with his other arm.

Laurentine exhaled softly, before stepping forwards and following the footman's lead.

Behind her, she could still hear the shuffle and slight disturbance of all her luggage being assembled by the younger footmen to be taken to her rooms. She would have separate quarters, she realized. Of course, she was not married to Édouard yet, she would have separate quarters.

The realization was a relief, for Laur needed time to herself. She needed to have an empty room to herself so that she could rid herself of everything that was clawing at her before everything set itself in stone. Mon Dieu, in the carriage ride here she had felt herself almost tear up. She needed to get her sadness out. She needed to put it all in a box and store it away, for nothing would work this way, if she was always on edge of tears when she was with him—nothing would work this way.

The estate was even grandiose from the inside. Sparkling chandeliers glittered like a thousand stars clustered together in the middle of every ceiling. The hallway laden with dark green carpets, the soft green and golden gilded tapestries, the cream ceilings and golden and green furnished furniture—it was all a brilliant spectacle put together by careful hands. Laur suspected an interior design enthusiast—or perhaps just a woman who loved her father or husband's house passionately. It could be either Édouard's sister or mother, for only a woman held a taste for beauty so particular and lavish as this.

Laurentine adored it. She felt like a princess in a story, the beauty and grandeur around her made her stand taller—it elevated her. Her home in Paris too had been beautiful, but not so much as this. She had become used to the mansion, she had yearly changed things around and had dabbled in having the furnishings and tapestries changed monthly. That had been her realm—hers to make and hers to change.

But here, everything was set. It felt different—a glowing kind of different—to step into a setting that was already perfected according to another's taste so much so that the perfection itself was undeniable in the eyes of any onlooker or guest passing by.

Laur drove her confidence from her surroundings, and soon, she had silenced the churnings of her heart and her nerves had settled.

Jean-Paul, his balding head glistening under the chandelier lights, as well as from the soft glow of the lightening sky outside—as it shone in through the tall floor to ceiling glass windows lining the interiors—lead Édouard and herself into a glorious drawing room to the left of the grand foyer.

The carpeting in the foyer too had been a deep green like all the carpeted floors Laurentine had treaded on, and the grand staircase had been utterly beautiful—wide and cream colored with intricately designed thick cream railings that had molded images of lion heads in cream at the start and the end.

She hadn't had time enough in the foyer, and now that she had been lead into an equally stunning drawing room, her eyes had to be strictly torn away from their admiration of the green and gold gilded room, for two female figures stood in the center, waiting to receive Édouard and Laur.

On instinct, Laurentine stopped when she was close enough, Édouard breaking away from him spot at her side as he pushed on forwards.

"Mother," He spoke, before eagerly going onto embrace the first woman.

The Lady Arsenault, was a short woman, her form plump and glamorous, clad in a vibrant gown of mint blue that hugged her body tightly, matching jewels glinting in her ears and resting at her collarbones.

She embraced her eldest son back, her fleshy arms on his elbows as she planted a kiss to his cheek. The woman had dark curly hair, similar to that of Édouard's own messy set, but hers was pulled back in a small jeweled bun at the nape of her thick neck. She carried herself regally, just like an admirer and connoisseur of fine things in life.

Laur felt as though her presence was an intrusion. From the way he had embraced his mother and accepted a kiss on his cheek, Laurentine felt as though she was looking at a different man entirely. She felt.. strange. She felt hollow and left behind, as though he was giving bits of himself to everyone but her.

"Brother," The second female figure spoke with a gentle pleasure, and Laur saw that the woman was slim—and looked to be exactly Adelaide's age.

She was Adelaide's age, hadn't Édouard told Laur himself? But unlike Adelaide—who was chubbier and held herself with a certain well informed nonchalance—this girl was much slimmer, her proportions thinner than Laur herself to the point that the girl was bound to appear sickly is she did not take pains with her health.

But despite her slimness, she held herself with that same well informed look as Laurentine's younger sister, but it was etched with a profound gentleness and feminine softness—something that Adelaide didn't really possess.

Édouard hugged his sister next, using one arm and placing a brief kiss on the girl's forehead.

Laur's heart swelled at that gesture.

Berlioz meowed softly at Édouard's side, and his sister giggled in excitement as she looked at the kitten. Her eyes lifted into her brother's before she turned away from him to finally allow herself to focus on Laur. The Arsenault girl too had curly black hair against fair skin, but hers was creamed into waves resting at her shoulders.

"And this precious kitten must be yours," The girl smiled at her, before stepping forwards to approach Laurentine.

Laur's default smile softened as the girl took hold of her gloved hands carefully and peered into Laur's eyes with a warmth that the latter couldn't fathom.

"How do you do?" The girl beamed. "I am Francine Arsenault, and I am horrified to tell you that my brother has not indeed offered to give up anything about you, aside from everything we have successfully gleaned out ourselves of course, in order not to appear utter fools in front of the Laurentine Bonfamille."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Francine," Laur managed, relief cascading through her chest at the girl's soft manner.

"Oh, but the pleasure is all ours," Francine shook her head. "I assure you of that!"

"Indeed," Édouard's mother spoke then, her voice careful and thick as she made her way towards the two girls, her firm expression softening as her eyes met Laur's.

Both his mother and his sister had glinting hazel eyes as well, and Laurentine could not help but smile at that sweet fact.

"Because you see," The Lady Arsenault added after a pause, "I am such an admirer of your work. You are absolutely radiant in your presence on stage, my dear."

"Though," The woman added, "I have not had the opportunity to listen to you live, but that is not for the lack of want my dear."

"Yes," Francine probed. "Gosh, we had wanted so much to come see you in Paris after Édouard sent word of the engagement, but mother is a bit sensitive to travelling, you see."

"Mother could not believe it when Édouard wrote and said he was engaged to you," The girl giggled then. "My brother being engaged to be married is one shock, but engaged to be married to a famous opera performer is a whole separate shock!"

"Alright, Francine," The Lady Arsenault narrowed her eyes softly. "Let us not overwhelm her please."

Then the woman turned to smile at Laur. "I am so glad you made it here alright, was your journey tiring my dear?"

"No," Laur shook her head. "Not at all, thank you."

"Now," The woman reached up a thick hand and placed it gently on Laurentine's clothed elbow.

"I must insist you follow Jean-Paul to your chambers and rest first before we exchange another word, my dear. There is simply too much to talk about and I need you to be well rested before we start."