A/N: 
I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far? I adore you all for being here! Thank you so so much for all the votes, comments and support!<3 

***

xxix.

"AH, MADAME ARSENAULT, TO HAVE SEEN YOU ONLY A FEW MONTHS AGO as the most eligible bachelorette in Paris, and now you are married and off the market!" Monsieur Jules Massenet exclaimed, a grin encasing his sand-colored face as he slapped his knee once in joy. "I must say, you have made more than just the headlines this time!"

"Massenet," Monsieur Ambroise Thomas—the aging maestro and director of Paris Conservatoire of seventy years of age, with his sparse hair and round but sophisticated form—uttered with a disapproval as he sipped his cup of tea.

"Let us not be vulgar enough to attest that My dear Laurentine's sole attraction in Paris was her availability as a potential bride," The maestro hummed, eyes narrowing at his former pupil, for the thirty-nine year old Jules Massenet—with his dimpled face, broad easy going manner, and exceptional skill at the piano and violin, as well as ten or more compositions of his own under his belt—had indeed been a long term pupil of the director's.

So had the thirty-seven year old Gabriel Fauré, as Laur had been told about and introduced to, who at present—with his platinum blonde hair, light eyes and a perfectly elegant form despite his towering physique—sat smiling at the observations being made around him with one knee on top of other and his upper body being held firmly upright as though he was but a Greek statue. He too, as Laur was told, was a master of the violin, and had two opera compositions of his own, of which one had been produced multiple times in opera houses throughout France, and the other had yet to debut.

"Quite common of you indeed, sir," Fauré uttered with a smirk then as Massenet shrugged before flashing Laur a wink.

"Forgive me for discrediting you so, Madame, even if that was not the intent."

Laurentine smiled playfully. "You are entirely forgiven, Monsieur, for what am I if not forgiving?"

She got up off her seat on the sofa in the guest drawing room on the ground floor of the estate, her beautiful angelic form on full display as she glided across to where Madeleine Laurent sat beside Monsieur Massenet.

Cheekily, Laur tucked her hand into Madeleine's elbow and ushered the lady up as the latter giggled and set aside her teacup.

"Now, darling," Laurentine patted Madeleine's arm as they began to stroll around the room together. "You must truthfully tell me the intentions of these gentlemen for seeking me out so all the way here, for none of them seem to be coming clean!"

"Goodness, my dear Laurentine," The old maestro Monsieur Ambroise Thomas let out next. "Cannot an old man make a visit to a cherished and talented young lady?"

Laur gasped in mock offense. "A visit that the young lady had asked the old man for countless times in Paris? Oh please, Monsieur Thomas, some entirely convincing wind has led you to my husband's estate in Bordeaux and I shall find out soon what it said to you! For I have numerous refused invitations for dinners and suppers to show for your misgivings."

"Ah," The aging director waved a hand at her playfulness. "The only wind that led me here was the knowledge that you have resigned from your contract with the Roses Bleues. Now, I want to hear it from your lips alone, is this true?"

Laurentine halted in her stroll, tilted her head, glancing at Madeleine before meeting eyes with the maestro.

"Indeed, it is," She affirmed. "My time there was lovely, and Madame Camille was a gem to me. But I do not want to do such long contracts again, especially when my husband's business deems me to move often in between his estates in Paris, Marseille and Bordeaux. Roses Bleues for 5 years of my life was an absolutely wonderful time."

"At least 4 of those years were wasted time, Laurentine," The old man uttered. "As I've said to you often before."

Laur laughed, shaking her head. "Please, Ambroise, you believe fruitlessly that I could've gained the success I have now had I left Roses Bleues after one year."

"You could've gained more," Monsieur Ambroise Thomas leaned forwards. "Roses Bleues tied an opera angel like you down. They were restrictive with you. You can do so much more with your voice and you know it."

Laur exchanged a glance with Madeleine, and the girl shrugged discreetly, smiling a slow smile before she tapped Laurentine's elbow in assurance and ventured back to her seat. The subject of the visit had been reached, yet Laur still couldn't tell what it was.

"Half the opera world believes you have retired, Madame," Gabriel Fauré spoke, taking a small bite of the biscuit, he had picked up from the afternoon tea spread in front of them.

"What with your withdrawal from the Roses Bleues and no other contract signed with a different opera house to back you up."

"Surely you are not retiring?" Monsieur Jules Massenet blurted out. "Or going independent? Going solo in the operatic world is risky and quite.."

"Bohemian," The aging maestro added in the untasteful word. "It is entirely uncalled for in this day and age. Going solo is for portrait painters and writers, certainly not for successful opera singers."

"Well," Laur managed lightly, knowing full well that she hadn't decided yet anything about her career going forwards.

"What of Genevieve and Madeleine?" She continued playfully. "They too resigned from Roses Bleues. Aren't there tales of their own retirement circulating, as mine seem to be?"

"Actually," Madeleine chimed in, her eyes sparkling. "I have signed onto a new opera company, and Genevieve has publicly announced her retirement from opera."

"What?" Laur gasped, shocked and surprised as she rushed to Madeleine's side, sitting herself on the arm of the lady's side of the sofa.

"Tell me everything! What opera company? And Genevieve—oh Mon Dieu, when did that happen? She didn't write a word to me! And neither did you!"

"Well," Madeleine laughed. "One would assume you read the morning papers here in this gorgeous fairytale mansion you live in, at least once! There have been numerous articles about Genevieve's retirement and about your own alleged one."

"Well," Laur's smile softened, "One can be wrong. You know I don't like to read the critics, or anything journalists have to say about opera and the performers."

"Well," Monsieur Ambroise Thomas repeated the word with an emphasis, "This brings us to the crux of the matter. Fauré and Massenet have collaborated together and opened a prestigious opera company. They have bought off Palais Garnier in Paris, Opéra National de Bordeaux, Opéra de Marseille and Opéra National du Rhin in Strasbourg."

Laurentine's eyes widened. "That is simply magnificent!"

"It is," Monsieur Massenet beamed. "But it could be made more magnificent if you agree to do a contract with us, Madame."

"True," Monsieur Fauré added in. "Madame Madeleine Laurent too has signed on with us, along with a horde of other successful French opera performers including Emma Calvé, Pasquale Amato, Geraldine Ferrar, Jane Bathori and others."

"But it is you we require the most out of all of them, Laur," Massenet switched to his informal addressing of her, as he often did as friends.

"I desperately need you as the face for our opera company. To have you star again not only in the roles you have already excelled—such as your performance as Elaine in Bemberg's Elaine, and Lucia in Lucia di Lammermoor, and every time you did Rosina in The Barber of Seville—but I need you to star in the productions of mine and Fauré's own compositions as well. We have such gold in store to produce, and it will all only shine out with you there."

"Oui," Gabriel Fauré nodded. "I need you for the debut of my opera Pénélope. Three acts. It is the first opera we intend to do and is based on Homer's Odyssey. I need you as my lead, Madame Arsenault, as my Pénélope."

Laurentine blinked; all the information seemed too much to digest. For it had been long since she had been in the discussion rooms at the Roses Bleues, sat at a table with the director Madame Camille, across from composers and librettists, discussing her upcoming roles and parts. But at the same time, all that seemed like it had only happened yesterday too.

Laur had loved that part of her life to bits. She loved working so much, she adored what she did—she adored singing opera. But ever since Édouard had come into her life, she had.. stopped, without meaning to. She had sung the aria from La Traviata for the orphanage she visited four days ago, and she had forgotten the thrill and rush of life her performance had given her.

But could she go back? Continue it all again? How? Wasn't she.. wasn't she expecting now? She was pregnant, how could she ever go back to the way things were?

She was married and pregnant, with a husband who she loved desperately but who couldn't seem to understand love at all and wouldn't stay to listen. Édouard was disturbed, his definition of love so scarred and broken—Mon Dieu, he hurt her heart every second he was present, and every second that he was absent. How could such a man love a child? How could Laur subject a pure precious child to the heartache that she suffered on the daily? No. She couldn't. She couldn't.

"Your contract will involve 4 years. Then we can renew it later on," Massenet spoke, his voice breaking through her thoughts. "And you will not be forced to travel, or perform every day. Twice or thrice a week only, and for that we will engage the opera house in the city you are in. As mentioned before, the Palais Garnier in Paris, Opéra National de Bordeaux, Opéra de Marseille and Opéra National du Rhin in Strasbourg—are all ours. And for a seasoned performer such as you, the opera house and audience will be the one travelling. Additionally, I know money is no factor to sway an already wealthy lady like you towards our cause, but our deal will consist of 300,000 francs to you, per week."

"What do you say, Laurentine?" Monsieur Ambroise Thomas asked then, raising a sparse brow. "Fauré and Massenet are producing and debuting Pénélope in a week if you sign onto the company, with you as the lead, here at the Opéra National de Bordeaux."

"I don't suppose I have ever rushed learning a part in one week," Laurentine spoke airily, her heart stuttering in her chest.

The world of music and lights and raucous applause, the world of bouquets thrown at her feet on stage and being asked to dine out every night—showered with praise in every sentence spoken to her. Mon Dieu, that was her world, not this darkness that Édouard insisted on pushing her against. She was suffocating in Édouard's darkness, and he did not even care wherever he had vanished to.

"Then we'll push the debut back," Fauré insisted. "Though I doubt you will take longer than 3 days to fully become Pénélope. The opera role was written for you."

Laur blinked in surprise, looking at the composer of the opera. Gabriel Fauré grinned at her, a sleek charm engulfing his manner.

"I'm flattered, Monsieur," Laurentine managed, smiling. "Never have I ever been associated with a character in Homer's Odessey."

"Well," Monsieur Fauré's grin turned boyish. "You haven't then met the right admirer yet, Madame."

"Monsieur Fauré," Madeleine called out, laughing. "You are such a flirt. Might I remind you that Laur is happily married? In fact, so happily, that Monsieur Édouard Arsenault is absolutely murderous when it comes to gentlemen flirting with his wife. Need I remind you what happened with Charles Barbier?"

"Oh oui," Jules Massenet clicked his tongue. "The papers relayed the story from every angle. Understandable, though. Businessmen are quite protective of their wives and names, and cannot be persuaded otherwise. I am sorry for what you went through, Laur, Barbier is a damn crook."

"Indeed he is," Fauré affirmed, his smug grin changed to a sincere look. "I, however, merely jest, Madame. For God knows I have no interest in becoming fodder for your husband's knuckles."

"How Laurentine could've married a businessman at all is still beyond me," The aging maestro sighed then, shaking his head, before meeting Laur's eyes. "I always saw you next to a composer, my dear."

Laurentine managed a cordial smile, though her heart seemed to hurt in her chest—throbbing painfully. Perhaps marrying a composer would've hurt less, oui, but she would still have married Édouard—chosen him in every lifetime. No matter how many times God sent her back to undo her mistake, she knew she would keep making this one. Maybe this was why God never sent people back, because he knew they needed to make the mistakes they did.

"Be that as it may, Ambroise," Laur managed. "I do love Édouard. I would choose him in every lifetime. I wish he had been home today so that I could introduce him to you, I'm certain you would approve of him."

"Oh, how romantic," Madeleine Laurent sighed then, and Laurentine flushed, smiling at her friend. "Unlike you gentlemen, I was at the wedding. Ask me if you think Monsieur Arsenault and Laur are made for each other, and I shall say oui even in my sleep."

"Indeed," Jules Massenet raised a brow cheekily. "But let us get back on topic. What do you say about our proposal, Madame Arsenault? Will you sign our contract? Become our Pénélope, and more leads to come?"

Laur closed her eyes briefly. Her hand almost reaching for her stomach before she stopped it midway. Édouard would not want a child. He couldn't even love her without hurting her, so how could he love a child?

The physician could help take it away. He had said it would be dangerous, but it could be done. She would brave it all. She could go back to singing afterwards. Édouard wouldn't have to know any of it. He would support her decision to sign onto another contract with an opera company—he had alluded to his approval of the idea a lot of times, hadn't he? Then Laurentine would have something to do—something she loved and could immerse herself in. Something that would muffle the hurt Édouard caused her each time with his words.

Laur opened her eyes, a determined smile on her face as her heart threatened to shatter. Maybe if she didn't think more about getting rid of the baby and just did it, the whole prospect of the notion would hurt less. Everything would fall into place—a rightful place that didn't have to hurt.

"I say yes," She beamed, as Jules Massenet and Gabriel Fauré huzzahed, and Madeleine clapped excitedly.

"Perfect!" The lady exclaimed, "Oh, Laur, I simply cannot wait to work alongside you again!"

"Then it's decided!" Massenet slapped his thigh, gesturing to Fauré who in stark contrast, elegantly produced a contract from inside his dinner jacket and unfolded it once to hand it over to a waiting footman.

The footman collected the contract and then the ink pen that Monsieur Massenet was holding out, before carefully bringing both those things over to where Laurentine was seated.

She took the things, and thanked the footman, before her eyes scanned the terms of the contact. Laur couldn't help but laugh.

"How come you gentlemen came so assured of my affirmation to have brought the contract along?" She uttered slyly. "Am I that predictable?"

"If you were, we wouldn't be here," The aging maestro mused. "We would probably be in a composer's drawing room somewhere in Paris, no?"

Laur narrowed her eyes playfully at the maestro, before looking back at the contract and confirming all of the terms and conditions coincided with everything she had been. Then, she found the line in the end and signed her elaborate signature on top of it.

"There, all done," She handed the contract and the pen over to the waiting footman who took it over to Massenet.

"Magnificent," The man claimed as he received the contract. "I simply cannot wait to see you on our stages. Speaking of which, there's the opening event tonight at Opéra National de Bordeaux for our opera company's launch. Would you care to join us?"

Laurentine gasped in mock surprise. "The opening event is tonight? You mischievous men, what if I had said no?"

"Well then we would've had to tell our other performers and honored guests in attendance tonight that we had failed in acquiring your talent for our company," Fauré mused. "You see, Massenet needed a strong take at persuasion."

"True," Massenet clicked his tongue. "But I do think that we would've managed to convince you to at least attend the opening night, even if you had refused to sign with us."

"Well," Laur batted her eyelashes. "I do so adore opening nights, don't you?"

"My lady," A voice was heard at the entrance of the drawing room, and the attentions of the party combined and turned to subject itself upon the form of the butler, Gaston.

"Oh, Gaston!" Laurentine exclaimed, "Do come in, I shall introduce you to Monsieur Ambroise Thomas like I promised."

The butler appeared somewhat embarrassed at his mistress' insistence, yet still he wound his way in and stood alongside the seated form of Laur, bowing cordially towards the aging maestro Monsieur Thomas as Laur made the introductions.

"Gaston is the captain of our ship here at Bordeaux," Laurentine beamed proudly. "He is possibly tired of hearing me say this, but we shall all crash into boulders, were he not here to navigate us."

"A driven man then," Monsieur Thomas mused, pleased as his keen eyes observed the lanky yet strict form of the butler. "Well, if Laurentine has praise for you then I shall believe it instantly. Tell me, any musical talents?"

Laurentine laughed. "Oh, I wish! Though, Gaston can play the piano perfectly beautifully. He played for me yesterday after I–after I came down with an indisposition."

Laur almost stuttered when she referred to her fainting spell last night, and now she was terrified she had divulged all of her personal misfortunes in one slip of tongue.

"Oh, no, darling," Madeleine Laurent was the first to catch it. "Are you alright? I hope it was nothing serious?"

"No, darling, it wasn't," Laur managed. "Don't worry."

"Well then, my good man," The maestro turned the focus back onto the butler, handing him a card. "Do not hesitate to send a word to me if you want to polish those pianist skills of yours. I shall take you under my wing personally, for you have come recommended by my dear Laurentine herself."

"You are kind, Ambroise," The mistress of the house smiled at the aging man. "Merci."

"Ah, you are most welcome," Was the dismissive response, and Laurentine was reminded once again that the famous maestro did not deal well with gratitude, appearing flushed and disturbed when he was subjected to it.

"My lady," Gaston turned to Laur then, slight urgency in his manner. "The cake for Berlioz you put on the gas stove is done and has already been set aside to cool."

"Oh, perfect!" The lady of the house clapped her hands, before turning to face her guests. "Gentlemen, and my dear friend Madeleine, it is my darling Berlioz's birthday today and I have baked a cake for the occasion. Would you care to join us in a mini celebration?"

A round of agreement and huzzahs circulated in the drawing room, and Laur got up, smoothening her skirts with her hands.

"Well then," She beamed. "I shall have the cake decorated and served in a jiffy. I started baking it later than I expected to, which is why it isn't already ready to serve. I apologize. Please do excuse me."

With that, Laurentine exited the drawing room gracefully, her gown flowing behind her, with Gaston at her heels, as she made her way to the estate kitchens.

"Where is Berlioz, Gaston?"

"He is with Manon, my lady," The butler answered. "They await us in the kitchens."

──── ౨ৎ ────

The kitchens of the Bordeaux estate were grand, etched with intricate woodwork and an open space that basked in the sunlight pouring in from one of the two large windows on either side.

The footmen frequented in and out of the kitchens silently in the background, on account of replenishing the refreshments that kept disappearing in the drawing room—courtesy of the guests. The maids worked silently in the background too, cleaning surfaces that weren't the kitchen island that Laurentine was hovered over on her cake presently, accompanied by Gaston and Manon, with Berlioz having pounced on top of the otherwise empty kitchen counter as he sat himself a safe distance away from the cake, observing Laur's efforts at decorating it.

The cook had been sent off to rest and recuperate, for with the upcoming attendance of Laurentine's at the opening event at Opéra National de Bordeaux, there was no need for a meal to be prepared for the night.

Laur took the small cup of white cream sitting beside the cake and tipped it over the spongy vanilla cake, scraping the rest of it out with a knife as she began spreading the cream evenly on top, putting the empty cup aside.

"I shall do an impression of your handsome face with the melted chocolate next," Laurentine looked at Berlioz. "Though I am no artist. But your eyes shall be blueberries. Now, how do you like the sound of that, my love?"

The cat purred as if in agreement, raising a paw to its nose and rubbing his face briefly.

Laurentine's movements were strained, though she tried to relax. Manon was standing beside Gaston with her head dipped to the floor, and the scene of Laur shouting at her after the physician's departure, kept playing again and again in the lady of the house's mind, tugging viciously at her heart.

"Gaston, would you please get me some strawberries too?" Laurentine asked. "I think I shall cut one up to make a red bowtie on Berlioz. That would look utterly charming."

"Yes, my lady," The butler bowed, and exited the main kitchen room, making his way towards the pantry and freezing store rooms.

The lady of the house then snapped the fingers of her left hand once.

"Leave us."

At the command, the footmen and maids present in the kitchen, busy in one task or the other, all stopped their work and exited the kitchen as Laurentine listened for their footfalls to be completely out of hearing.

"Manon," Laur sighed then, putting the knife aside and halting cake decoration once she and Berlioz were left alone with the maid.

"I'm so sorry," The lady of the house reached for the ginger haired girl's hands, taking them in hers and caressing them with her thumb earnestly.

"I'm truly so sorry," Laurentine uttered. "I lost myself for a moment. I—I didn't know what to do when the physician gave me the news. I was distraught—and scared, and I took it all out on you. I'm so terribly sorry."

Manon lifted her face then, and Laur's heart stirred to see the girl's color return. She took charge of the hold and clasped Laur's hands back with vigor.

"My lady," The maid spoke, shaking her head. "It is alright. I know you were upset. I have forgiven you. But I—I don't understand why. Why are you so distraught by the news? Why are you scared?"

Laurentine retrieved her hands back, her heart aching in her chest as she turned her eyes away from the girl.

"I understand it is scary finding out that one is to be a mother," The maid went on, "But you said Monsieur Édouard wouldn't want it. You said you didn't want it? Why? You love children so much. I just—I can't understand why you would react that way."

Laurentine swallowed thickly. "One day, when it hurts less, I shall tell you."

"But right now," Laur looked at the girl again. "You will stay silent on the matter and give me your understanding. Give me the courtesy of respecting my decision, by telling yourself that you are my friend, but I am also your employer."

"What decision, my lady?" Manon blurted out, her tone terrified. "Surely you do not speak of—of getting rid of the baby!"

Laurentine's heart tightened at the girl's loud exclamation—her heart tightened at the audible word of 'baby.' Mon Dieu, the physician hadn't used that word, and neither had Laur herself audibly used it. Manon too hadn't, until now that is.

The word in the air made Laur lose her footing, almost making her fall to her knees as she gripped the edge of the kitchen island tighter.

But before she could chastise the maid on keeping her voice low, a shuffle and thud was heard as strawberries dropped to the ground and rolled up to Laur and Manon's feet.

Laurentine raised her eyes to look at Gaston, her heart stifling in her chest. The butler looked shocked—more than shocked, he looked alarmed and terrified as he stared at his mistress, blinking as if waiting for her to take her words back.

"Gaston—"

"Are you expecting, my lady?" The man uttered, his voice unsteady as if he was in denial. "I apologize for the maid's uncalled for words, I shall have her punished for her ugly suggestion. She has forgotten her place."

He turned to look at Manon, shooting her a firm angry—disgusted— glare before he looked back at Laurentine.

"Congratulations, my lady. The physician did not inform me of anything before leaving and I must admit I was worried—"

"Gaston, please—" Laur tried to stop him.

"My lady you should rest!" The butler let out then, as if remembering something. "You should not go out to the opening event at the opera house tonight. I will summon the cook back to prepare a meal for you. Surely the physician must've had a dietary plan to suggest, I will call him back and demand it of him. The incompetence of the man to simply leave without—"

"Yes you will call him back," Laur broke in, her voice firm as she raised a hand to silence him. "You will call the man back, Gaston, because I'm not having—"

She swallowed thickly, as if the words had become stuck in her throat.

"Because I'm not having this child," She finished, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions at bay as she spun to face the cake, picking up her knife and continuing her task of spreading the cream all over the dessert.

"The physician knows a way to help me," Laur continued, not looking at either Gaston or Manon. "He said something about it being dangerous, but if there is a possibility that it can be done regardless, then I will get it done."

"My lady," Gaston's voice was choked, and Laurentine fought the urge to look at him, surprised because she had never heard his voice like this before.

"This is Monsieur Arsenault's child as much as it is yours," The man uttered, his face red. "I will, in good conscience, not allow this to happen. I am responsible for your safety in his absence, and I shall see to both yours and that of the child's. For if anything happens, it is me he will ask for explanations from."

"My husband need not know, Gaston," Laur's voice was soft, as she kept her eyes on the cake, fixed on her task. "You need not answer for anything."

"My lady," The butler's voice raised in indignation this time. "This is Monsieur Arsenault's child! He will be furious! He will kill me for even standing here listening to your treacherous words."

"It is my body, Gaston!" Laur shut her eyes briefly, trying to keep her composure before she turned her eyes to look at him.

"My husband apparently has better things to do than to be with his wife. It is no secret. You as much as all of the household staff can see that he has left without any explanations the very day I moved in. That he has.. abandoned me."

Laurentine's chest twisted and stirred inwardly, knowing that she was making personal declarations—the state of affairs between herself and her husband—to two members of the household staff. But oh Mon Dieu, the butler and Manon—they didn't know even a quarter of it all.

"Monsieur Arsenault never leaves unless it is urgent, my lady," Gaston spoke collectedly. "We must consider that he possibly had a pressing business obligation—"

"Business obligation," Laur sighed, shaking her head.

"But that does not mean you plan to lose his child, and then endeavor to advance your own selfish notions pertaining to your career on stage, my lady!"

"Gaston!" Laur fumed, shocked at his words.

"I have served Monsieur Arsenault's domestic business here at his Bordeaux estate since he purchased it. I have worked hard and devoted myself to him, and I shall not stand by while you conduct this grievous misendeavor!"

"Gaston, enough!" The lady of the house cried out her knees buckling suddenly as Manon and Gaston rushed to support her.

"Please, Gaston, enough," Laur breathed, holding onto him for support as she felt suddenly weakened.

"My lady," The butler voiced, full of concern now as he held onto her.

"Édouard doesn't—," Laurentine tried, a sickening headache engulfing her. "He wouldn't want the child."

Her voice cracked as tears stung her vision, still she raised her gaze to look at both Gaston and Manon.

"I need you both to cooperate with me, please, because I'm already so scared. Édouard cannot—he cannot love a child. He cannot even love me. He needs time, please, I cannot spring this on him—he will never come back if I do."

Manon let a out a moan, and Laur shut her eyes tightly, suddenly aware that the girl too was crying.

"But what of you, my lady?" The maid sniffled. "What of you? You can love a child. You do want a child—Mon Dieu, you've always wanted one, my lady! You adore children."

"I do," Laurentine nodded, raising the back of her wrist to wipe off a tear under her eye as she forced herself upright, retrieving her hands to herself and gesturing for the maid and butler to step away because she was alright.

"I do," She repeated softly again, meeting Manon's eyes. "But that doesn't matter right now. What my husband wants matters. Édouard's wants and needs matter to me more than mine own."

"My lady," Gaston uttered then, his voice tight and his eyes on the ground, his face depicting his defiance and anger.

"I will not condone this."

"Then don't," Laurentine tried. "I don't want you to condone anything, Gaston. Just—just pretend that you don't know. Just look away. You need not be implicated in this. Just—just give me the space to make this mistake."

A silence engulfed the conversation then, before Gaston exhaled.

"Alright then, my lady," He spoke. "I will try, but I won't last. I will break and try to intervene; I just hope to God it's already over by the time I step up."

Laurentine bit her lip, gratitude for the man overwhelming her. In a lot of ways Gaston was similar to her butler Benoit in the Bonfamille mansion back in Paris, but in a lot of ways Gaston was different too.

"And my lady I will be by your side," Manon's voice came then, defiant as the girl held her chin up. "I will help, and I will care for you every second, even if I desperately wish you weren't doing it."

"Now, my lady," Gaston began tightly, his eyes on the cake and his manner estranged.

"Your guests await the serving of a birthday cake."

──── ౨ৎ ────

Édouard Arsenault walked into the police station in Paris with Bowler on his heels. It was Bowler who had tracked the man that his boss wanted, down to this particular police station situated in a district away from the city center.

For the police station in the city center of Paris had been the one where Édouard had found out that he had unintentionally reported Laur's sister and Colette Blanc. For that had been the police station where outside in the rain Laur had almost confessed to hating him, and then he had asked her to marry him.

Édouard doubted if he could have retained his composure in the same police station, without seeing his wife's distraught features that night circling in his memory, haunting him.

It was taking all of him not to make the decision to go back to Bordeaux every single second that she crossed his mind. As each hour—each day—passed away from her, Édouard felt as though he was barely holding on. The only way to remain sane was to focus on what he was intending to do, and to hope that it would all make him deserving of his wife's love in the end when each furious itch in his body to exact revenge had been satisfied. When he could be convinced that everyone who had caused Laur harm was put in the ground, just like his father's death gave him some satisfaction that his mother and sister were safe to live as they wanted.

It didn't make sense to him how Laur could've suffered so, yet she remained un-vengeful. She remained so high and so pure that Édouard was certain he could grind his own bones to dust just so she remained that way—divine, happy and unscarred.

His wife's sufferings made him want to go insane, and he was barely holding on.

But now, he was closer to redemption—more so than he had ever been. He was closer to deserving her love, and after he was done with the damned Pietro Cecchi—the former orphanage dean of Laur's old orphanage, as per Colette Blanc's information—perhaps then Laur would be able to forgive Édouard for the wrongs he had done to her. For every harsh word he had said, and for every time he had hurt her and made her cry.

Édouard's hands fisted at his sides at the mere image of her tears. Holy fuck, what kind of a man he was to have ever made her cry?

If one could hate themselves with a driven passion, they wouldn't be able to surpass the hatred Édouard felt for himself.

"Right this way, sir," Bowler panted from behind, rushing to keep up with Édouard's strides as they made their way through the corridors of the police station.

A sergeant had been bribed adequately by Bowler, and it was the official now under whose permission both Édouard and Bowler were admitted into the further reaches of the police station and ultimately to the lock ups and cells at the back, no questions asked.

The sergeant, a broad and tall uniformed man, quietly led them to the cells, stepping aside to let Édouard past first, and then stopping at the entrance to the cell corridors, turning his back willfully—prompted by the hefty bribe—to whatever that Édouard was about to do inside.

"Third to the right, sir," The sergeant called the location of Pietro Cecchi's cell from the door.

Édouard followed the instruction, walking past one empty cell and one occupied one, to appear in front of the third one, where the occupant—a dirty man seemingly in his sixties sat on the hard ground in the corner of his cell, an oversized dirty overcoat being used as a blanket to cover his form, his skin sunweathered and wrinkled with a dirty rough beard and sparse dirty silver hair on top of his head.

Édouard could tell at once that he was the man, and anger viciously threaded in his veins and tightened the flow of his blood as he slammed his hand onto the bar of the cell and held it tightly.

"Wake up," He seethed, and the man in the cell stirred.

"Ah," Cecchi growled like a drunken man. "Can't get sleep for nothing around here."

The former orphanage dean stirred again and let out a sound akin to a yawn, as the old man's beady eyes took in the form of Édouard and Bowler outside the bars with some scrutiny.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man grunted then. "Some new excuse for police patrol guards? What, they are hiring just anybody now? Where's Joe, my usual?"

Édouard's jaw tightened, and he slammed the bar again in his fury.

"Open the fucking cell," Édouard uttered to Bowler, and the man hastened to unlock the bars with the keys jingling noisily in his shaking hands.

The cell was unlocked, and Édouard stormed in, making a beeline straight for the man sitting on the ground, his strides long as he bent down to instantly grab the old man by his neck, lifting him up and slamming him hard against the nearest wall.

Édouard's fingers tightened around the man's neck, his face menacingly close to the old man's.

"I'll give you the fucking usual that you deserve, you filthy excuse for life," Édouard took the man away from the wall before slamming his head against it again, harder this time.

The old man let out a moan, and a stream of blood started trickling down his nostrils, plunging into the crevices of his dirty beard as he sputtered for breath and words.

Édouard could see that the old man was frail enough to the point that he would suffocate easily if Édouard continued, but bringing the man easily to his death was not something the Arsenault CEO had planned.

Édouard let go of him, and the man came crashing to the ground, coughing and heaving.

Édouard held out his hand towards Bowler, and instantly, a sharpened knife appeared in his palm. He grasped it tightly, and slowly dropped down to crouch, facing the miserable Pietro Cecchi.

"What—what do want with me?" Cecchi sputtered. "I have been in this shit hole for—for 4 years now. I haven't done nothing to no one!"

"Really?" Édouard raised his brows, his tone spiteful as he tried to maintain his cool. His hazel eyes flashed all of his hatred that he tried to conceal.

"Let me remind you of what you have done, Pietro," Édouard forced his baritone low, before he raised his eyes to look at Bowler standing behind him.

"Get out, Bowler. Stay outside the station, I will be done in a moment."

"Yes, sir," Bowler affirmed, before spinning on his heels and scurrying out of the cell, his footsteps going silent as he exited.

Édouard turned to face Cecchi again, and this time found pure unrelenting fear on the miserable man's face, his beady eyes stuck to the knife's shining blade held in Édouard's grasp.

"Do you like it?" Édouard forced an amusement into his tone, his voice dangerous. "I will make sure you feel it deeply, you fucker. I will make sure you truly like it."

Then Édouard lashed out, his fist colliding with the man's jaw as the latter's head was whipped backwards and a moan escaped his mouth, along with unmistakable sprints of multiple teeth.

Taking advantage of the inebriation, Édourd gripped one of the man's legs and threw it aside. Then, he gripped the knife and plunged it directly into Cecchi's thigh.

A howl erupted from the man's mouth, loud and desperate as it turned into a vicious wail reverberating in the silence of the cell blocks.

Édouard's jaw was so tight that a vein bulged in his every muscle. Still he did not relent, he pushed the knife in further, until he felt the tip of it touch the ground through the flesh of the man's thigh.

Pietro Cecchi howled some more, crying out in the blinding fury of his pain as he tried in vain to thrash and save himself.

"You once hurt someone I love," Édouard managed, sweat beading on his brow, his tone doused in his hatred. "But it's time for you to get your due."

"No!" The man sputtered, "I didn't hurt no one! It's the fucking money! It's all about the fucking money—"

Édouard twisted the knife in the man's thigh and Cecchi wailed again, his shouts deafening in Édouard's ears.

"You did hurt someone," Édouard breathed, waiting for him to stop screaming, before speaking. "A little girl, when you were the dean of an orphanage. The Coeurs Heureux Orphanage, right here in Paris."

The older man paused for a moment, sobbing and wailing in pain before adamantly shaking his head without meeting Édouard's eyes.

"No! I didn't hurt no one—"

"Wrong answer," Édouard uttered, dragging the knife out of the man's thigh and plunging it into his other thigh.

Cecchi's voice was shrill this time as he howled and screamed. His voice was inhumane now, resembling that of a dog getting butchered—but perhaps that was what he was. A dog getting butchered for his crimes.

"You are Pietro Cecchi are you not?" Édouard spoke once the howling slowed down, his hold on the knife intact.

"I am! Please, I am! Stop!"

"Then you will tell me exactly how you harmed the little girl under your charge in that orphanage for 3 years, before she escaped your depravity," Édouard's voice was lower now, terrifying in his fury as he kept his eyes fixed on the miserable wretch of a man.

"Everything you did to her," He continued. "I will do ten folds to you. Do you understand me? You are dying tonight, Pietro Cecchi. You will now regret the day you touched Laurentine—my wife—as a girl, in that godforsaken orphanage."

Having told Mr. Sam Bowler that he would be done in a moment had been an understatement, for Monsieur Édouard Arsenault emerged out of the cell block a whole hour later—at about precisely 1:30am in the night, his dark coat and his cheekbone stained with the blood of a man who would, in the morning, be discovered by the police officials in the cell.

As one police officer would go onto tell a local newspaper, "the body of Pietro Cecchi was in the nude, with both his legs cut off to half his thighs, his genitals cut off, his arms cut off, his face completely disfigured with the slashings of an angry knife, and his remaining body hung upside down to the ceiling of the cell through a makeshift rope made by the man's own clothes, whilst the pile of his limbs lay in a corner in a heap."

A police sergeant, who claimed to have witnessed the murderer break in, commit the act, and then leave, described the killer as an Englishman with blonde hair and brown eyes, a tall height and a lanky form—all as per the bribe given to him by Bowler the previous night. And thus, the local newspaper published the search the very next day for such an Englishman who seemingly had a very desperate grudge against an old and miserable blackmailer and money launderer.

Édouard Arsenault, after exiting the police station the previous night and joining Bowler, had instantly made his way back to his offices. His revenge was done, and though there was some satisfaction swirling in his chest, the matter of his sister-in-law's disappearance began to weigh heavy on him, stifling his satisfaction and delaying it. And so he made his way to change out of his attire and grab his ticket from Henri for the next train leaving in precisely half an hour to London, whereupon he would begin his search for Adelaide—the next stop on his journey to make amends for his behavior to his wife.