Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 11: The Exposé

May 25, 1939

     A disgruntled sigh left the wife's mouth, followed by more incessant footsteps. She was in the piano room. A few seconds later, in the study. Then, her own room, checking to see that everything was in place, the way it should be. And finally to his room, where she froze by the threshold, his back to her. The rag that used to cover the phonograph was more distorted— the folds and creases bunching up in the most unusual, foreign places. The chair by the window was slightly ajar and shifted to the side. His bedsheets were unmade and upturned. And the most vital detail was the smell of the room, pungent of a gross vanilla and the bitterness of wine. The smell, so foul, it disturbed her more than that of Nathalie's awful cigarette smoke.

     But, she was sure that it was all an innocent misconception. Adrien was in no means dumb— he was intelligent— and no intelligent man would ever resort to tarnishing their reputation in order to fulfill a naive bliss. Yet the pricks of doubt came in the form of his expression: far-off, dreamy, and strikingly troubled. Her position in the estate was crumbling beneath her feet, the earth opening up to overtake her, and she could not allow it. It would be pitiful if she were not to defend herself from the threat of replacement, more so if it were by a baker's daughter. She was made to be an Agreste, but her husband was losing his senses and living in a make-believe world that was void of any sense of reality. It was her duty as his wife to ground him back, anchor him, and restrain the childish grievance of love that clouded his head, before the name Agreste became useless and tainted.

      And if she could not, then what was the use of it all then?

-

Signed your cousin, Adrien Agreste.

     He sent the letter out by dawn, leaving the house with his hat tipped over to cover his frenzied eyes. In the rigid silence of it all, he felt like a fugitive as he maneuvered his way around town and felt the stares of every single one of them penetrate his back and seep into his mind with disapproving judgement. In the distance, the town light flickered weakly, growing ceaselessly dimmer and dimmer as he walked towards it; so he ran and his feet pummeled the ground to race the looming sunrise. The light parted the dark sky and before he could enter the outskirts, the lamp post darkened— and it remained dark, no matter how long he urged it to turn back on. He turned in the other direction and began to run again, his feet carrying him to a place that would reinvigorate the hazy vision in his head.

     Entering the tailor shop, he lifted the rim of his hat and saw her shocked expression from under the shadow that eclipsed his sight. Just as he took a step forward, Plagg perched onto the counter— staring at him in the same penetrating way as all of them— piercing and ridden with scrutiny. It stirred something within him and his lip quivered at the anguished feeling that overwhelmed his body. Not even one ounce of happiness could be spared into his grasp. There she was, right in front of him, yet he couldn't bring himself to take a step closer. He wished to hold her, yet his body froze at the thought of it, and it was so numbing that he hadn't even realized that he had been crying.

    Marinette took him into her arms and cooed into his ears, in quiet maternal whispers. The guilt evaporated quickly, and sunken in her embrace, she sat him down in the storage room and kneeled. Her pale yellow skirt swept the floor, though it blurred together with the silver of her eyes and her lips began to move.

     "Why are you crying?"

     "I don't know." He exasperated.

     Wiping a tear with her finger, she frowned slightly and cupped his cheek.