The Advantages of Narcolepsy [Final
"We have to end it!" The Hindu Courtesan whispered urgently as she leaned forward, and clasped the Penniless Sitar Player' hand.
He leaned in likewise, and then gestured out grandly at the horizon with his free arm. "Fear not, we will conduct our love affair right under the Maharajah's…"
But his plan, however brilliant it might have been, went no further before his eyes rolled up in his head - and the Narcoleptic Argentinean tumbled backward from his chair in a fit of sleep.
"Honestly, amigo, this is impossible!" Harold shouted even though there was no way the unconscious man could hear him. He leapt to his feet, waved his script in irritated dismissal, and looked down his nose at Rico with the expression of a man who had just trod in horseshit. "My dear Duke," He bowed obsequiously, "Please accept my apologies for the interruption."
The Duke sighed dramatically as he rose from his seat on a raised dias, near the former nightclub's private booths, and tried to see through the crowd that swiftly gathered around the fallen actor. Christian had already leapt from his stool at the sidelines and gracefully bounded to the actor's side; he was soon hidden from the Duke's sight by the jumble of dancers and bohemians that surrounded Rico. Meanwhile Nini, the ebony-haired dancer who had been buzzing around the Duke all morning, attempting to massage his shoulders and whispering ingratiating nonsense in his ear despite his best attempts to flick her away, swept past him hurridly and likewise was lost to the Duke's sight in the crowd.
With the ease that came from apparent experience, Satie and the "Doctor" grabbed the Argentinean's shoulders and feet and carried him to a booth on the opposite side of the room from the Duke. Toulouse hobbled behind, shouting as always his useless directions, waving his cane in a circle to ward off anyone who dared come too close. "Back away, everyone; give the man room to breathe!"
Admittedly the sight of the frail, nearsighted composer, the aged pyrotechnician and crippled dwarf painter struggling with the actor's long limbs as they struggled to slide him into a booth was highly amusing at first. But the Duke quickly became bored by the spectacle and turned his attention away from the bohos, scanning the faces in the crowd for a glimpse of Satine. Ah, there she was; he too had risen from her chair, but she made no motion to follow Rico with the rest of the crowd, as she seemed engaged in coversation with the young writer. Bare inches separated them – he even had the presumptuousness to to place his hand on her elbow – as she nodded intently while he whispered in her ear. What liberties that boy took with her!
"My dear Duke!" Zidler blocked his path before he could approach the pair. "Again, I do apologize for the interruption, but I have no doubt he'll be up and about mometarily."
The nobleman cast a cold gaze around the unfinished auditorium and wondered whatever had possessed him to squander his money on this ridiculous little show. "I shouldn't wonder if my champagne was spiked with absenthe the night I agreed to invest…" He mused just under his breath, as he tried to see past the portly impresario.
"I beg your pardon, my dear D-"
"You had us worried, my friend!" The lisping voice of the little painter rose above the general din, and distracted the Duke and Zidler so that both men turned to see what was happening.
The bohos had indeed managed to sit Rico upright, if not raise him to his feet; the Argentinean's eyes were open, but his stare was hazy and unfocused. "No problem," Rico announced, sounding far more confident than he looked, "Everyone go back to wor –"
His eyes rolled backward a second time, and the noise of his head hitting the back wall of the booth distracted Christian and Satine from one another. The poet hurried away from her, and leaned across the table to help the others of his little gang lift their twice-fallen comrade. The writer's loose trousers tightened across his buttocks and his dark vest and shirt did the same across his shoulders as he strained with his burden.
To his complete and utter surprise, The Duke could not tear his eyes away from this arresting vision. Yes, he'd been aware of the boy's existence, but as little more than a glorified servant. He carried the blanket and basket on picnics, or rowed the boat, but other that, he was mostly an annoyance. It had never occurred to the Duke before that boy was attractive in and of himself. And yet for a full minute he could think of nothing else but Christian's graceful form. That boy was a true Adonis in the flesh, the nobleman mused. Surely, the ancient Greeks, with their customary appreciation for the beauty of male flesh, would have composed odes and erected marble temples in honor of such a comely lad…!
"As I was saying, my dear Duke –" Zidler rudely interrupted the nobleman's reverie. "We shall have our friend up and about in just a moment." The impresario's mustache twitched nervously over a broad and patently fake smile.
"I think we should consider replacing the Argentinean with a more reliable actor, Zidler. Perhaps -perhaps the boy could take on the role."
"'The boy'? Your Grace I don't understa…" Harold followed the direction of the Duke's gaze until his own eyes landed on the poet's backside. "Christian? That's impossible – he's the writer and director, after all; he can't conceivably be the lead actor as well. It's unheard of." He slid his arm around the Duke's shoulders in a too-familiar gesture until a stern glare put him in his place. "Just wait until you see Rico onstage – his natural charisma and animal magnetism will cause all the ladies in the audience to go wild! They'll weep and swoon at the very sight of him!"
"I hardly see how that's possible - right now the only one swooning IS the leading man."
Zidler flushed a shade of red to outdo his hennaed hair. "Ah, tres amusant, my dear Duke-" He chuckled nervously.
"All right, everyone," Christian's voice echoed across the cavernous auditorium. "On three – one, two, three – that's the way!" Miraculously, they managed to hoist Rico into the arms of the large Moorish dancer Chocolat, who shifted the Argentinean in his arms to cradle him more securely.
"I've got him," Chocolat confirmed.
Christian nodded thoughtfully. "You'll take him across the street to the studio, won't you? Thank you, Chocolat, I'll be there momentarily." He watched the dancer carry his burden only towards the exit toward the front doors; Nini and the other bohemians followed in his wake.
"Now see here!" Harold bellowed, bringing the motley parade to a sudden halt. He flipped his hand towards the front of the auditorium, where a stablehand held the reins of a large white mare. "You can't just take him away – we've yet to rehearse the "Lover's Escape" scene!"
"Really Harold, what do you suggest we do?" Satine purred as she stepped forward and wound her slender arms around her employer's stout limb. "Prop the poor fellow on the horse while he's asleep and tie him to the saddle? And who's going to say his lines, hmmm? I can do many things, but exchanging dialogue with an unconscious man is beyond even my talents."
"It ain't dialogue she's used to exchangin' anyway." Nini muttered out of the side of her mouth, causing a round of vulgar titters and cackles to erupt from the other girls. Satine narrowed her eyes, but otherwise ignored the comment.
"Where is Senor Rico's understudy, then?" the Duke demanded.
"Ah yes, well, the understudy…that is…." Zidler fumbled.
"There ain't one." Nini announced.
The Duke's eyes bulged with rage. "Zidler, really, this show will never be ready on time!"
"I can assure you, however –"
"Enough nonsense! I'm tired of these delays, Zidler! Time is money – my money, to be precise."
"Of course, m-my dear –"
"Your Grace," Christian broke in quietly, "everything is preceding on schedule, even with this minor delay. The dancers are swiftly mastering their routines, and Mademoiselle Satine knows the script backward and forward by heart."
The Duke shook his head. "What good is it for her to know the script 'by heart', if you keep making constant changes?"
"Her ability to learn new lines is extraordinary." The boy stated simply, "I have personally watched her memorize an entire scene within a quarter-of-an-hour."
"Of course I have confidence in the lady's abilities, so I am willing to accept that she can adapt, but that still does not deal with the problem of our comatose leading man." The Duke sneered.
Christian glanced at the man in question, a slight grimace crossing his features, before a sudden light of inspiration dawned in his eyes, "My friend here only loses consciousness when he is nervous, Your Grace. Once he has learned his lines completely, his problem will vanish."
Toulouse cut in front of Christian and grinned up at the Duke. "Yes! This is true; I have seen it myself in him many times!"
The Duke was certainly not inclined to take the little painter on faith regarding any matters of substance, but Christian's calm nod of confidence, paired with the frank, open gaze of those changeable green-grey eyes, was another matter altogether. Damn it, no matter how nonsensical the boy could be at times, the nobleman found that he could not help but believe every word that dripped from his tongue – or maybe it was the poet's boyish grin that carried the day.
"Oh very well then, if you are certain he will be able to play his part when the time comes?" The Duke raised his eyebrows.
"I am certain of it, your Grace. If necessary I will spend extra time working with him myself." Christian gave a little bow.
Zidler clapped his hands together, "Well, that's settled then! If you gentlemen will get our Argentinean friend situated comfortably, we can resume our work on another scene."
"For once I believe there will be no harm in calling it off a little early this afternoon," Christian interrupted. "In fact, I daresay it will do us all a bit of good."
A sudden hush settled over the normally-chatty players as they stood in a ragged semi-circle around the men, and all eyes focused on the Duke and Zidler, as they eagerly awaited a decision.
"Christian you can't be serious! As our dear Duke has just pointed out, time is money." Zidler exclaimed, "How can we possibly break now?"
"Harold," Satine directed her words to her employer but let her gaze fall on the Duke, "Surely you don't think his Grace is more concerned with money than the welfare of his actors, do you?" Satine smiled at the Duke and winked naughtily, offering a soupçon of future pleasures.
The Duke felt his cheeks – and his nether regions – flush with warmth, and suddenly all thought of the boy's comely features were pushed aside. Yes, come to think of it, an early supper with the most beautiful woman in all of Paris might just be the thing, indeed. He might as well take advantage of the situation as it presented itself.
"I think the lady has a point, Zidler." The Duke inclined his head to Satine and held out his arm for her. She returned his nod as she curled her arm around his elbow.
The impresario clearly knew when he'd been outnumbered. "All right, everyone, rehearsals are over for the day. We'll start again tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp." Whoops and cheers followed this announcement as the cast trooped merrily out the exit to the street, following Chocolat and his still-comatose burden.
"What about Buttercup?" The coarse, sturdy voice of the stablehand interrupted the cacophany of shouts and laughter. Harold and the Duke turned as one to look at the short, well-muscled fellow of uncertain age, clad in woolen knickers and vest, a shapeless felt cap and a threadbare cotton shirt. Beside him stood the horse in question, a plump white mare who munched complacently on the green top of a carrot and appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with her surroundings. "You said you was going to need her today, and I've been standing here since early morning just like you requested. T'isn't easy standing about all day like this, trying to keep her calm and such given she's such a tempermental beast." He tugged on the reins, which produced no more of a reaction from the animal than a slight shake of her massive head and mild snort. "Mighty wearying, it is."
The Duke sighed again. He'd handed Zidler a goodly sum to scour the stables of Paris and procure a fitting horse for the "Lover's Escape"; but the color of her hide was only relation this fat, docile mare bore to the script's description of "the Maharajah's swiftest white stallion, with hooves that clattered like thunder across the plain and nostrils that snorted tongues of flame". As a matter of fact, she appeared to be in the early stages of pregnancy.
"Excuse this tiresome business, my dear," the Duke unwound Satine's arm from his own and kissed her hand gallently, before approaching Zidler. "Perhaps we ought to cut the horse out of the play altogether," he sniffed.
"Cut the horse? Why my dear Duke, of course we'll bow to your superior artistic judgement, but just imagine the spectacle of this magnificent creature carrying the lovers across the stage!"
"Look, all's I want to know," the stablehand brayed, sounding more of a mule than a horse, "Am I getting paid for my valuable time today, and do you want us back tomorrow?"
"For Jupiter's sake just pay the man for his trouble, Zidler," the Duke sighed irritably, "and instruct him to return in the morning." Was there no end to the petty details that needed attending, and no one else capable of handling them?
"As you wish." Harold dug through his pockets with a pained expression, and located a few dusty coins. "Then afterwards, why don't you accompany me to my office to approve the latest costume sketches?"
"Tomorrow, Zidler," the nobleman flicked his gloves impatiently. "I will be spending the afternoon in M'lle Satine's company. Please make sure that supper is ready for us in the Tower at eight sharp."
"But of course." He grinned knowingly, bearing a sudden startling resemblance to the gargoyles that leered down eternally from Notre Dame Cathedral. "The sketches can certainly wait. Please, enjoy your evening." He bowed and took his leave.
"Now, my dear, where were – " the Duke turned and discovered Satine was not where he had left her moments earlier. His eyes scanned the theater. She had been right behind him, hadn't she? He finally located her, standing at the foot of the just-finished stage next to that writer. Their backs were turned to their patron but they stood quite close to one another, just as they had been after Rico's collapse.
The Duke ground his teeth in annoyance. He knew Satine was dedicated to her work, but could that confounded boy not offer her one moment of peace? Certainly Christian seemed to have no compunction in taking advantage of his leading lady, putting her to work all hours of the day and night with his constant stream of script revisions. The Duke smoothed down the tips of his mustache as he approached the pair. All work and no play was threatening to make this Jill a very dull girl; it was time to take corrective action.
"My dear, this is most fortuitous." He caught Satine under the elbow.
She jumped slightly at his touch and raised a free hand to her chest as she gasped and whirled to face him. "Oh! My dear Duke! Forgive me, I was a million miles away!"
The writer, meanwhile, uttered a noise that could best be described as a "yelp" of surprise at the nobleman's approach. "Y-your Grace, we didn't – I mean, I didn't – that is, Mademoiselle Satine and myself were just discussing the next scene," he stammered.
"Work, work, work – is that all you ever think about, young man?" The Duke clicked his tongue reprovingly as he took Satine's hand in his own and pressed it to his lips with a murmured "enchante", before turning back to the boy. "A strong work ethic is certainly an admirable thing, but this obsession of yours with the production borders on the unnatural."
"Forgive me your Grace. I just wanted to be certain that she understood –"
This time it was Satine's turn to sigh impatiently. "M'sieur James, if you're worried about 'the Lovers make their escape and renew their vows of love' scene, I can assure you that it will not be neglected." By this point she had thoroughly recovered both her breath and her composure as she cozily siddled up to her patron. "However, any discussion of the matter will have to postponed temporarily." She lifted a pearl-pale hand and waved it at the writer dismissively. "Bon soir, M'sieur."
"You heard what the lady said," the Duke likewise wagged his forefinger reprovingly at Christian. "Shouldn't you be looking after your Argentinean friend, instead of pestering M'lle Satine needlessly?"
The boy nodded and lowered his eyes, appropriately chasened. "Of course, you're quite right, Your Grace, quite right." He gave a short bow from the waist to Satine. "Until tomorrow morning, then."
Despite his annoyance with the lad, the Duke allowed himself to enjoy a brief glance at Christian's retreating backside – those baggy trousers really left far too much to the imagination, he mused – before turning his full attention to the lady at his side.
"Alone at last." He patted the slender hand that rested in the crook of his elbow. "I really don't see why all these endless rehearsals are necessary; I think you're quite ready to go onstage tomorrow and conquer the world!"
"Well, I don't think the stage is quite yet ready for me," she giggled, sweeping her arm outward to indicate the construction in progress around them. "But it's very good of you to say so, Your Grace – and very thoughtful of you to rescue me. Once M'sieur James had me cornered I was afraid I'd be trapped for the entire evening!"
"Put him out of your thoughts, my dear - we have the afternoon free to ourselves! How shall we spend it? I could escort you to the Louvre, or we might enjoy a spot of lunch at Maxim's. What is your pleasure?"
She smiled sweetly and quirked her head at that particular angle – just so – which always sent a thrill of anticipation up his spine. As he focused on her face, he couldn't help but notice that she appeared even paler than normal, except for two bright pink spots on her cheekbones, while a thin sheen of perspiration coated her forehead and upper lip.
"Whatever you decide, I couldn't possible choose between the two." And her smile slipped a little as she pressed her fingertips lightly against her temple.
The Duke's brow lowered in concern, "Perhaps all these endless rehearsals are a bit much for you, my dear?"
To his surprise she did not demure. "Yes, I suppose today I am a bit under the weather."
"Ah, I know just the restorative then - a light supper in the Gothic Tower for two."
Satine shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid not tonight, Your Grace. Please forgive me, but I'd be too tired to be any company. No doubt, I'd embarrass myself terribly; I shouldn't want to fall asleep in the soup! I believe I should follow our sitar player's example and get some rest while our slave driver of a writer is distracted."
He nodded graciously, "Of course my dear, your well-being is of paramount concern to me. I'll escort you to your room then shall I?" For once he buried his disappointment at not spending the night alone with her. It was, in fact, rather refreshing to see that on some occasions she was as delicate as any other woman.
Satine's grateful smile warmed the nobleman's heart. "You are so kind to me, and I don't deserve it. This production takes up all of my time and I never seem to have even a moment to spend with you."
He waved her words away with a gracious toss of his hand as they departed from the auditorium. "Not at all, my sweet; I appreciate how very important your work is to you. It's only a pity that you must spend every spare moment working with that writer – I never would have imagined the boy was such a task master."
"Oh, you have no idea!" She rolled her eyes heavenward and raised her free hand to her chest as they walked. "There's always new scenes and endless script revisions, and when we rehearse?" She lowered her voice as if to reveal to him a wicked tidbit of gossip or a naughty secret. "He insists that we do it again, and again, and again –"
"My goodness!" The Duke gasped in equal parts surprise, horror, and dismay.
"– and yet again, until he's completely satisfied with my performance." She turned to him with a helpless expression, her eyelashes fluttering lightly. "And what can I do except comply?"
He stroked her arm intertwined with his – or rather, he stroked the smooth silk brocade of her sleeve and imagined he was caressing her bare skin beneath his fingertips. "My dear, we can't have you being worn out. I shall give the boy a good talking-to and put a stop to this nonsense immediately."
She halted in mid-step, and took a deep, somewhat labored breath. "Oh no!" She waved one hand in casual dismissal and leaned close to him with a nonchalant smile. "I know he's annoying at times, my dear Duke, but we can't really be angry with him, can we? He only wants the production to be absolutely perfect in every conceivable way. And that's what I want too," she purred, her breaths coming now in a quicker, more shallow rhythm, "I want this play to be one we can all be proud of – one that will do our esteemed patron honor."
"You already commend yourself to me in everything you do, my dear. I do not doubt for a moment you will be the leading light of the modern theater. The Divine Sarah herself will weep in envy of your talent and fame."
"Do you really think so?" Her whispered voice rose in pitch as wonder, and a sliver of vulnerability colored her words and caught the Duke completely off his guard.
They had just entered the backstage area, where darkness reigned except for the sconces and temporary lamps that allowed the construction workers and performers pick their way through the gloom. The Duke glanced over at Satine and admired how her face glistened softly in the dim light, lending her a dewy allure. She was a woman of many faces – that was no doubt what fascinated him so completely. This new shy, demure, fragile Satine was surely the most captivating yet.
As if sensing his growing interest, Satine turned to him and he fancied he could see an answering glow of desire lighting her so very blue eyes. She leaned towards him and he let his hand drop from her elbow to slip his own arm around her waist, pulling her closer to steal a kiss from those lovely, feminine lips.
"My sweet," he whispered, "Sa – Satine? Satine!" Just as he had tightened his hold about her, she took a deep gasping breath that turned into a harsh cough. As she turned her head and covered her mouth, he hastily whipped his handkerchief from his vest-pocket. She accepted the monogrammed linen square with a wordless nod and pressed it to her mouth.
After less than a minute, perhaps, the spell quieted and passed – although it seemed infinitely longer than that to the concerned nobleman. He kept one hand planted firmly on her waist, supporting her a bit beyond the point she was finally able to stand under her own power. Although he was relieved she had recovered so quickly, he was not so eager to relinquish his hold on her; it was the closest the two of them had come to anything resembling an embrace since the night they'd first met. "My darling, are you quite all right?"
She blinked rapidly several times as if slightly dazed, before nodding once more in response and drawing the handkerchief away from her mouth. "Forgive me, Your Grace," Her voice was still slightly ragged as she attempted to clear her throat. "I'm afraid all this plaster and sawdust irritates my throat." She sighed and waved her hand outward to indicate their surroundings. "I'll be terribly glad when the construction is finally finished."
"In that case, my sweet, I shall see to it that this theater is finished in double-time!" He slapped his palms together briskly to demonstrate how easily it would be achieved once he gave the command.
"You are so very kind." Her smile was grateful if decidedly tired. In the meantime, the Duke had noticed, she had slipped his handkerchief into her sleeve until only a single corner and a bit of the monogramming showed, but he decided not to comment on it. It was such a little thing compared to all the gifts he had already lavished upon her.
"No thanks are necessary. Let's simply get you to your room." Surprisingly deft at negotiating his way in the backstage area, no doubt a result of his daily visits to the theater and to Satine's dressing room, the Duke led her back through the chaos of ropes, raw wood, half-finished back drops, and endlessly interlocking hallways.
When they arrived at the door to Satine's room the Duke reached for the handle to open it for Satine. Before he could begin to turn the knob, the door opened seemingly by itself. The Moulin's aging stage mistress stood in the doorway, backlight by the faint light from the fire.
"Thank you, Your Grace – she looks done in, my poor lamb. It's so good to have a true gentleman among us." The older woman favored the Duke with a smile so warm that anyone walking past would have seen how his annoyance at being relieved of his charge evaporated in an instant, and he swelled visibly with self-importance.
"Of course, Madame, I could do no less for her." He followed the two women into the room as Marie led Satine to a tufted chaise before the fireplace, where flames danced and crackled. The Duke settled himself into a dainty armchair across from her – which, like every other piece of furniture in the room, bore his monogram subtly carved into the wood and woven around the cabbage roses of the upholstery. "Are you certain you are well, my dear? I could send for my physician if you are truly ill."
Satine shook her head as she reclined languorously against the cushions of the chaise, offering the Duke a rare opportunity to actually glimpse the froth of antique lace that trimmed petticoats he had paid for but never seen. "Oh no, Your Grace, it is merely rest I require. The show has been so much on my mind that I admit I've slept poorly these last few nights."
The Duke looked at her and then Marie with some bit of alarm, sitting erect in his seat. "Well, by thunder! Perhaps we should ask our writer to give every one a bit of a break? A few days holiday would likely do wonders for you, my dear." Some part of him writhed at the expense of such a delay, but he quelled the thought with pictures of what a three-day holiday with Satine would look like.
It was certainly a measure of Satine's weariness that she brightened noticeably. "That would be a welcome relief, Your Grace. If you would speak to Harold then I shall inform M'sieur James. "
"Oh?" In truth, the Duke rather relished the notion of having a private conversation with the writer; even the dressing-down he intended to give the boy would be rather entertaining. "You oughtn't to concern yourself with the matter, my sweet; I shall be more than happy to handle the boy myself."
"Believe me, Your Grace, he will take it much better coming from me; these writers are so very temperamental." She gave Marie a quick glance and then winked conspiratorially at the Duke, who bit his lip in response to hide his faint chuckle. "One has to know exactly how to deal with them lest they explode over the littlest slight and stomp off in a huff, and where would we be then – left with an unfinished script and no director?"
"Perhaps you are correct, my dear. That would be an unmitigated disaster. I suppose I must leave him to you to deal with." He rose from his chair and bent forward so he could lift her hand to his lips. "Perhaps you might honor me by joining me on a hot-air balloon ride? I cannot imagine anything more romantic than soaring among the clouds together and sharing a bird's eye view of the City of Love."
"Oh, my dear Duke! What a splendid idea!" She sat up and clapped her hands together with an expression of delight.
"Then it's settled; I'll arrange it at once."
"You are so very thoughtful, Your Grace." The smile that spread over her face banished all traces of exhaustion, and it pleased him greatly that he had such a restorative effect upon her. "Perhaps we should bring Monsieur James along with us?"
"But – but you can't mean to suggest we should drag the writer along with us, my dear – why ever should we do that?"
"Well, he was ever-so-useful carrying the blanket and basket for our picnic the other day – Oh thank you Marie," she murmured as she accepted a steaming cup of tea from the other woman's hand.
"That's quite true, my dear." The nobleman's thoughts drifted to that recent hazy afternoon, the city seeming a million miles away from the summit of that green hill, and to the boy's disarming smile as he spread the blanket on the ground. "Is this quite all right, your Grace…"
"And rowing us down the Seine," Satine continued.
"Indeed." The Duke recalled the muscles of the writer's arms straining against his rolled-up shirtsleeves with each stroke of the oars, his skin slick with the sweat of exertion, his neck smooth and taut above a starched collar that begged to be torn aside for the sake of summer's heat -
"Tea, your Grace?" Marie asked. The woman's question – not to mention the porcelain teacup filled with steaming liquid she thrust in face – cast him rudely out of his reverie.
"No, thank you." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand as he refocused his gaze on Satine.
Satine stirred a lump of sugar into her cup. "Just so, I' m certain he'll come in terribly handy doing – oh what's the word for it?" Her slender, pearl-pale hand described arabesques in the air. "Doing – what ever it is that needs to be done in a balloon."
"Keeping it up, you mean?" The Duke frowned thoughtfully, "Yes, you make an excellent point, my sweet. Trust you to see the practical side of any situation. "
"On the whole I'd say we women are quite practical – far more than we're given credit for. We have to be, in order to look after our men properly." Her voice descended to it's lower registers in a very feline purr, and the nobleman shivered with anticipation.
He leaned forward and indulged himself with yet another kiss on the back of her hand. "From now on, my sweet, it is you who shall be taken care of, I promise you."
Satine smiled up at him tenderly while she attempted to lay her cup and saucer on the tea table. Her hand trembled so that the cup rattled loudly against the saucer and threatened to slide onto the floor. Marie hurried forward to rescue the delicate porcelain.
"Beggin' your pardon, Your Grace, but we really must get her to bed." Marie shook her head at the girl in a sternly affectionate manner. "It's an early night in for you, lovey."
"Of course, forgive me," the Duke replied, standing and taking Satine's hand a final time. "Madam, I leave our star actress in your very capable care." Standing straight, he pressed perfunctory kiss to the back of Marie's extended hand, and reluctantly headed towards the door, "Au revoir ladies."
Satine's voice stopped him, "You will remember to tell Harold about the holiday, won't you?"
"Consider it already done." He bowed deeply with a mocking expression of deep devotion painting his features. "Your wish is my command, my lady." Satine grinned broadly and then lifted her nose high in the air with an overplayed expression of snootiness,
"You have my leave to go then"
The Duke chuckled, "Thank you, your Grace." He winked broadly and she laughed, making small shooing gestures as he backed out of the door.
Marie waved extravagently from the doorway after him as he marched towards Zidler's office. "G'night, Your Grace! Always a pleasure!"
"Twinketoes." I don't know about you girl," Marie muttered as she shut the door after him and wiped the back of her hand against her skirt. . "I don't know about you, girl, but that man gives me the willies. Sooner we can be done with 'im the better, I say -- what's that you got there?"
Satine had already risen from the chaise and crossed to the fireplace; now she shrugged carelessly in response as she tossed something into the flames. "Nothing important Marie – just a nasty old handkerchief." She continued to stare down into the fire, her back turned against her mentor's probing gaze.
"Full o' secrets lately, ain't you?"
"Full of questions tonight, aren't you?" Satine tilted her head just enough that Marie could see the hint of a teasing grin.
"Humph – getting a bit big for your britches, I see." Marie responded with a jesting smirk of her own. "We'll just see if I can't still take you over my knee; I don't care how tall you get – or how famous you become." Satine chuckled at that as Marie lifted the girl's pink silk kimono from the top of the dressing screen. "Come on then lovey; let's get you undressed for bed."
"Thank you, Marie." Satine met the older woman in the center of the room and accepted the soft garment.
"Turn around, girl, I'll unbutton your – what are you doin'?"
Instead of turning her back for Marie's assistance, Satine knelt, pulled a small alligator satchel from beneath the bed and stuffed her robe into it. She then crossed to the armoire and pulled out two of the dresses hanging there. "Would you be a dear and help me change? Let's see, this one brings out the color of my eyes better, don't you think? Not that I'll have it on for very long anyway, mind." She chuckled to herself as she returned the rejected dress to the rack and laid the chosen one out on the bed – a dress both lighter and simpler than the one she was currently wearing.
Marie's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in understanding as she planted her hands firmly on her hips. "Ah, is that what all that rubbish was about earlier, dragging that boy along - '…whatever it is that needs to be done…'?"
"Well, how should I know? I've never been in a balloon before, have you?" Satine unfastened the opening of her over-bodice and tossed it carelessly on the bed, then reached around awkwardly for the row of tiny cloth-covered buttons down her back. "Really, Marie, do you plan to just stand there staring at me all evening, or are you going to help me?"
"What, help you undress for bed – or help you play the investor for a fool?" Marie shook her head. "He's bound to find out, girl. That Duke's not stupid, you know." She made no move to assist her protégé.
"Nonsense. When the play is a success, the Duke won't care about sleeping with me. He'll be too distracted by all the money he's making – damn these buttons!" She hissed as the objects in question eluded her grasp.
Marie sighed tiredly. "You're foolin' yourself if you believe that, girl. If that Duke finds out about you and the writer you'll be out on the street the next minute and that boy won't be able to get a playbill, much less a play, published anywhere in the world."
Gritting her teeth as she made yet another attempt to unfasten her gown, Satine growled, "Then we'll go to…America! The Duke won't be able to influence anything there!"
"Don't be so naïve! He may be an English duke, but money is still king in any country."
Satine huffed indignantly in response. "So I see you still harbor a secret ambition – to become a comedienne. Thank God you never followed it; I'd hate to watch you starve on the streets."
Marie grabbed Satine by her upper arms and gave her a rough shake, despite the fact that Satine towered over her by several inches. "This ain't no joke, girl; you've given me a reason to worry for real! What do you suppose is goin' through my 'ead every time I see you gallivantin' off with that boy? And don't think I 'aven't noticed!"
"Marie, he loves me! Christian loves me!" Satine brought her hands forward and clasped Marie in return. "Not because I'm beautiful or a great prize…he just, he…loves me."
The older woman softened her grip but did not release the girl entirely. "What makes this lad different from any other fellow, eh? Nearly every man what's walked in the nightclub has loved you – or wanted to. I seen it on their faces, pining for a glimpse o' you. The rich ones would've 'anded you the sun, moon and stars on a gilded platter if you'd asked them for it, and the poor ones would've died tryin'."
"But he loves me, not the Sparkling Diamond…and I love him." Satine locked eyes with the one woman who had been like a mother to her. "There's the difference."
The room fell into silence as Marie worried her lower lip pensively. Only the faint hiss of the fire in the grate gave the room any life at all. Suddenly a loud pop from the fire and the sound of a crumbling log broke the spell. "Bah!" Marie threw up her hands and stepped quickly around the girl to set herself to the task of unfastening the gown. "I've become a complete pushover in me old age."
Satine whirled around and hugged her now co-conspirator close. "Oh Marie, I knew I could count on you!" She kissed the older woman's wrinkled cheek, smearing the rouge and powder onto own. "I do love you!"
"Sure, you love me well enough when you get your way – spoiled you to death, I 'ave. Ease off, lovey; you're chokin' me!"
Satine laughed as she peeled her arms away from Marie's neck. "Don't worry! Everything will turn out all right, I'm sure of it. You'll see. When I'm a star and Christian's a famous writer we'll tour Europe…oh, of course you will come too; I wouldn't think of leaving you behind…" She babbled on happily about future fame and success as she turned around again to let Marie finish her task – and thereby missed the sad look of resignation the wizened stage mistress couldn't hide.
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