Initially the Marquis obeyed, resting most of the next day when not seized by coughing fits, though Satine suspected it wasn't so much by will as much as by necessity. By the second day, however, his polite obedience had waned. His fever had broken, but his temper was hotter than ever. Every time she would enter the room he would grumble about how he was going mad being confined to his bed so. After the third time that day, she grew tired of his whining and went into the village to find something to occupy him.
Luckily when she returned, he was in the middle of a meal and thus amiable enough to spare her his complaints. His increase in energy and improved breathing lifted her spirits enough to even join in his witty banter when he finally spoke.
"You look like an exotic goddess, my peach," he chuckled, taking a tendril of her hair in his hand as she brought it within reach, sitting at his bedside.
"I haven't really felt the need to remove it yet," she replied, allowing him a faint blush, "and Harun so enjoys seeing something familiar in such a strange place. He's the one who insists on putting fresh flowers in it every morning—says I remind him of his daughter."
"You needn't humor him when he was the one who left her for this 'strange place'."
"She died," she answered with a frown; "years ago."
"Oh," he said simply, not as apologetically as she would've liked, "my mistake."
"Sometimes I forget how judgmental you aristos are…"
"It's human nature, mon pomme," he retorted. "We all do it; not just the aristos."
She sighed, "It's true, I have received strange looks even in this humble village. I suppose I should take it out soon…"
"Don't be too hasty," he said quickly, hand once again beginning to play with a lock that had fallen into his reach. "I never said I didn't like it."
Flattered, she granted him another smile before she remembered why she had gone into the village in the first place. "Oh! I brought something for you!" With that she stood and rushed to the basket she had returned with. "Since you're stuck here, alone with your thoughts," she said, sitting back down and pulling away the cloth that covered a pair of quills, an ink pot, and a healthy stack of papers, "you might as well write them down."
She had never seen his eyes light up so bright before! Giving an overjoyed laugh, he nearly leapt from the bed as he snatched the basket from her. "My darling, you have no idea how much I've longed for these; how long I've gone without them!"
"They took away your quills and ink?" she asked, outraged. She imagined it would be just like someone taking her paint and brushes! How horrible!
"In a fiendish plot to censor my genius!" he growled, though his ecstatic grin remained. He laughed again, flinging his arms around her and embracing her tightly. "Oh Satine, you are an angel!" he cried, suddenly taking her face in his hands and kissing her passionately.
Satine froze at first, eyes wide with shock, but almost immediately after she leaned into him, amazed at the enthralling feeling of his lips against hers. Eyes closing contentedly, she let him slide a hand across the exposed flesh of her chest, goose bumps rising wherever his burning hand touched, her own seeking out the firm solidity of his shoulders, feeling the heat radiating from the skin beneath the thin material of Harun's shirt. She wondered how far she'd let him go, as it was obvious he wanted more, when just as suddenly as he had initiated the kiss he broke off and hunched over, caught by a sudden fit of coughs.
Unable to keep from laughing at his inconvenient timing, she ran a soothing hand down his back before standing and heading for the door. "I'll be taking my supper in the dining hall," she explained as he finally stopped coughing. "Enjoy the gift, but be sure you continue to rest."
"…Thank you, Satine."
She stopped in her tracks, half-way out the door, when she heard him. She had never been thanked by an aristo before—common manners like that simply weren't included in their exclusive upbringing. Breaking into a stunned, elated smile, she nodded and slipped out the door before her face turned completely red.
He was as well-behaved as a school boy after that, albeit a hormonal, adolescent one. At first she had been skeptical when she had heard the Abbé say that his writing was therapeutic—a means to purge the poisons from his mind—but it honestly seemed to help him; it at least gave him something to do while he recovered. Of course his mind remained in the gutter—she would be a little disappointed if it wasn't—but she no longer caught him pacing about the room, hacking his lungs out, when she had directly ordered him to remain in his bed.
The next day he had completed a whole novella circling around a prostitute and a demented doctor. Apparently it had been floating about in his head a while, and to finally put it on paper was quite the relief. That night, however, his sleep was troubled. She was jolted awake by the Marquis, who was screaming for someone named "Madeline". Rushing to his side, she joined him in bed—probably the only time she could do so without worrying about foul play—and held him to her like a mother comforting her son, soothing away his tears and rocking him back to sleep. Something happened to her then, making her feel as though her heart would burst, though whether from joy at being able to comfort him in a non-sexual way or despair that some other woman occupied his thoughts, she couldn't be sure.
The doctor returned to see them the next afternoon, stunned by the Marquis's recovery. Tomorrow, granted the doctor saw them one last time and ruled him ready for travel, they could finally leave!
Satine left to acquire the Marquis more quills, ink, and paper for the voyage, returning to the inn late in the evening. She found de Sade asleep on the bed, quill in one hand, empty glass of wine in the other. Shaking her head with an amused sigh, she cleared the bed and left to return the glass and empty bottle.
There were very few people still left in the main dining hall when she stepped out, of course; only a few handfuls at corner tables. As she approached the kitchen to return the bottle, she overheard the conversation from one of the more intimidating-looking groups of diners.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm nearly certain—no common farmer has such noble features and delicate hands."
Satine froze, her blood turning to ice, her muscles stone. Releasing a breath she didn't realize she was holding, she forced her leaden legs to continue moving so as not to draw attention to herself as she continued to the kitchen counter. Out of the corner of her eye she tried her best to see who could have possibly discerned the truth.
To her utter shock, she found the doctor seated at the table, speaking with two men she didn't recognize—they looked an awful lot like the Revolutionaries she often saw dragging off aristos, though.
"Nearly certain isn't good enough, Jean," one of the men snapped. "We need to know for certain before we detain them."
"They won't leave until I rule him healthy enough to travel," the doctor whispered harshly in reply. "Tomorrow I'll pay them a visit and find out for sure. Return here first thing in the morning and then you can take him."
"We'll be waiting, Jean," the other man growled. "You had better not be wrong."
The two men stood and slipped out of the inn, leaving the doctor to finish his wine as Satine stood at the kitchen counter, hands trembling.
They suspected them! What was she going to do? Tomorrow they would come and drag them both away!
Glancing nervously around the inn, she found there were only two people left in the dining room besides her and the doctor, and they were half-asleep. An idea arose in her mind, and slowly she approached the doctor from behind, empty wine bottle in her hand. Heart pounding in her chest, each step reverberating through her entire body, she raised the bottle over her head and, steeling herself for the blow, brought the bottle crashing down on the doctor's head. The glass shattered atop his skull, sending him toppling onto the table and then the floor, out cold.
She almost couldn't believe what she had just done, but she didn't have the time to marvel over her newfound viciousness. They had to get out of here!
Rushing to her room, she slammed the door behind her, leaning against it as she gasped for breath. "Harun, quick, get a carriage ready!" she shouted to the Egyptian, who bolted upright from his seat next to the table as she rushed to the Marquis's bedside. "Marquis, get up!" she pleaded, shaking him awake. "The doctor suspects us! They'll be coming for us in the morning! We have to get out of here now!"
To her relief, the Marquis was able to stand and walk on his own, helping her hastily pack their things and rushed out of the inn. Harun had hailed one of the carriages, and quickly loaded their bags as they climbed inside, and a moment later they were racing for Calais.
"How long?" she shouted to the driver from the window.
"At this pace, a few hours," he answered, "but the horses can't hold up this pace that long!"
"There is no need to be too hasty," Harun spoke up from the back of the carriage, perfectly calm.
"What?" she nearly snapped. What the hell was he talking about? Of course there was reason to rush!
"I tampered with the other carriages," he replied, smirking confidently. "The moment they whip the horses, their harnesses will snap and they'll pull off without the carriage. That should give us enough time to disappear."
"He's good," the Marquis chuckled, sitting back and stretching lazily. It marveled her that he could be so calm when all of France wanted him dead!
About two hours later they arrived at Calais, and a little persuasion on her part managed to secure all three of them passage aboard a merchant ship that left mere minutes later. She stood anxiously at the rail, watching the coast drift away, fearing that at any moment Revolutionaries would storm the port and chase after them, until finally the Marquis dragged her to their small cabin.
"Relax, my sweet," he chuckled, pulling her to him as he ran his hands up and down her back soothingly. "No one is coming for us—we're safe; we're free."
Managing to get control over her panicked breathing, she managed to smile and shake her head with a sigh. "How silly," she laughed weakly. "If anything, I should be comforting you. How can you be so calm? It's your head they want."
"It is not the first time I've been faced with death," he replied calmly, one hand wandering up to tickle the skin at the nape of her neck. "I am jaded in that regard, it's true. But then, if I were hysterical, who would be there to comfort you?" he whispered against her temple, hot breath washing over her face and sending a small shudder through her petite frame. "I'm flattered that you're so upset on my behalf, my cherub."
"Don't let it go to your head," she sniggered, finding herself unwinding under the familiar comfort of their witty exchanges.
"Too late," he replied with a low, rumbling chuckle.
She reached up and lightly slapped his cheek, confused when he took her wrist and shook his head, clucking his tongue.
"Wrong head, dear heart," he whispered, guiding her hand to rest on his thigh, right at the junction of his legs, cackling wickedly as she realized what he meant and flushed a bright crimson.
"You're horrible!" she said in feigned outrage, snatching her hand away though a small part of her wished she hadn't. It was a heady tonic, knowing that she drove his body to such extremes.
"Would you have me any other way?" he said with a cocky smirk, arms sweeping out in a wide, inquiring gesture.
Giving a small laugh, she leaned forward in a moment of courage and kissed his cheek. "Of course not."
Chuckling approvingly, he tilted his head slightly and brought his lips to hers, his hands returning to caress her body with renewed fervor.
She gave another small jump as his tongue dragged across her lips and delved into her mouth, but it only lasted a moment and soon she was timidly meeting his tongue with her own. It was all so strange; so intoxicating and perverse! Naturally she was afraid, but for some strange reason she trusted him and felt safe in his experienced hands.
Did that mean she would let him have her? Her body certainly wanted to continue, but could she really give herself to him in such a way?
She was about to find out.