Tell our story, Christian. That way, I'll always be with you.

Christian kissed the binding of the book. The book was his heart, his soul, his very essence.

This was the very first copy made of his story, which was now a Bohemian staple. People who could barely afford dinner scrimped a saved to be able to buy a copy. In order to truly belong to the Bohemian Revolution, you should at least be able to recite the first three chapters of the book by heart. It was considered the very essence of the principles of the Revolution, embodying truth, beauty, freedom, and love.

The book itself was beautiful. A hard black cover with red binding, the title written in gold with his name below. In the bottom corner of the front cover was a small gold windmill.

The book was a hit. It had made Christian a mint. He looked around at what had once been his bare hotel room, now lavishly furnished. Though he could've bought himself an apartment or at least found a room in a nicer hotel, he stubbornly remained in 'Hôtel Meublé'.

The scampering of tiny feet got his attention. He leaned out his window, peering in the direction of the Moulin Rouge.

The nightclub lay broken and bandonned. The once majestic elephant still stood without care, turning it into a rubble of broken glass and shattered dreams. Ziedler never could bring himself to place another one of his diamonds in there, and the elephant stood there, as a dilapidated, mute testimony to the lovely Satine.

Satine.

Satine.

Shaking his head before the enemy thought made it any farther into his hardened heart, Christian turned his attention to two 'Children of the Revolution': children living in absinthe-flooded hovels with 'creatively inclined' parents.

A small boy and girl were going towards the elephant: the little girl young, with golden brown wisps flying about and a tattered blue dress; the boy with darker hair and in torn brown pants and a stained white shirt, maybe a year or two older than the girl.

Christian sighed; as this was not an uncommon sight. He was used to seeing the beloved elephant fall victim to piracy. Often was the prized elephant ransacked by child thieves hoping to find a trace of grace in the stately creation to sell. And as all the children in Montmartre, they were raised thinking that the elephant was haunted.

The little girl stopped a few feet from the entrance, shaking her head.

"J'ai peur!" She cried pitifully. Christian smiled slightly, poor little thing was still innocent enough to feel fear; unlike most habitants of the Godforsaken Montmartre.

The boy looked at her scornfully from his fearless stance in the doorway, calling back to her in French that she was a baby and a coward, and if she didn't come, he'd leave her and let the ghosts get her.

With a shrill cry, the little girl ran inside.

Christian chuckled softly, and watched the elephant a little longer, imagining it in its former splendor...

¤*~*¤

'Love is a many splendored thing, Love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!'

'Please, don't start that again'

'All you need is love...'

'A girl has got to eat!'

'...All you need is love...'

'She'll end up on the street!'

'...All you need is loooooooooooove-'

'Love is just a game.'

¤*~*¤


Another cry stopped his dream as the little girl stood on the roof of the elephant.

"L'âme! L'âme!" she cried, shaking. The boy soon joined her, asking her what she had seen.

The spirit, was all she said, the spirit. The boy slapped her with scorn, and dragged her down the stairs. While they were out of Christian's sight, he heard another scream, and out ran both children, both crying: "L'âme! L'âme!"

The both ran away and down the street, bringing out housewives and drunks, who looked in wonder at the still elephant, scratched their heads, and went back to whatever they were doing.

Christian looked down the street after the children.

The spirit. The spirit.

Sighing once more, he pulled his hat over his head and picked up his carpet bag. At the request of his meek mother, his father was allowing him to come home. While pride still flowed strong in Christian's veins, he felt a need to see his mother, his two wild brothers and his baby sister, not to mention finger the keys of his cherished piano as he played worn sheets of Bach and Mozart in the music room and listen to the soft ring of his mother's voice. He wanted to see his home.

He walked down the stairs, murmuring a polite 'Bonjour' to the owner of the hotel, then at the desk when he tipped his hat accompanied by a 'Bon matin' to the owner's wife.

He stopped at the florist, buying a large bouquet of blood red roses. He walked to the park, walking hurriedly through the winding paths. In the very heart of the garden, he put down the flowers reverently, lovingly whispering his good-byes.

He walked to one of the more respectable streets in Montmartre-not that was saying much, waiting for a taxi to come by. Christian waited, choosing to ignore that some of the normal streetwalkers were starting early, and that the man drunkenly drinking in the corner at ten o'clock in the morning.

The taxi came, and Christian directed him to the train station that had brought him there two years before.

He went to the desk, buying himself a ticket to one of the coastal French towns that Christian couldn't pronounce, from where he would take the night ferry. With good luck, he'd be in England by morning, and in London by mid-afternoon. Ignoring the tugging on his heart, Christian took a seat in the crowded waiting area, placing his carpet bag at his feet.

He looked around. A few rows of seats away, a woman was chasing her child, a little boy of about three. She grabbed him, hugged him tight, then smacked him.

A few rows away, a girl in a pale blue dress and a cunning little hat stood arguing heatedly in French with a man who held her by her forearms. The girl struggled away, running until the man caught up to her, spun her around, and kissed her. The girl tried to escape at first, then stopped, kissing him back.

Two old men were playing checkers in the corner, one accusing the other of cheating, that one defending himself hotly.

Checking his watch, and seeing that he still had a good ten minutes before the train started boarding, he let his mind wander.

To a place he didn't believe existed any longer.

To her.

Her.

She represented euphoria, a sort of crystal perfection that touched too often would shatter and break. A part of his life that was over, a happiness now unobtainable. He hardly dared to think her name, with the exception of his book.

Satine.

He conjured an image of her ... her pale, moonlight face; her rich, shining hair, flowing down her back like a torch glowing with hope; her bright, dark blue eyes snapping mischievously partnered with her magnificent smile.

A slow smile, dimmed with pain, spread across his face.

A train's whistle sounded, bringing him out of his reverie. His train was boarding. His train back home.

"Home." He murmured as he boarded the train. "Home."