Chapter XVII: Two Departures, Two Destinations

The next two weeks passed by slowly and painfully. Christian slept and lived in the study, too ashamed of what he had done to return to his wife. Every time, he lay uncomfortably in his makeshift bed, trying to work up to the courage to go talk to Satine. He had no idea that she was pacing in their room, wrestling with the same idea. Their conversation was stiff and formal and cast a heavy net of strain over everyone in the house. Meals were particularly hard. Satine and Christian sat at opposite ends of the table with their eyes fixed more on their food than on each other. Silence was the general rule of conversation.

After one such breakfast, Satine hurried out of the dining room on the verge of tears. She let out a ragged breath and turned in agitation to the window of the parlor. A tentative knock on the door didn't even give her the slightest hope that it was Christian. "Come in, Anne," she called. It was ironic-- with the amount of time she spent talking to her maid now, she could recognize her very knock, while her husband-- Satine shook her head abruptly. Anne entered, her ready smile a little hesitant now.

"Monsieur Everett is in his study, Madam, and he asked not be disturbed, so I thought I'd bring this to you." Anne extended a letter which Satine took with a disinterested look.
"Thank you," she said softly as the girl curtsied and left the room. She turned the envelope over, recognizing Christian's father's handwriting. Satine peered in the mirror to check her appearance, then walked purposefully to the study, glad for a reason to interrupt Christian.

For his part, Christian was doing little more than sitting and staring off into space. He was unshaven and his face was drawn. Despite having told the servants about his peace, he was unaccountably thankful for the knock on the door.

"Come in," he called, assuming it to be Henry or the maid. Instead Satine entered holding a letter. Christian automatically stood.

"Hello," he said. He swallowed against a lump in his throat.

Satine's heart sank at his greeting and she nervously touched her hair.

"Hello," she replied, careful to not let a single note of emotion enter her voice. "This-- this is for you." Christian didn't move.

"Who's it from?" Satine's eyes briefly flashed at him, but her expression stayed the same.

"I don't know. Your father, I suppose-- that's his handwriting on the envelope."

Christian's mind momentarily skipped back to their first real argument and smiled wryly at how serious he had thought that was. Satine raised an eyebrow, the letter still extended.
"Well? Are you going to take it?"

"Yes," Christian answered, jerked back to the present by her voice. "Yes. I'm-- I'm sorry. Here, uh, please sit down." Satine sat gingerly down on a chair, looking around her as Christian opened and read the letter. The room bore the marks of his presence that the bedroom was missing now. Some of his clothes were thrown over the sofa, his favorite books lay out and manuscript pages littered the table and chairs. It was more than personal possessions, though. The bedroom seemed empty now, with carefully dusted corners where Christian's things had used to lie. Satine scrupulously kept her knickknacks out of his spaces, and as a result, the room had a lonely look, as if it was waiting with Satine for Christian's return. A sudden, choked-off sound came from Christian, and Satine looked at him with alarm. He folded the letter back up and looked out the window, his face still expressionless.

"What is it?" Satine finally asked after a long pause. Christian sat down across from her and handed her the letter.

"Peter is dead."

"I'm sorry," Satine said, not sure if those were the right words to say. She certainly wouldn't miss Peter, but he was Christian's brother. What would a little passing threat to her effect what was doubtlessly a deep and lasting relationship between brothers--

"Yes, so am I. Sorry that he didn't die years ago." Satine's eyebrows shot up and she felt a small tingle of remorse at her over-active sense of tragedy. "Well," Christian continued, standing up and brushing his jacket off. "I'm to go to England now. Father commands it." Satine involuntarily stood up.

"England!"

"Yes. I'll pack and be gone with two hours. Can you manage without me for a fortnight or so?"

Satine held back her tears and nodded. Wasn't he even going to ask her to go with him?

"Yes, of course." She waited, but no invitation to accompany him came. "Goodbye, then." Christian hesitated. Could he kiss her goodbye? He gently laid a hand on her shoulder and Satine nearly gasped at his touch. She longed to throw herself into his arms, but held herself back and merely raised her white face to his. Christian kissed her quickly, and Satine involuntarily drew back. Christian felt another wave of shame come over him.

"Goodbye," Satine glanced down at the little side-table and frowned at the copy of Sense and Sensibility yhat rested there. She picked up the novel and looked up at Christian with no small sense of hope, but that quickly dissipated when she saw his face. "I'll see you in about a fortnight, then." Christian bravely nodded as she left.

"I love you," he whispered to the empty room. "Come what may, I will love you until the end of time."

A few days later, Satine was supposedly reading in the parlor, but in reality she was only playing with the pages. Her failure to have a child wasn't due to her illness. She knew that in her heart, and that was the real reason she couldn't confront Christian about it.

It was because in her days as a courtesan, she'd most likely contacted something that had left her barren. Maybe she'd given it to Christian. Satine shut her eyes, remembering the days of the Moulin Rouge. . .wait. . . the Moulin Rouge. If anyone was to know about diseases of that nature, they would be at Montmartre. At Montmartre. . . at the Moulin Rouge.

"And Christian isn't here," she said slowly. "If I could just find out. . .what to do. . . and things would be well again. . ." she fingered her cheek, tears welling up in here eyes as she remembered that night. The awful things she had said to him. . .

"Things won't ever be the same again, will they?" she asked herself wearily. "But I have to try," she whispered fiercely. "If I don't, it's already gone. . ." Satine fumbled around her neck for the key she wore there. The bottom drawer of the parlor desk was locked, containing an emergency bundle of francs that she could use for her train fare and hotel.

"Anne!" she called, finally retrieving the money. "Anne, please come in here!" The maid appeared at the door with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Yes, Madam?"

"I've received word that I need to go visit my family as well," Satine wildly invented on the spot. "I must leave immediately and no one-- especially my husband, Anne, must know where I've gone. It's very important. Can I trust you with this?" Anne nodded solemnly.

"Yes, Madam."

"Thank you," Satine said, pressing some of francs into her hand. Anne tried to refuse them, but Satine insisted, closing the girl's fingers around the money.

"I know your wages go to your mother, but spend this on yourself and say it was a gift from me," Satine said hurriedly, pinning her hat on. "You deserve it," she added, smiling into the girl's face. "You've been a good friend to me, Anne."

"Thank you," Anne said quietly, beaming more from the praise than from the money. She and Satine looked into the wardrobe and Satine bit her lip.

"Not too much. . .I'd like to leave as soon as I can." Anne neatly folded the gowns Satine brought out, one by one. How many memories had she invested in these dresses? The blue one Christian had bought her before their marriage to replace the glittering gowns he had to sell. . . the beige walking suit, her dark green taffeta that she'd worn at Christmas. . .the ivory satin she had worn with her pearls to the opera. . . she pulled out her pink dressing gown and smiled sadly at it. It was the only thing left from the Moulin Rouge, and then she'd only worn it when with Christian in the garret.

"This one as well?" Satine realized she was standing there, staring at the garment and she replaced it in the wardrobe.

"No," she said softly. "This one stays here." Satine opened her jewelry box and found her pearls. "These come with me."

As Satine walked out of her house, she glanced back at her beautiful home and the garden that surrounded it. Nestled among a haven of trees, the house seemed to call to her, asking her to stay. But it wasn't home. Not without Christian there.

"Good luck, Madam," Anne said in a strange moment of lucidity as she signaled to the driver to bring Satine to the train station.

"I think I'll need it," Satine said grimly, touching Anne's hand and smiling before climbing into the automobile. The vehicle could get her to the train station soon, and for the first time, she didn't regret Christian's extravagant purchase in the least. As the car pulled out, Satine turned and looked forward. She would return to the Moulin Rouge. . . maybe the echoes from her past could tell her the secrets of her future.

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Author's Note: STILL I own nothing. Moulin Rouge got nominated for best picture! Yay! I hope Nicole wins for best actress!

Some more angst from me, but rest assured, this will end happily. Thanks for all the great reviews that everyone gave me. I appreciate it more than words can say. I'm home sick again today, so I'm hoping to finish this story and perhaps start on a new one. Thanks again! :-)
~DP