CHAPTER FIVE

Roxane knocked softly on the door to Christian's garret apartment, his story in her hands. He opened the door and actually smiled when he saw her standing there.

"Roxane," he said, an air of relief in his voice. "Please, come in."

It was the first time Roxane had ever seen his apartment. The walls were covered with individual sheets of paper scrawled with messy writing, obviously the outline for the story he wrote about Satine. Empty wine bottles littered the ground, and the bed was unmade.

"I apologize for the mess. Not much of a housekeeper, as you can see," he said as he hurriedly gathered up bottles and half-eaten sandwiches. When he had finished tidying the space, he gestured for Roxane to sit down. "Have you finished the story?"

"Yes. It's wonderful, Christian, really. You are extremely talented."

"Well, I just wrote what I felt," Christian said, almost sheepishly.

"And that's why it's so good. Because it's honest," Roxane noticed.

"You're being kind," Christian blushed.

"No, I don't have to be. I'm just telling the truth."

There was an awkward pause as Christian and Roxane both searched for things to say.

"So how is everybody. There," Christian said finally. Roxane knew he was speaking of the Moulin Rouge.

"The same, I suppose. I haven't seen the Argentinean or Satie or Toulouse in months," Roxane replied. She knew that this would be the appropriate time to mention the Moulin Rouge's financial troubles and the need for a new show to pay off the Duke. "But the place is not the same. Not without. Well. You know." Roxane wasn't sure if she should even speak Satine's name.

"Yes," Christian said softly. "Oh! Where have my manners gone? Please, sit down," he said, offering her the threadbare chair where Satine had once loved to lounge.

Roxane hesitated but eventually complied. As she nervously searched her mind for ways to continue this conversation with Christian, she remembered her whole purpose in visiting him (well, besides just seeing his face one more time.)

"Zidler is planning to put on another show soon," she said suddenly. Christian nodded, betraying little interest. "Um, I'm to star in it," she continued shyly.

"Really?" Christian asked. "What's the story?"

Roxane bit her lower lip and looked away. She did not possess Zidler's amazing capability to fabricate slightly realistic and true stories out of thin air. She cleared her throat loudly.

"Oh, well, it's…um…about. Well, there's going to be lots of singing…and dancing. Which is where I come in, of course. And it's to be…a story…that is about many…things," Roxane tripped over her words right and left. An amused smile crept to Christian's lips.

"Really? That sounds fascinating, Roxane. I can't wait to see a story about many things," he quipped. At first, Roxane stared at him like a naughty child whose misbehavior had just been discovered, but Christian's grin assured her he wasn't insulting her. Slowly, she smiled and eventually joined in Christian's laughter.

"In truth, nothing has been written," Roxane finally admitted. "I was…I…came here, in part, on Zidler's behalf to ask if you might be interested in writing it."

Christian's expression of amusement fell from his face.

Seeing this, Roxane quickly continued, "Of course, there's no obligation. I'm sure we could find someone else. Toulouse, I've been told, writes some rather, uh, interesting poetry, and if we could just find where he is, I'm certain he could—" but seeing the look on Christian's face slowly devolve from happiness to utter despair, Roxane stopped. She knew that this conversation only resurrected painful memories, memories that were painful only because they had been so wonderful, and the source of that wonder was gone.

"I don't…I don't think I can," Christian said softly.

Roxane sensed that her face reddened as feelings of panic washed over her. Christian was their last hope to write a play. Toulouse had gone missing for weeks, and the Moulin Rouge could not afford to commission any other writers to pen it. Without a show to produce the necessary money, Roxane feared that her garret window would soon be gazing out onto a sausage factory. Spurred on by that realization, Roxane suddenly exclaimed.

"Oh but you have to!"

Christian looked thoroughly confused.

"The truth is, we don't have anyone else to write it! Toulouse has been gone for three weeks, and we can't afford to pay anyone else! You don't know what kind of trouble the Moulin Rouge is in, Christian! The money we owe the Duke—"

Christian's head suddenly turned toward her, the automatic response of hearing the dreaded name. Roxane covered her mouth in remorse.

"The Duke?" Christian asked, disgustedly. "He's gone away."

"He went away. But he's back, and he still holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge. If we can't repay what we owe, he's going to turn it into a sausage factory!" Roxane exclaimed desperately.

Christian couldn't even laugh at the absurdity of this statement. Roxane looked at him pleadingly.

"Please, Christian. We need you," she said earnestly.

Christian's resolute face met her gaze. He inhaled sharply and sighed.

"I need to leave," he said, reaching for his hat and overcoat. Roxane watched as he dressed to go outside, then ushered her toward the door, all in silence. She sighed, listening to his heavy footfalls as he descending the stairs.

* * * * * *



Later that evening, Roxane again sat at her window, watching as the stars began to dot the Paris night. She hadn't had the heart to tell Zidler that Christian had rejected the request to write the play for the Moulin Rouge. She preferred to avoid her doom until the last possible moment.

Her daydreaming was suddenly interrupted by two abrupt knocks on her door. When she opened it, she was astonished to find Christian standing there.

"May I come in?" he asked. He seemed agitated and out of breath. Roxane nodded and gestured toward the room. "I've been walking all over Paris just now. Montmartre, St. Germain, everywhere. Just thinking. And I kept remembering something that she…Satine…said to me before she…died. She told me, 'You have so much to give, Christian.' And I didn't understand, I didn't think that I had anything that I could give to anyone. And I didn't want to, not without her. I just wanted to stop living."

Roxane stared at him, intently and silently.

"But I realized that I can't do that. I can't die with Satine, she wouldn't have wanted that. I can't stop living, I can't lose hope in this world. I have to go on believing in the ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and…love."

He whispered that final word as if it was some kind of secret he wanted to reveal. Roxane was still speechless.

"And so I'm saying yes, I will write the play for the Moulin Rouge," Christian said, ending the suspense. Roxane's face lit up, and she hardly knew what she was doing as she threw her arms around Christian's neck.

"Oh thank you! Thank you so much!" she exclaimed. Then, realizing her hasty outburst might have shocked him, she suddenly pulled away. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I didn't mean to—" but Roxane couldn't think of any justification for her actions. She had always wanted to do that.

But the look of sadness that had marked Christian's face for a year was gone, and a mischievous smile crept to his lips. He boldly stepped toward Roxane and gathered her up in his arms. She could feel her heart racing.

"There's no need to apologize," he said coyly, as he passionately planted a kiss on her soft lips. Seconds passed as Roxane and Christian kissed, each one of them pouring their longing and passion into the embrace, but to Roxane, it was over far too quickly.

Suddenly, Christian broke away from her, a sweet smile on his face.

"I must go and write!" he announced as he pulled his hat on his head. Roxane couldn't help but looking somewhat dejected. He took her hand gently. "Can I visit you later?" he asked. She nodded, feeling herself blush. Christian grinned wickedly at her, then raced out the door, slamming it behind him.



Continued…