CHAPTER EIGHT
Roxane awoke the next morning to the sound of persistent knocking on the door. Looking over at Christian, who was waking up beside her, she wrapped herself in a sheet and walked to the door. She opened it just a crack, and was astonished to see none other than the Duke standing before her, holding a large bouquet of red roses.
"He's trying too hard," Roxane thought to herself.
"Well, good morning Duke," Roxane said sweetly. Christian jolted awake.
"Good morning, Mademoiselle Roxane. I thought I would come by and to wish you good luck for tonight's show and ask you if you'd join me for a breakfast at the Hotel George V," he said, almost half-heartedly, but still feigning interest.
"My dear Duke," Roxane said abruptly, channeling Satine. "You should know that performers never say 'good luck.' They say, 'break a leg!'"
"Yes, well," the Duke stammered. "Terribly sorry, terribly sorry. Now, about my invitation? I've had a splendid repast prepared, and you know you need your strength for tonight's, um, show."
A wave of sadness and remorse came over Roxane, but she did her best to hide it.
"Of course, I will," she said finally. "Now, if you'll just give me a moment to get dressed, we'll leave at once. Excuse me." With that, Roxane hastily shut the door to her room, covering her face with her hand.
"Why is he here?" she whispered. "Well, I have to go with him." Christian sighed.
"I suppose you do," he whispered back.
Roxane dejectedly walked to the closet and picked out a dark purple dress. Then, she went behind her dressing screen and morosely began to dress herself. She had the dress halfway on when another knock at the door.
"Mademoiselle Roxane?" the Duke asked, a small tinge of panic in his voice.
"Yes, Duke?" Roxane called back.
"May I please come in?"
"In just a moment, I'm almost ready."
"Yes, well there are some unsightly characters out here, consumptives and the lot, and they keep coughing on me!" the Duke whined, his voice rising in annoyance. Roxane rolled her eyes and looked at Christian, who stood in the center of the room, holding a blanket around himself.
"Get behind here!" she hissed, gesturing to the dressing screen. Christian hurried across the room and joined Roxane, kneeling down behind the screen.
"All right, you may come in!" she called to the Duke once Christian was sufficiently hidden. The door quickly swung open, and the Duke rushed inside, slamming it behind him.
"There, that's better," he said, smoothing his coat. He looked around at the small apartment and tried to conceal his slight disgust. Plaster was missing from the walls, the bed was unmade, clothes were strewn all over the floor. Fortunately for Roxane, one of her dresses hid Christian's suit from the Duke's view.
"Almost done," Roxane told him, tying her hair up. The Duke smiled faintly. When the Duke ventured over the window to see the view, Roxane hunkered down to address Christian.
"I don't know how long this will take, but I'll be all right. Meet your uncle, and I'll see you tonight at the performance," she whispered, as quietly as she could. Christian nodded sadly.
"Are you talking to someone behind here, my dear?" the Duke asked suddenly.
"Oh no, Duke, just practicing some of my lines for tonight!" Roxane replied cheerfully, rolling her eyes.
"All right." Christian said. He kissed her goodbye, and she broke from him, grabbing her stole and purse.
"Ready?" she said to the Duke.
"Certainly, my dear, you look lovely!" the Duke exclaimed. Roxane led him out of the apartment and shut the door. Christian, still clutching the sheet around him, sprang to hi s feet and ran to the window, watching as the Duke helped Roxane into a carriage, then looked around suspiciously before getting in himself.
Christian stood for a moment, alone in Roxane's apartment, hoping that the evening would go as they had planned. But then, a clock struck eleven times, telling Christian that he only had an hour to get to the Gare du Nord to meet his uncle's train. He hurriedly dressed himself in the rumpled clothes on the floor and ran upstairs to his own apartment, where he changed into his best suit.
* * * * * *
Two hours later, Christian sat with his uncle at the Café de la Paix. He had never been there, as it was outside of Montmartre in a neighborhood that was decidedly un-Bohemian. Christian's uncle sipped coffee while Christian waited for him to begin speaking.
"Not bad," his uncle said finally. "This city. Just as beautiful as they say it is." Christian nodded in assent. "You will, of course, be showing me where you live later. I promised your father, before he died, that I'd see to that and make sure you weren't…oh how did he put it? Oh yes, wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!" His uncle shook his head. "Can't imagine you'd be doing that."
Christian swallowed hard and forced a smile.
"Um, just a question," Christian stammered.
"Yes?" his uncle prompted him.
"How did he die?" Christian hedged around the question. His uncle set his coffee down.
"Ah yes. Thought you'd ask that." He paused. "Well, Christian, you know your father was not a young man. Waited till he was almost 40 before he had you, and before that, he had been working non-stop since he was a boy. I'm sure he told you all about his youth?"
Christian shook his head. "We didn't exactly talk very often."
"Ah. Well, your father and I both started to work when we were about ten years old. Your father worked in a textile mill, loading the machines and what not for several years. Of course, since he had a bit more brains than the rest of the workers, he was allowed to work his way up to foreman, then to management. And one day, the mill owner offered him a partnership in the mill." His uncle took a sip of coffee. "Armstrong was the mill owner's name. That's where the Armstrong in Morgan and Armstrong comes from, if you care. Well, old George Armstrong died suddenly about a year later, and having no wife or children, he left the mill to your father. The mill was so successful, that he bought more and more, which is how he came into his fortune."
"Oh," Christian said quietly.
"Now," his uncle said, finishing his coffee. "To the issue of your inheritance."
"My inheritance?" Christian repeated, shock evident in his voice.
"Yes, my dear nephew. You don't think that your father wouldn't leave his only child without something after he died, do you?" his uncle asked, amazed.
"Well, uh, no," Christian said uncertainly. His uncle looked at him incredulously for a moment and then reached for his briefcase.
"Your father owned a total of twenty mills throughout Britain. In his will, he has left half to his business partner, that's me, and the other ten go to you," his uncle explained.
"To me?!" Christian exclaimed in disbelief. He had no idea how to run a textile factory!
"Yes," his uncle told him. "At any rate, the mills right now are worth roughly fifty thousand pounds. Each. That brings your fortune right now to a total of 500,000 pounds, and that doesn't count all of the revenue each mill produces."
The look on Christian's face told his uncle that he had had no idea how rich his father was.
"Yes, well, it's all in your name. The accounts and everything, but I'm afraid that your father made one condition," his uncle continued.
"What was that?" Christian asked.
"Well, before he died, he said that it's been more than a year that you've been here, writing, or whatever it is you do, and your father thought that it had been long enough," he explained. "So, in order to obtain your full fortune, you must return to London. If you choose not to, you are only entitled to 10,000 pounds."
Christian looked crestfallen.
"Now, we don't expect you to come back to London right away," his uncle quickly added. "You may stay here long enough to settle your affairs and say your goodbyes."
"Ten thousand pounds," Christian said thoughtfully. "How many francs would that be?"
Color rose to his uncle's neck.
"Certainly not enough to sustain you for the rest of your life if you are cut off by your family!" his uncle seethed. Christian looked unfazed.
"Uncle, are you busy this evening?" he asked serenely.
"Why…why, no," his uncle replied, taken aback.
"Good. Then, would you join me for an evening at the theatre. There's something that you need to see," Christian said, a glimmer in his eye.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Across town in the opulent dining room of the Hotel George V, Roxane breakfasted with the Duke.
"Another brioche, my sweet?" the Duke oozed, offering Roxane a basket of pastries.
"No thank you, dear Duke. Three are quite enough," she demurred, a queasy feeling in her stomach from all the sweet food.
"I'm really quite looking forward to the performance," the Duke said foppishly. "Zidler has promised an event that will bedazzle and bewitch like none other." Roxane nodded, knowing full well that the Duke was only partly referring to the play.
"Indeed, I'm sure it shall," she agreed, pasting on a fake smile.
"Yes, well," the Duke's voice dropped, and Roxane could feel his hand firmly gripping her knee. She tensed up, almost letting out a cry in response. She could feel her heart racing. "It had better. We do have an agreement, and it had better be honored." The Duke abruptly let go of her leg, and Roxane sat back in her chair, her breath hitching.
"Yes, Duke. I-it shall be," she stammered, unable to look him in the eye.
"Good," the Duke leaned back in satisfaction, narrowing his eyes at Roxane. "Good."
Roxane awoke the next morning to the sound of persistent knocking on the door. Looking over at Christian, who was waking up beside her, she wrapped herself in a sheet and walked to the door. She opened it just a crack, and was astonished to see none other than the Duke standing before her, holding a large bouquet of red roses.
"He's trying too hard," Roxane thought to herself.
"Well, good morning Duke," Roxane said sweetly. Christian jolted awake.
"Good morning, Mademoiselle Roxane. I thought I would come by and to wish you good luck for tonight's show and ask you if you'd join me for a breakfast at the Hotel George V," he said, almost half-heartedly, but still feigning interest.
"My dear Duke," Roxane said abruptly, channeling Satine. "You should know that performers never say 'good luck.' They say, 'break a leg!'"
"Yes, well," the Duke stammered. "Terribly sorry, terribly sorry. Now, about my invitation? I've had a splendid repast prepared, and you know you need your strength for tonight's, um, show."
A wave of sadness and remorse came over Roxane, but she did her best to hide it.
"Of course, I will," she said finally. "Now, if you'll just give me a moment to get dressed, we'll leave at once. Excuse me." With that, Roxane hastily shut the door to her room, covering her face with her hand.
"Why is he here?" she whispered. "Well, I have to go with him." Christian sighed.
"I suppose you do," he whispered back.
Roxane dejectedly walked to the closet and picked out a dark purple dress. Then, she went behind her dressing screen and morosely began to dress herself. She had the dress halfway on when another knock at the door.
"Mademoiselle Roxane?" the Duke asked, a small tinge of panic in his voice.
"Yes, Duke?" Roxane called back.
"May I please come in?"
"In just a moment, I'm almost ready."
"Yes, well there are some unsightly characters out here, consumptives and the lot, and they keep coughing on me!" the Duke whined, his voice rising in annoyance. Roxane rolled her eyes and looked at Christian, who stood in the center of the room, holding a blanket around himself.
"Get behind here!" she hissed, gesturing to the dressing screen. Christian hurried across the room and joined Roxane, kneeling down behind the screen.
"All right, you may come in!" she called to the Duke once Christian was sufficiently hidden. The door quickly swung open, and the Duke rushed inside, slamming it behind him.
"There, that's better," he said, smoothing his coat. He looked around at the small apartment and tried to conceal his slight disgust. Plaster was missing from the walls, the bed was unmade, clothes were strewn all over the floor. Fortunately for Roxane, one of her dresses hid Christian's suit from the Duke's view.
"Almost done," Roxane told him, tying her hair up. The Duke smiled faintly. When the Duke ventured over the window to see the view, Roxane hunkered down to address Christian.
"I don't know how long this will take, but I'll be all right. Meet your uncle, and I'll see you tonight at the performance," she whispered, as quietly as she could. Christian nodded sadly.
"Are you talking to someone behind here, my dear?" the Duke asked suddenly.
"Oh no, Duke, just practicing some of my lines for tonight!" Roxane replied cheerfully, rolling her eyes.
"All right." Christian said. He kissed her goodbye, and she broke from him, grabbing her stole and purse.
"Ready?" she said to the Duke.
"Certainly, my dear, you look lovely!" the Duke exclaimed. Roxane led him out of the apartment and shut the door. Christian, still clutching the sheet around him, sprang to hi s feet and ran to the window, watching as the Duke helped Roxane into a carriage, then looked around suspiciously before getting in himself.
Christian stood for a moment, alone in Roxane's apartment, hoping that the evening would go as they had planned. But then, a clock struck eleven times, telling Christian that he only had an hour to get to the Gare du Nord to meet his uncle's train. He hurriedly dressed himself in the rumpled clothes on the floor and ran upstairs to his own apartment, where he changed into his best suit.
* * * * * *
Two hours later, Christian sat with his uncle at the Café de la Paix. He had never been there, as it was outside of Montmartre in a neighborhood that was decidedly un-Bohemian. Christian's uncle sipped coffee while Christian waited for him to begin speaking.
"Not bad," his uncle said finally. "This city. Just as beautiful as they say it is." Christian nodded in assent. "You will, of course, be showing me where you live later. I promised your father, before he died, that I'd see to that and make sure you weren't…oh how did he put it? Oh yes, wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!" His uncle shook his head. "Can't imagine you'd be doing that."
Christian swallowed hard and forced a smile.
"Um, just a question," Christian stammered.
"Yes?" his uncle prompted him.
"How did he die?" Christian hedged around the question. His uncle set his coffee down.
"Ah yes. Thought you'd ask that." He paused. "Well, Christian, you know your father was not a young man. Waited till he was almost 40 before he had you, and before that, he had been working non-stop since he was a boy. I'm sure he told you all about his youth?"
Christian shook his head. "We didn't exactly talk very often."
"Ah. Well, your father and I both started to work when we were about ten years old. Your father worked in a textile mill, loading the machines and what not for several years. Of course, since he had a bit more brains than the rest of the workers, he was allowed to work his way up to foreman, then to management. And one day, the mill owner offered him a partnership in the mill." His uncle took a sip of coffee. "Armstrong was the mill owner's name. That's where the Armstrong in Morgan and Armstrong comes from, if you care. Well, old George Armstrong died suddenly about a year later, and having no wife or children, he left the mill to your father. The mill was so successful, that he bought more and more, which is how he came into his fortune."
"Oh," Christian said quietly.
"Now," his uncle said, finishing his coffee. "To the issue of your inheritance."
"My inheritance?" Christian repeated, shock evident in his voice.
"Yes, my dear nephew. You don't think that your father wouldn't leave his only child without something after he died, do you?" his uncle asked, amazed.
"Well, uh, no," Christian said uncertainly. His uncle looked at him incredulously for a moment and then reached for his briefcase.
"Your father owned a total of twenty mills throughout Britain. In his will, he has left half to his business partner, that's me, and the other ten go to you," his uncle explained.
"To me?!" Christian exclaimed in disbelief. He had no idea how to run a textile factory!
"Yes," his uncle told him. "At any rate, the mills right now are worth roughly fifty thousand pounds. Each. That brings your fortune right now to a total of 500,000 pounds, and that doesn't count all of the revenue each mill produces."
The look on Christian's face told his uncle that he had had no idea how rich his father was.
"Yes, well, it's all in your name. The accounts and everything, but I'm afraid that your father made one condition," his uncle continued.
"What was that?" Christian asked.
"Well, before he died, he said that it's been more than a year that you've been here, writing, or whatever it is you do, and your father thought that it had been long enough," he explained. "So, in order to obtain your full fortune, you must return to London. If you choose not to, you are only entitled to 10,000 pounds."
Christian looked crestfallen.
"Now, we don't expect you to come back to London right away," his uncle quickly added. "You may stay here long enough to settle your affairs and say your goodbyes."
"Ten thousand pounds," Christian said thoughtfully. "How many francs would that be?"
Color rose to his uncle's neck.
"Certainly not enough to sustain you for the rest of your life if you are cut off by your family!" his uncle seethed. Christian looked unfazed.
"Uncle, are you busy this evening?" he asked serenely.
"Why…why, no," his uncle replied, taken aback.
"Good. Then, would you join me for an evening at the theatre. There's something that you need to see," Christian said, a glimmer in his eye.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Across town in the opulent dining room of the Hotel George V, Roxane breakfasted with the Duke.
"Another brioche, my sweet?" the Duke oozed, offering Roxane a basket of pastries.
"No thank you, dear Duke. Three are quite enough," she demurred, a queasy feeling in her stomach from all the sweet food.
"I'm really quite looking forward to the performance," the Duke said foppishly. "Zidler has promised an event that will bedazzle and bewitch like none other." Roxane nodded, knowing full well that the Duke was only partly referring to the play.
"Indeed, I'm sure it shall," she agreed, pasting on a fake smile.
"Yes, well," the Duke's voice dropped, and Roxane could feel his hand firmly gripping her knee. She tensed up, almost letting out a cry in response. She could feel her heart racing. "It had better. We do have an agreement, and it had better be honored." The Duke abruptly let go of her leg, and Roxane sat back in her chair, her breath hitching.
"Yes, Duke. I-it shall be," she stammered, unable to look him in the eye.
"Good," the Duke leaned back in satisfaction, narrowing his eyes at Roxane. "Good."
