Chapter XI: One Cruel Joke

This couldn't be true.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't. . .

Rose said gently, reaching out to hold his hands. He flinched slightly at the chilly brush of her slender fingers in his, but didn't otherwise react. He was only dimly concious of the sharp dashes of rain and low pauses of thunder outside. The Duke's words kept repeating themselves, insinuating all the betrayl with their sardonic undertone. It couldn't be true. Satine would never do anything like that, not his Satine, not the woman he loved.

The Duke told me the same thing at the railroad station. He seems to think. . . she flushed and trailed off. He searched her face for any sign of duplicity-- perhaps-- perhaps-- her pale face was sweet and open, touched only with worry for him. Nothing like the constant flicker of emotions that passed over her face before a declaration of love.

It was true, then.

It was a joke, he whispered hoarsely. And not just that. It was all a lie, Rose.

Rose began, her tone as gentle as a mother's, she might not have meant it that way. She might have really cared for you--

She lied to me! Christian cried. He slammed his fist down on the table, ignoring Rose's nervous jump as the sound resonated through his room. She lied to me, Rose! Rose stood and turned away to the window.

Christian. . .

You don't lie to the people you love, Rose!

Of course you don't. She turned to face him, her pale face alight with feeling. He noticed then, with a sudden sense of shame, how weary she looked. Were those violet shadows and that strange, liquid sense of her eyes indications of tears? You don't, Christian, she said again. Her insinuation was all too clear. He stared at her, pain tearing away at his heart. His Satine would never do such a thing.

She loves me, Rose.

Rose's eyebrow arched delicately. Christian, I'm sorry, she whispered to the waiting air. His face softened in return, and it was all she could do to contain the shrewd smile that begged to pull on her lips. This was an unexpected stroke of luck.

But what, Rose? His breath came quickly, pushing his doubts upon him. Surely she didn't mean-- she'd seen, hadn't she, how loving he and Satine were together?

Do you really believe that? Her voice was warmer than he expected, rich chords of sympathy pleasantly deepening it. She sank onto the window-seat next to him and pressed her hand upon his.

Yes--yes. . . of course I believe it.

Rose said deliberately, gazing strictly into his eyes. She was a courtesan. They're paid, here she paused, emphasizing the word, to make men believe what they want to believe. I know you don't want to even think it--

he whispered harshly. He tried to pull away from her slim hand, but the pressure didn't lighten.

Everyone knows except for you, Rose said coolly. Why do you have to deny it, Christian?

He stopped for a moment, his confused thoughts lighting on a single flash of hope. But the Duke-- I thought that she was just-- his-- his-- well, you know.

Picked her out of the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Rose replied, her lip curling at the thought. One of the very best can-can girls, apparently. Fancied diamonds quite a bit. Enough to trade her-- she halted, but the disdain in her voice was still apparent when she spoke again. Kisses for the jewels, she spat, nearly snarling at the idea. So much for our high and mighty Mademoiselle Claudel. Mr. Day is quite put out.

(They called her the sparkling diamond)

The Moulin Rouge, Christian repeated blankly. This was absurd. Satine couldn't have been at the infamous nightclub. There was nothing coarse in her soul. She would rather have starved on the streets than sell her body. He knew it with every ounce of his heart. She believed in love above all things.

The Moulin Rouge, Christian.

It can't be true--

The Duke himself is going around saying it! Seems to think it's rather amusing.

Then I don't care.

Rose's eyes narrowed, and she bit back a sharp reprimand. This line of argument wasn't going to get her anywhere.

I do understand, she said softly. I just wonder. . . she hesitated and bit her lower lip. She turned to face the window so the pale light streamed past her profile. A sudden flash of lightening illuminated her delicate features, and she carefully supressed another smile. This isn't my business. I'm sure she loved you, Christian. How could she not?

Christian smiled wanly up at her, but he didn't otherwise respond. She hesitated, then plunged into a riskier statement.

I'm sure, she said deliberately, that she had a very good reason for not confiding in you about the Moulin Rouge.

Christian said softly, but his gaze was still focused absently on the storm outside.

I'll go make you a cup of tea, she suggested, aware that her last words would fester better without her presence.

Thank you, he said quietly. His head fell as she carefully stepped out of the room. A smile danced around her lips-- this was better and better!-- even as a tear slid down his cheek, unchecked.

Why hadn't she told him?

So tell me, she'd asked, a strange light in her sea-deep eyes. She'd bitten her lower lip in consternation, and then, as if punishing herself for the action, raised her head. Where did you get the inspiration for the play? She'd studied him carefully before forming her next question. Have you ever been to Paris? He had shook his head as he replied.

No. . . but I almost went once, he'd said innocently, and in his mind's eye he saw the almost imperceptible relaxation that came over her. I was going to travel to Montmartre, but my family. . . my family needed me here. My father was afraid I'd end up at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer, he'd finished with a laugh tempered with a regretful sigh.

Maybe you would have. . . Satine had said lightly. Her eyebrows had drawn together, and she'd stayed motionless for a long moment before changing the subject.

She'd lied to him. But. . .perhaps, he rationalized, wasn't it a lie that made perfect sense? Perhaps-- no, not perhaps, she had changed since whatever life she'd led in the Moulin Rouge. Time had wrought upon her beliefs what deep sorrow and hope would have given her there.

Could they save their love?

Had she ever loved him, or was it just one cruel joke between an actress and her patron?

With the same impulsive sense that sent his father into utter frustration, Christian reached into his desk for a few sheets of music. He'd written them in secret, pouring every aspect of his love for Satine into the simple words. He'd send them to her, ask her if she wished to change the ending. Then-- then-- he would know, if their love would burn on, come what may or. . .

(I'm staying with the Duke)

No, he wouldn't think about that.

He lingered over the note longer than he should have, carefully pressing the nib of the pen into the paper, watching the ink flow in choreographed patterns across the page. Despite his best efforts, the letter was short and terse-- but surely she would forgive him that when she saw the song.

Dear Mademoiselle Claudel,
I thought perhaps we might change the ending of the play to make it truer to life. Please read through this song and inform me what you think.

Sincerely,
Christian Everett

Rose entered at that moment, carefully balancing a tea tray loaded with his favorite foods.

she said dryly as she set the tray down. Her gaze flicked over to the envelope he was busy sealing. Did you write her a letter? She forced a smile at the thought. she said, almost cheerfully. I'm certain that will repair things between you. Christian nodded and handed her the envelope, his face paling as he did so.

Will you . . . he swallowed. Could you deliver it into her hands, Rose? I don't think Warner cares for me overmuch. His smile was a half-hearted attempt, although hers was perfectly genuine. This could be the triumph of her plan.

And the ruination of Christian's life, the sudden and unexpected voice of conscience reminded her.

Good God, another part of her snapped back. She's a whore. And you, might I remind you, are rapidly failing as an actress. A husband who is both playwright and patron will be the salvation of you. We could even surpass Mademoiselle Claudel, couldn't we?

The thoughts fell silent as she took the envelope with a hopeful smile. She tucked it under her arm and raised the furred hood of her cloak, squeezing Christian's hand to reassure him. He took it and kissed it, and she had to hide another smile.

I'll bring her answer as soon as I may, Christian.

Thank you, he replied. He stepped back and wet his lips. I only hope that she will. . . his voice trailed off, and Rose could only nod and take her leave.