Chapter 2
Christian had not left France as Satine had assumed. No, he had pent himself up in his garret, trying to write but usually consumed by grief and hate. He'd settled into a routine of sleeping as late as possible, sitting down at his typewriter, writing a few words, and then ripping the aforementioned document into many small pieces, tears running down his bearded face the whole while.
For no longer was he handsome, starry-eyed Christian Claremont, the lovestruck poet who had changed the life of so many. Now he was bitter, hating the light for it meant another day without her. No longer did he care what he looked like. A heavy beard with bits of the little food he ate hung limply from his face. His once-vibrant eyes were now dim and uncaring. A mouth that had so often gleamed a smile was now serious, frowning. Lines were beginning to cut deep in his forehead from pensive thought.
"Christian!" Toulouse's lisp was loud and easy to hear through the door, probably proclaiming some useless information that Christian would have no use for; he wanted no part in any more Bohemian Revolution shit for it had single-handedly ruined his life. "I have news!"
"Go 'way, Toulouse."
"News about Satine . . ."
"What is it?"
"Open this damned door and let me in."
Trodding carefully over the bits of glass broken in a fit of rage, Christian made his way to the door. Toulouse stood there with a newspaper in hand. "Look, Christian." The little man shoved the paint-smudged paper towards his friend, who took it eagerly.
"Were you using this as a paint testing page, Toulouse?"
His friend grinned in answer to Christian's question. Christian went back to the paper and skimmed the words with a trained eye.
"I see nothing."
"You're on the wrong page." Toulouse flipped to the Society columns and pointed a blue-painted finger at an article. "Duke of Monroth to Wed Parisian Actress."
"They said Satine was an actress," Toulouse remarked.
Christian was struck dumb for a short time before he recovered the ability to speak. "She's done it. Why did you show this to me, Toulouse? Damn you!" Christian hurled the offending bit of news to the floor and diverted his eyes from the words. "Duke of Monroth to Wed Parisian Actress."
Satine had truly ended it between them. She had given her hand in marriage to the Duke, and there was no way Christian could steal her back now. "Who am I kidding?" He yelled, furious, forgetting Toulouse was in the room. "She never loved me in the first place! I was just a toy, a ploy for her and Zidler to use my writing for that stupid, stupid show. God damn her! Damn her to hell!" In one deft movement, Christian shredded the paper in half, then into tiny pieces that fluttered to the floor with the rhythm of his aching heart. "Why did she do it, Toulouse?" He stalked the confines of his small apartment in a confused temper, trying to find one trace of Satine he could destroy. Of course, that had been done days ago, hours ago. A pearl necklace lay in pieces on the floor, the tiny jewels a hazard to visitors. One of her pictures had been violated by a glass of absinthe, and it sat in a wrinkled mess on Christian's desk, a reminder of what he had loved and now hated. "Why did she do it?" Christian sat beside his friend and whimpered the question softly.
"She knew."
"Knew what?"
"You weren't coming back. You wouldn't save her, couldn't save her."
Why was Toulouse so goddamned wise, anyway? Was it a blessing because of his small size, given to him after his accident? Whatever it was, it drove Christian mad. Toulouse was always right. "What do you mean, Toulouse? She doesn't love me and we both know it."
"Ah, this is where you go wrong."
"What in the hell do you mean by that 'You're wrong' shit?" When angry, Christian was not quite as eloquent as usual.
"She loves you still. But she has given up hope, just like you have. So she said 'Yes' to the Duke and will be his wife."
"I hate her."
"No, you don't."
"I know I don't. I can't." Christian ran a hand through his hair and stared into the eyes of his best friend; Toulouse's eyes were deep and velvet brown, jaded with time and slightly wistful in a way that made Christian's heart ache more.
"I understand," stated Toulouse quietly, placing a comforting hand on Christian's shaking shoulder. The tears flowed freely from his dim blue eyes, tears of betrayal, of hate, of fear, of grief, and of love.
"What am I going to do? Toulouse, I can't let her marry him! I still love her, damnit!"
Toulouse pondered for a moment. Oh, how he wanted to help Christian, his beloved friend. But he was just a drunken, vice-ridden gnome with his only weapon his paintbrush. Toulouse couldn't paint a paradise for Christian, for the things he created on that canvas were simply fantasies. His bohemian ideals of Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love were just that: ideals. Dreams, wishes, unattainable glory that no small midget with a lisp could achieve in any way. For without the zenith of love, one could not accomplish these. Love fed dreams, and Toulouse had no one to love him.
"What am I going to do, Toulouse?"
"The only thing you can do."
"And what is that? Would you quit being so elusive?"
"We've got to save her! We'll stop the wedding!"
"Toulouse?"
"Yes?" An inquisitive look from the artist.
A smile broke over Christian's face. "You're insane. But you're also a genius."
Christian had not left France as Satine had assumed. No, he had pent himself up in his garret, trying to write but usually consumed by grief and hate. He'd settled into a routine of sleeping as late as possible, sitting down at his typewriter, writing a few words, and then ripping the aforementioned document into many small pieces, tears running down his bearded face the whole while.
For no longer was he handsome, starry-eyed Christian Claremont, the lovestruck poet who had changed the life of so many. Now he was bitter, hating the light for it meant another day without her. No longer did he care what he looked like. A heavy beard with bits of the little food he ate hung limply from his face. His once-vibrant eyes were now dim and uncaring. A mouth that had so often gleamed a smile was now serious, frowning. Lines were beginning to cut deep in his forehead from pensive thought.
"Christian!" Toulouse's lisp was loud and easy to hear through the door, probably proclaiming some useless information that Christian would have no use for; he wanted no part in any more Bohemian Revolution shit for it had single-handedly ruined his life. "I have news!"
"Go 'way, Toulouse."
"News about Satine . . ."
"What is it?"
"Open this damned door and let me in."
Trodding carefully over the bits of glass broken in a fit of rage, Christian made his way to the door. Toulouse stood there with a newspaper in hand. "Look, Christian." The little man shoved the paint-smudged paper towards his friend, who took it eagerly.
"Were you using this as a paint testing page, Toulouse?"
His friend grinned in answer to Christian's question. Christian went back to the paper and skimmed the words with a trained eye.
"I see nothing."
"You're on the wrong page." Toulouse flipped to the Society columns and pointed a blue-painted finger at an article. "Duke of Monroth to Wed Parisian Actress."
"They said Satine was an actress," Toulouse remarked.
Christian was struck dumb for a short time before he recovered the ability to speak. "She's done it. Why did you show this to me, Toulouse? Damn you!" Christian hurled the offending bit of news to the floor and diverted his eyes from the words. "Duke of Monroth to Wed Parisian Actress."
Satine had truly ended it between them. She had given her hand in marriage to the Duke, and there was no way Christian could steal her back now. "Who am I kidding?" He yelled, furious, forgetting Toulouse was in the room. "She never loved me in the first place! I was just a toy, a ploy for her and Zidler to use my writing for that stupid, stupid show. God damn her! Damn her to hell!" In one deft movement, Christian shredded the paper in half, then into tiny pieces that fluttered to the floor with the rhythm of his aching heart. "Why did she do it, Toulouse?" He stalked the confines of his small apartment in a confused temper, trying to find one trace of Satine he could destroy. Of course, that had been done days ago, hours ago. A pearl necklace lay in pieces on the floor, the tiny jewels a hazard to visitors. One of her pictures had been violated by a glass of absinthe, and it sat in a wrinkled mess on Christian's desk, a reminder of what he had loved and now hated. "Why did she do it?" Christian sat beside his friend and whimpered the question softly.
"She knew."
"Knew what?"
"You weren't coming back. You wouldn't save her, couldn't save her."
Why was Toulouse so goddamned wise, anyway? Was it a blessing because of his small size, given to him after his accident? Whatever it was, it drove Christian mad. Toulouse was always right. "What do you mean, Toulouse? She doesn't love me and we both know it."
"Ah, this is where you go wrong."
"What in the hell do you mean by that 'You're wrong' shit?" When angry, Christian was not quite as eloquent as usual.
"She loves you still. But she has given up hope, just like you have. So she said 'Yes' to the Duke and will be his wife."
"I hate her."
"No, you don't."
"I know I don't. I can't." Christian ran a hand through his hair and stared into the eyes of his best friend; Toulouse's eyes were deep and velvet brown, jaded with time and slightly wistful in a way that made Christian's heart ache more.
"I understand," stated Toulouse quietly, placing a comforting hand on Christian's shaking shoulder. The tears flowed freely from his dim blue eyes, tears of betrayal, of hate, of fear, of grief, and of love.
"What am I going to do? Toulouse, I can't let her marry him! I still love her, damnit!"
Toulouse pondered for a moment. Oh, how he wanted to help Christian, his beloved friend. But he was just a drunken, vice-ridden gnome with his only weapon his paintbrush. Toulouse couldn't paint a paradise for Christian, for the things he created on that canvas were simply fantasies. His bohemian ideals of Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love were just that: ideals. Dreams, wishes, unattainable glory that no small midget with a lisp could achieve in any way. For without the zenith of love, one could not accomplish these. Love fed dreams, and Toulouse had no one to love him.
"What am I going to do, Toulouse?"
"The only thing you can do."
"And what is that? Would you quit being so elusive?"
"We've got to save her! We'll stop the wedding!"
"Toulouse?"
"Yes?" An inquisitive look from the artist.
A smile broke over Christian's face. "You're insane. But you're also a genius."