A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed-- this is a bit of a stretch for me, and I'm badly in need of reassurance that I'm not screwing things up utterly. :)

Chapter 1: Bohemian Ideals

I stopped abruptly and pushed my chair away from the table, my fingers shaking as I raised them them to my loose hair. Yes, yes, I had to get dressed. I nervously fastened the satin belt of my kimono, tightening it around my slender waist and warding off the sudden chill that traveled down my body.

Marguerite tracing the bumps of my spine, that amused smile lingering about her lips as I tried to speak--

I opened the wardrobe doors and blindly groped for a dress, landing on a pearled chiffon that was hardly practical for a day at my pen, but I tossed onto the bed without a second glance. Black ribbed stockings and my fine lawn underclothes, an old corset and a pair of heavy brown boots-- I dressed with my eyes fixed on that pile of empty papers. Could I really blot the pages with my poor scribbles? Such strange things, empty pages, I mused as I slid my arms through the frilled sleeves of the dress. Seemingly benign, but laden with poisoned memories.

Like Marguerite.

I shook the thought away and began brushing the rippling ginger waves that fell to my waist. Staring blankly at the image before me in the looking-glass, I rolled up my front hair into a soft pompadour and tied the rest of my hair in a high knot. A handful of hair that slipped out of my fingers lay heavily against the nape of my neck, and I shivered.

You should wear your hair like this! Marguerite began curling back heavy locks of my hair next to my ears, her dark eyes sparkling mischievously at my face. I swallowed, suddenly very conscious of her bare arms in contrast to the red satin dress she wore.

I turned away from the mirror abruptly, ignoring the ridiculous picture I presented with my mismatched clothing and middle-class hairstyle. It was pointless to even attempt normalcy. I would think about Marguerite while dressing, while cooking breakfast, while doing the morning shopping.

I had to exorcise her.

I returned to the desk with a lukewarm cup of coffee heaped with too much cream and took up my pen again. The familiar scratch of nib against paper was strangely soothing, and I returned to my memories. Now I understood Christian's absorption in writing his story. The past is a dangerous element, though. Many a lonely lover has been lost in it. And yet. . .

The Revolution is all but over now. There are too many stories like mine. Stories of lost loves and ideals. Some are beautiful, as much as La Belle Époque itself.

Some are not.

But they all begin in the same fashion-- a young, idealistic man or woman abruptly declaring themselves for the ideals. Beauty. Truth. Freedom. Love.

Our ridiculous dogma.

I was eighteen when I ran away from my comfortable, middle-class home. Eighteen with a love for all the poets and a keen sense of just how much I did not belong among the gaily lit world of the socialites. The very idea of being with a man, one of them, horrified me. I suppose, in retrospect, that I was lucky my parents took my reticence for virgin purity. I have heard stories-- one of the tales not so lovely--

But I was lucky, and slipped away from my life as a delicate ornament with a handful of pilfered francs and a sheaf of pretty verses. I suppose my parents made inquiries for me, although no one has ever come to Montmartre looking for Anne-- it does not do to state my last name. They must have created a story of my death or marriage, and I have no desire to interrupt whatever Mother's latest fantasy is concerning me.

I shan't ever forget the exhilarating dance of my first day in Montmartre. Wandering shyly into a café and sipping a glass of absinthe, I found myself living for the first time in my starved existence. Such beauty that could be found among the best of us! The music was onto wine, the poetry practically falling from everyone's words, and the art! Men and women who had more talent than any of those stuffy artists in my father's study, and they would sketch your visage for a penny! Clay slipped past slender fingers, forming a bowl, a vase, anything. Dancers on the street corners, alternately flirting and dancing their mad can-can.

I still long for those days in the café. How we talked of all our dreams. I still consider it a shame that the respectable world snubbed us. We were the great philosophers of our time. If my pompous older brother had bothered to wander down from the university, his amazement at the sheer intellect of our gatherings might well have convinced him of Bohemian virtues. The Children of the Revolution knew themselves to be the hope of the future. And we were happy. Oh, so happy. We sang sweeter music than I have heard since, played our beloved instruments, and drank our bitter potions-- but above all things, we loved each other.

How we loved.

But I did not know Marguerite in those few, too-sweet weeks of pure idealism. A few men, and once they learned of my ways, women, sent inviting smiles towards me, but I always declined. I was still my mother's daughter in many ways. I wore a corset, and wouldn't smoke. I have never been able to smoke, actually. To take the drug in was merely an invitation to cough bitterly for the next hour. But I loved to see others raise the cigarettes to rouged lips. It was unspeakably alluring. Marguerite used to--

I stopped writing, suddenly and keenly reminded of an incident in my childhood. Wintertime, and Mother had kept me indoors on account of some trifling cold. My age could not have crossed into early teens yet. Ten or eleven years of age, I suppose, and a small, slight thing with pale braids and long lashes.

Don't get too close to the fire, Anne, Mother scolded. I shot a nervous glance at her. Mother always seemed a messenger of gloom to me, with her thin hair and black cashmere dress. Mind what I say now. If you're cold, go put on your wool stockings.

My wool stockings-- dreadfully itchy and a trial to look at. I had never been considered vain, but those stockings were the bane of my entire heart. Suffice it to say that I would have frozen without a stitch of clothing rather than voluntarily assume those.

Mother and Father called me passionate' and tempestuous,' but those words meant nothing to me. I only knew that small things were important in life.

You ought to be knitting, anyway, Mother continued grimly. I'll go get your things so you may start on those new stockings, Anne. Go sit in the armchair. I'll bring down your shawl.

The shawl was another despised article of clothing, but I don't doubt that I would have obeyed had that wayward lump of coal remained properly in place.

It tumbled down the glowing heap of fire like one of the glittering gems in Mother's jewelry box, sending delicate little sparks out like the feathery train of a young courtier. It plunged; and somehow found its way past the iron grate.

I have never been able to resist the kiss of flame.

I put my small hand out and touched the coal, just a hesitant caress.

I suppose, in retrospect, that I am lucky I did not try to grasp it. There is a faint scar on my right hand even today.

The pain spread like a strike on my fingers, beginning at a very small, centralized part of my hand, and then spreading, creeping tiny tongues of agony on my poor skin. I screamed, and Mother entered the room leisurely, her thin lips pressed together with dreaded disapproval. She took in the problem with her sharp, probing glance. She studied the burn dispassionately for a moment, then dropped my hand. Through the red haze of pain that blurred my eyesight, I could see her take up her sewing again.

I told you not to touch that, she said flatly. Perhaps now you'll understand the cost of disobedience, Anne. Now go to Cook and have her put some butter on it.

I closed my eyes, taking hold to the bedpost as if afraid I might fall . . . into what? The same abyss of heartache and confusion that had thrown its angry shadow over my life? Marguerite, who had stolen my youth and innocence with her slender hands?

--pushing handfuls of of jewels into her fur muff, begging and sobbing--

I hid my face in the crook of my arm, trying to hold back the silent tears that would inevitably follow the emergence of that terrible memory. Why now? Oh, Christian, why, why, why did you insist, tell me that I had to write it?

Because I know. His voice sounded tired from the doorway, and I knew that without glancing up that he had let himself in and heard the last sentence that I had involuntarily cried. I know, he repeated, taking a step towards me. God, Anne, did you think it was any easier for me?

I raised my head and shook it, feeling the salt streams of tears slide down to my lips. He came closer and took my hands, drawing me down to sit next to him. He did not try to hold me; even Christian, dear as he was to me, could not embrace me without bringing me closer to a breakdown. I trusted him-- nay, loved him, but the same fears that have haunted me from childhood accompanied his touch as well as any other man's.

I replied softly. But, Christian--

You never mourned, he said gently, raising a hand to cup my cheek. You were there for me when I was lost, Anne, and you were burying it for the sake of--

I shook my head quickly and pressed my fingers to his lips. He began to protest, and then caught my eye, and subsided. I smiled, a little sadly, and looked down at my silken lap. I gestured around at the dainty little flat, at my open jewelry box and the living water of the diamonds that fell onto the table.

It makes it easier, you know, if you simply. . . pretend, Christian. Satine told me that, you know. Do small things, pretty things that don't peer through the gauzy curtains and remind you of what. . . of what you used to be.

He was silent for a long moment after my reply, and I began to worry that I had hurt him; that the reason his eyes were downcast was the memory of the woman he had loved. He reached over, though, and took my hand, assuaging my worries.

Sounds like something she would have laughed, he said finally, his tone deliberately light to keep from reminding us both of that fateful night in which we had lost so much.

But you at least had proof of her faith in the. . . in the end, I said softly. She left the Duke for you, Christian. He was there, his arms full of roses for her, his jewels hanging on her neck, and she still turned to you.

Not everyone can trade diamonds for love, Anne. You know that.

I would have. My voice was sharp, and I bit back a wince as I heard my mother in them. Bitterness traced the edge of each word like the razor blush of a knife. I would have, Christian. I offered her everything, and still she turned away.

Toulouse did use to say that Marguerite wasn't much of a Bohemian, you know.

I laughed shortly, and pulled my hands away from Christian's gentle grasp.

Were any of us, in the end?

Do you still believe in them? he asked, ignoring my implicit accusation for the real question. I raised my eyebrows and stood, wrapping my arms about my waist as I paced the room.

The ideals?

Beauty, freedom, truth, and love, he said, quietly enough so that the bittersweet longing that I knew still burned in his heart faded away.

Every day I ask myself the same question, I admitted. And every day, the answer is the same.



Of course.