For Stony Limits Cannot Hold Love Out
Breathing had been a difficult task for Satine for some time—yet now that she was conscious of her problem, a great deal of the effort it took to draw in a breath and exhale it again was simply psychological. It also was not a help at all that she kept unintentionally holding her breath, expecting at any moment as she and Christian wound their way around backstage, to run into someone who was going to give them away. Thus far, however, such a thing had not occurred.
"You, there!"
Until now.
The two froze in their tracks, considering making a break for it anyway—but came to the quick conclusion that that was only going to make them more suspicious. Christian turned slowly to face the young stage hand that had called out to them, a dumbfounded expression on his face.
"Have you seen Miss Satine anywhere? It seems she's missing—the show's writer has gone mad and kidnapped her!"
Christian stared, speechless.
Satine recovered first, and quickly turned her gaze toward the floor, so that the stage hand wouldn't recognize her face. She didn't recall ever having seen him before, however, so her best guess was that he was one of the many workers that had been hired just in time for opening night. Thinking quickly, she reached out and grabbed Christian's arm, jerking it out to the side rather sharply.
This seemed to jar him back into reality, and satisfied with this, Satine busied herself appearing as if she were taking measurements to alter the garment (it was convenient that they had been stopped in an area backstage where the costumes were stored).
"Ah, no, I-I haven't seen her—him—them—anywhere. But I'll let you know if I do!" Christian blurted out. Thankfully, the boy was distracted enough not to realize how suspicious the situation was—it was particularly fortunate that he'd failed to notice the rather sizeable piece of luggage Christian was carrying—and gave a hasty nod before setting off at a jogging pace away from them again.
Christian blinked, glancing at Satine in relief, though his brow was knit in a bit of confusion. "Mad writer?"
"It figures that they would try to explain it away like that," she responded with a slight shake of her head, then clutched at Christian's arm again and resumed their frenetic pace.
Despite waning strength, she led the way, as she knew entirely more about all the infamous nightclub's secret twists and turns than Christian could ever hope to. When they finally burst out a side door usually reserved for the entrance and exit of the girls when they got back from their night's work, she gasped and leaned heavily onto Christian, who was left to shift his burden around so that he could support her more easily.
"Come on, it's just a bit further, Satine . . . you need to hang on."
Nodding in response, Satine inhaled raggedly and fell back into step alongside Christian, allowing herself to grasp his arm for support. It was somewhat difficult to make such an escape in a full costume, with high heeled shoes, but she had spent years perfecting the art of doing high kicks in a corset and dancing in slippery shoes, so this should have been simple. Unfortunately, the pavement was slick with the day's frozen rain, and to make matters worse, gloomy black clouds filled the sky, nearly blocking out the moon—a portent of snow.
The first flakes fell upon the lovers as they stole away down the street that ran in front of the nightclub, not daring risk to call for a carriage until they were a block away. There was no way, they knew, to return to Christian's garret—that would be the first place the Duke would send anyone to look for them, after everyone realized they were no longer at the Moulin Rouge.
Christian helped Satine up into the carriage, then dropped down beside her, running a hand tiredly through his hair. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but his love for the woman beside him drove him on. They were going to make it after all—only an hour before, if even that long, such a thing seemed impossible—
Then Satine coughed, soon doubling over with the wracking struggle for breath, and it brought a searing reminder to the young writer that it still wasn't over.
"A-are you all right?" he asked tentatively, though it seemed an inappropriate question for the moment.
Satine nodded slightly, the coughs gradually tapering away. She felt through her pockets and retrieved a handkerchief, then brought it to her mouth, holding it expectantly at the ready for its next use.
The driver was still gazing expectantly at the two; the carriage was in idle motion, without any directions having been given as to a destination, but he allowed them this moment with kindly concern in his eyes, simply waiting for one of the two passengers to remember they hadn't told him where he was supposed to be going.
Finally, Christian looked up at the man decisively. "She needs to see a doctor—I don't care who, just wherever's closest."
Two hours later, as Christian sat upon a soft bed, tucked beneath the warm comforts of a quilt sewn with loving care, his arms wrapped tenderly around Satine, he closed his eyes and leaned down to rest his chin against the top of her head. Everything seemed right, now, and while he might've once marveled at such a feeling, now he had no question about it in his mind. Love did strange and powerful things to people. It could give you the greatest happiness you had ever known . . . or bring you the worst pain.
But all that was past them now, he resolved. What mattered was that they loved one another.
Satine rested against Christian, in a position that allowed her to hear his heart beating, relishing in the feeling of his chest rising and falling with the animation of life. Her own breath seemed to come easier now, and though she felt tired and ready to doze off, she still reclined there awake, absently stroking the curves of Christian's hand where it rested against her lap. A poet's hands, meant not to hold anything more cumbersome than a quill, fingers intended for shy caresses, their tips stained a faded black from ink where he had been so consumed in his writing.
The doctor that the driver had taken them to was the man's own brother; he'd informed them that it would be a slightly longer drive, but they would find no better physician at that hour, and Satine had to think he had not been boastful about it. The doctor had done everything in his power to make her comfortable, down to his wife insisting the two young people could not possibly go back out and brave the cold and snow.
Thus, they had ended up in the guest bedroom of where the doctor, his wife, and their two grandchildren, Sophie and Philippe lived, in a quiet part of Paris that was further outside Montmartre than Satine or Christian even realized.
When Christian had tentatively brought up the subject of payment, the doctor had simply informed him that it could wait until later, and ordered Satine to get plenty of rest. He refused to comment one way or the other upon her condition, simply noting that time would tell them everything they needed to know. While not entirely comforted by this response, neither were they any more troubled than before. Some hope was better than none at all.
Stirring, Satine gave a thoughtful glance upward to Christian, then exhaled a slow sigh and further settled herself into his embrace, simply indulging in the comfort there. They were safe—for now, at least—as there was little chance anyone could find them here. Already they seemed a million miles away from where they came, and while the troubling thought threatened to plague her mind that they had escaped Montmartre entirely too easily, Satine decided not to dwell on it just yet, and simply take things one at a time instead.
Her hand reached upward to cover his heart, and despite the fact the doctor had advised that she avoid too much speech for exertion of herself, she began to sing nonetheless, voice carrying softly up to Christian's ears.
"What is that sound
Ringing in my ears?
The sound of two hearts
Beating side by side.
The sound of one love
That neither one can hide . . ."
Christian had begun to insist she conserve her strength, but after a thoughtful moment his voice joined hers.
"What is that sound
Running 'round my head?
Funny, I thought
That part was long since dead.
But now there's new life
Coursing through my veins,
Because there's someone
To make it beat again . . ."
Trailing off, they fell into companionable silence, Satine yawning faintly, though after a time she spoke again.
"We can sell some of my jewelry to pay Dr. Dieudonné. It was a good thing Marie thought to pack them . . ."
"Mm," Christian responded in drowsy reverie.
There was a moment of companionable silence between them, then Satine spoke up again.
"Christian?"
"Hmm?"
"Where did you get the money?"
Christian opened his mouth to ask 'what money?' then promptly closed it again, giving a wince. Since the doors of the Moulin Rouge had closed behind them, he hadn't thought in too much detail about the events that had transpired only hours earlier. It was so much simpler to accept the fact that they had made it out, and that he and Satine were here together. But her question brought him back to harsh reality, and he inhaled tentatively.
"My typewriter."
Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, and though it seemed like little to him at the moment, in comparison to everything else, Christian felt Satine stiffen in his embrace.
"What?"
"I pawned my typewriter."
Satine frowned, then twisted around to look up at Christian with a furrowed brow. "Oh, Christian . . ."
To anyone else, it might have seemed insignificant for her to worry about a typewriter, but she knew what that Underwood meant to Christian—he'd carried it with him all the way from London. In fact, it had been the only thing of any real material value that he had brought along, and that would explain why it had been pawned, but Satine knew that it had more sentimental value for him than the cash it could ever bring.
"Don't worry about it, Satine," he said quietly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," she countered, turning back to resume their previous position. "You must go back and get it tomorrow . . . when you go to pawn the jewelry, get it back," she insisted drowsily, pulling the covers on the bed more snugly about them.
"I will," Christian responded.
"Promise?" she questioned sleepily, shifting to snuggle against his chest. The medicine the doctor had given her was clearly taking effect now, but even still she didn't want to go to sleep with the thought of him having given up something so special because of what she had done.
He gave a gentle smile. Satine still never ceased to amaze him, even though he felt himself to know her better than anyone else could claim.
"I promise."
"I love you, Christian."
"I love you, too."
As Satine drifted off in his arms, Christian leaned back against the headboard, and closed his own eyes.
"Sleep to sleep, sigh on sigh,
On a lover's lullaby.
This could be Heaven,
Right here on Earth . . ."
Author's Note: Chapter title credit to William Shakespeare, from Romeo and Juliet. Lyrics are from Lamb's "What Sound," then "This Could Be Heaven," also by Lamb. I ended this chapter on a happy note, because I felt like a bit of fluff. However, nothing lasts for long . . .
(Even still, if you need an instant cure from the fluff, I did write an angst piece, Beloved — yep, another shameless plug.)