Underwood No. 5
The only mercy Christian could find in his confinement was that it was solitary—there was no other prisoner with whom to occupy the cell, and so he at the very least didn't have to worry about being stuck in a room only a few feet in each direction with a person who most likely was a criminal.
Not that he was becoming bitter to his situation.
Or perhaps he was, but that oft happened to the wrongly accused.
Christian ran a hand through his hair, gingerly feeling his scalp. Thankfully, the pain from the knot where he'd been hit had faded away into a dull throbbing, and it only really hurt when he sat up or stood too quickly. But that seemed like little compared to the worry and doubt that ate away at him, concern that something truly had happened to Satine. Hours must have passed, by his estimate, and still she had not come. Not that he wanted her to come to such a dank, dark place such as this—but he had to admit that he wanted to see her.
But he had heard nothing, and so perhaps it would be the solitaire note in his confinement that would drive him mad.
"Christian . . ."
He had faded off into a dream that was colored like a nightmare, in which Satine was yet again stolen away from him by the Duke, but the heavy blanket of sleep had fallen over him before he could resist it, and his brow furrowed in faint confusion at the voice, attempting to discern whether it was part of the waking world, or only another thread in the tangled web of his dreams.
"Christian?"
Exhausted with the weight of worry and concern, Christian batted his eyes open and focused hazily in the direction of what he knew roughly to be the front of the cell, moving to sit up slowly. The cloud of sleep sloughed off him like a splash of cold water, though, as his blurry gaze turned to rest on Satine's form there, silhouetted in the dim lighting. It was almost too much to dare hope; after the unknown amount of hours he had been there, he had begun to believe she was not coming.
"Satine?"
He stood quickly, ignoring the protestation of stiff joints, and crossed over to her, reaching out to brush his fingertips against her cheek, to touch a strand of red hair that fell about her face in a fiery halo of curls.
"Oh," he breathed, for lack of anything more to say. Could he have done so, he would have pulled her into his embrace and never let her go, and he cursed the bars that restrained him from her. "Satine, are you all right?"
She offered a wan smile, and her hand moved to caress his face in a similar fashion, knuckles traced along the curve of his jaw. "I'm fine; don't worry about me. Are you all right? I've been so worried—I thought they weren't going to let me in . . . I don't have much time."
"Th—the Duke—he didn't . . . he hasn't . . ."
"Shh, don't worry," she responded.
Jealousy and cold fear like unto which he had never thought to experience again stabbed at his heart, instantly gripping it in a painful contraction, and he stared at her wide-eyed, shaking his head. "Satine . . ."
"Christian, everything's going to be all right. Come what may . . ."
Satine had never before been one to be compromised by emotion, or nerves; it was so much simpler to go through the motions with a cold shoulder and a hard eye turned toward the world, but her fingers fumbled as she fed a sheet of paper into Christian's typewriter, sitting poised before the instrument, staring blankly down at the row of neatly ordered keys before her. She had seen them countless times before, certainly, while watching Christian write, but typing seemed an entirely different matter, one decidedly more difficult than it looked.
Or perhaps that was simple trepidation about what she was about to do holding her back. She wasn't certain she could follow Dr. Dieudonné's suggestion, but it seemed to be her only hope, aside from giving in to whatever demands the Duke would present to her . . . and she had promised Christian that everything would be all right. That alone had to give her resolve.
Satine shook her head slightly, and turned to gaze out the window in thought.
"I had been made to believe
That no one could love me for me.
The good and the bad, first to the last,
No matter the cost, no matter the past . . ."
More purposefully she turned back to the Underwood, and slowly but methodically began to type, continuing to sing to herself.
"Your eyes only see what they want to see,
Your heart makes the truth what you want to believe.
Passion turns pain into ecstasy,
You can't walk away from love . . ."
The rhythmic clacking of the keys filled the air, and gradually the sheet of white began to fill with lines of neatly typed black letters.
"Loving you more than I do myself,
Revealing the things I would never tell . . .
Daring to risk even life itself,
You can't walk away from love . . ."
She hit the stroke of a last period, then drew the letter out.
"Through all the lies, chasing the dream,
Finding at last the woman in me . . ."
Satine folded the letter and placed it in its envelope, carefully sealing and addressing it, then she went back downstairs with a sense of hope blossoming in her heart, a smile gracing her lips. But as she found Dr. Dieudonné standing at the front door with a grave expression on his face, her features dropped, and she focused a hard gaze on the other man who stood with the doctor.
The Duke tipped his hat to Satine, his cane tucked beneath one arm, then commenced to remove his gloves as if he were a typical caller and intended to make himself perfectly at home. As if to back up the actions of his employer, Warner flanked the smaller man in typical guard dog fashion, his mouth set into a thin line that might have been his idea of a smile.
"Bonsoir, my dear."
"What do you want?" she questioned in return, moving over to stand beside Dr. Dieudonné, who reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"I thought I would be thoughtful and, ah, call upon you to see how you and your . . . writer . . . are." There was no mistaking the contempt in his voice as he referred to Christian. Never once had he ever called him by name.
"Get out," Satine responded dispassionately, forcing all the feeling and emotion from her voice, her grasp tightening on the letter in her hand.
"I would suggest a more respectful tone when you are speaking to me," the Duke said, with a glance at Warner, and his lips twitched upward into a smile, "particularly when I have come to offer you so kind a . . . proposition."
"You have nothing to offer me." She shook her head, and started to turn away.
"Not even the penniless sitar player?"
Though he would say nothing amounting to such in the presence of the doctor, when it could be made openly incriminating, Satine knew exactly what he meant, and gave pause, turning slowly back to look at him.
"You see, my dear, I felt perhaps you would see reason after all."
The weight of the letter, though it was simply a sheet of folded paper in an envelope, suddenly became painfully heavy in Satine's hand, and she curled her fingers around it protectively, a summoning of strength she knew she had, but which seemed so distant from her at the moment. She knew she had only two choices—that letter, and whatever the Duke proposed.
She had best choose wisely.
Some days later, a letter arrived for one Mr. Thomas James, addressed in what appeared to be a woman's hand, but typed in the familiar face of an Underwood No. 5.
Father,
I know I have not kept in touch as I should have, since my departure from London, but it was my feeling that you wished little to hear from me. However, I find the separation of family to be a continued strain upon me, and furthermore acknowledge that you were in many ways correct in your advice to me about Montmartre, and heeding such words of wisdom I have departed from the village, taking up residence in a respectful part of Paris, boarding with a doctor and his family.
My wish now is to return home, but I lack both the funds, and have recently fallen under circumstances which prevent my travel. It is my request that you come to Paris, so that all might be resolved.
Respectfully, your son,
Christian James
Author's Note: I started to leave it as a real cliffhanger, but I'm not that evil. (Even though some of my reviewers appear to think I am.) Song lyrics used are "You Can't Walk Away From Love," by Gloria Estefan.
Also, I feel obligated to include a rather rambly note about the typewriter to anyone who cares. According to history, Christian would need to have an Underwood No. 1 or No. 2, but from my extensive research on the Internet, looking at pictures and comparing them, I find neither of the above looked right. So I moved on to the No. 3, which I did believe it was, but I've changed my mind again and gone with the No. 5, which, while I find it probably wasn't manufactured until December 1900, which would be too late for Christian to have one in 1899, it's one of the most common—and it might just be a factual error in the movie. In either case, I am content with messing with history a little bit.
No, I am not obsessed. I like to call it a hobby. ;)