An Infinite Debt
Each day after sending the letter, Satine anxiously awaited a response. Days went by without any word, however, and she had begun to feel the strain of everything. The Duke continued to pressure her, apparently with plans of wearing down her resistance (feeling quite confident of the fact whatever her plan happened to be wasn't working—and at this point, Satine was starting to think he might be right), while Christian was beginning to withdraw into himself from having had too much time alone to think and wonder and worry.
Finally, Dr. Dieudonné came to give her a decidedly flat letter in a cream-colored envelope, addressed in a heavy, bold script. The letter inside was the same handwriting, plain and practical, with no unnecessary loops or curls, written upon monogrammed stationery, worded as professionally as if it were a response to a business proposition and not the plea of one's own child. There wasn't even a real greeting; it simply plunged straight into the response, which would turn out to be hard, cold, and not in the least what she had hoped for.
Christian:
While I approve of the fact you may have at last come to your senses and abandoned the foolish ideals for which I was forced to disinherit you, I cannot allow myself to take this change of heart seriously until you put forth the effort in returning home to tell me of it in person.
Remember, words do not pay debts.
Thomas James
Satine lowered the letter with a frown, then looked up wide-eyed at Dr. Dieudonné. "He's not going to help."
An hour had passed since the doctor delivered the letter, and if Satine read it once, she had read it a dozen times over, until the words were stamped in their boldly inked pattern upon her mind. It seemed she had exhausted all her options; the Dieudonnés could not be expected to help her—she couldn't ask them to, not after all they had done for her—and now there was only one choice left.
The Duke.
Her mind flashed back to their meeting the day she had written the letter to Christian's father.
"You see, my dear, I felt perhaps you would see reason after all."
Satine simply stared at him with contempt steadily rising in her, and said nothing, her chin raised in a defiant motion.
"I can still make you a star," the Duke stated in a hushed tone, temptingly, and in earlier days it might have seemed appealing to her. In the days when she was the Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, but not now . . . that wasn't her any longer.
"Not back at the Moulin Rouge, of course," he continued, when she still failed to respond, aside from fixing that cold gaze on him, eyes hard as fine sapphires. "That is beneath you, my dear—I have put in a bid upon a theatre in London; that is, if you will agree to come star."
Her lips pursed together, and she shot back dully, "And?"
"And?" he repeated, as if not quite following her train of thought. Then, vague recognition sparked upon rodent-like features, and the Duke inclined his head in a nod. "Ah, yes, the writer. He will be set free and returned to roam wherever it is he considers his natural habitat to be."
Satine flinched at the mention of Christian as if he were no more than a common animal, but maintained her composure nonetheless. "How am I to know you'd keep your word?"
"That, my dear, you shall simply have to take as a leap of faith." The corners of his lips twitched upward in a smirk, and he placed his hat smartly back atop his head.
"I'll give you some time to think on it."
Satine felt a shiver run down her spine as she set the letter aside and reached instead for the card upon which the address of the Duke's current place of residence was printed. It didn't seem so difficult a sacrifice, her own freedom for Christian's; she felt that she owed him that, and the only regret she harbored was that she wouldn't be able to be with him after all.
"I thought the future held a perfect place for us,
That together we would learn to be the best that we could be.
In my naïveté, I ran; I fell and lost my way.
Somehow I always end up falling over me . . ."
Singing to herself more than anyone else, she moved to the trunk at the foot of her bed and opened it, removing a black dress that seemed better suited to mourning than anything else. After a moment's consideration, however, she set it aside and instead chose a gown of brilliant crimson hue—the very same she had worn the night she and Christian professed their love to one another.
She wanted Christian to remember her that way, vibrant and alive.
"Does anybody feel the way I do?
Is there anybody out there, are you hearing me?
I believe in you, do you believe in me,
Or am I alone in this hall of dreams?
I believe in you, you believe in me,
But I have no trust in anything.
Somehow I'm always,
Always falling over me . . ."
Only a few miles away, Christian sat fearing the worst and hoping for the best. A small leather bound journal was propped upon his knees, and he sat writing by the light of a single taper, the only thing he had to occupy his mind in the days that seemed to pass longer and longer. The worst part was, he was not only separated from Satine by stone and mortar, but suspicion and doubt as well, and his undying trust in her had begun to falter, as much as he willed it otherwise.
"They say that time will heal, the truth shall set us free,
But that depends on what it is that you choose to believe.
In this prison made of lies, we see what it is we want to see,
And find comfort in these broken halls of dreams . . ."
He paused in his writing, leaning back with a sigh and closing his eyes.
"Does anybody feel the way I do?
Is there anybody out there, are you hearing me?
I believe you, do you believe in me,
Or am I alone in this hall of dreams?
I believe in you, you believe in me,
But I have no trust in anything.
Somehow I'm always,
I'm always falling over me . . ."
Smoothing her hands down the front of the vermilion silk, Satine turned to look at her reflection in the mirror. She looked healthier than she had in a long while, despite the fact her illness was not yet to be forgotten. Her cheeks were flushed with two spots of color high upon snow white cheeks, and her porcelain-like face wore the grim set of determination. The blue eyes staring back out of the glass were hard, however, and she felt almost that she was looking at a stranger.
Shaking her head slightly, Satine pulled a shawl about her shoulders, and exited the bedroom. She knew she owed Dr. Dieudonné and his wife an explanation, even though she couldn't expect them to understand, and she needed to thank them for their kindness to Christian and herself.
Moving downstairs to the parlor, she was given pause as she spotted a tall, blonde man—too tall to be the Duke—standing in conversation with Dr. Dieudonné. He turned to smile at her as she entered the room, and immediately reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips and placing a kiss on the back of it.
"Forgive my forwardness," he apologized after a moment, taking note of the fact she seemed somewhat taken aback by his actions, "but you must be Mademoiselle Satine. I have heard a great deal about you."
Satine blinked slightly, taking her hand back. The stranger spoke in flawless French, which was her first clue to the fact he was a foreigner—few people took as much care with the proper use of their native language. "And you are, Monsieur?"
"Alexander Castleton," he supplied, and offered another smile, his brown eyes warm and flickering with the sparkle of one who clearly had a lust for life. He was indeed tall, Satine took a moment to reflect—he actually managed to top her by a few inches, which was a rare occasion—and his blonde hair fell in a purposely tousled manner, windblown just enough so as to not make it appear he spent too much time combing it and slicking on pomades.
"A pleasure, Monsieur Castleton," she responded politely, giving a formal nod, then went on to guess at his origins. "You are English?"
"American, actually," he corrected, and straightened proudly with the statement. "I'm from New York—don't tell me Christian hasn't mentioned me to you?"
"I'm sorry, but no." Satine shook her head again, casting a glance to Dr. Dieudonné, who simply shrugged. The man was as much a mystery to him as he was to her, and as they moved to settle themselves into seats within the parlor, the doctor remained largely silent, remaining there merely as a chaperone of sorts.
"Ah, well, I don't suppose I should spoil the surprise," Alexander stated, glancing back and forth between the two.
"Please humor me, Monsieur Castleton, if you don't mind," Satine responded with the detached, icy smile she had used so frequently in her former profession.
If the American man was taken aback by this, he didn't show it. He simply reached into his jacket and removed what appeared to be a tiny cigarette case, but instead of removing a cigarette, he extracted a pair of calling cards from the brass encasement, handing one to Satine and the other to the doctor.
Printed on the little paper rectangle in a neat script was,
Castleton Publishing
New York - London - Paris
Alexander Castleton, President
Satine looked back up from the card and lifted an eyebrow at him.
"You see, Mademoiselle, I approached Christian a few weeks ago with the interest of publishing his work. He's quite a talented writer—you see, I'm quite a fan of the stage, and I was at the Moulin Rouge opening night of Spectacular Spectacular. I thought the show was absolutely brilliant—your performance in particular was marvelous—and of course I wanted to find the mind behind it and make sure he was discovered. It took a bit of tracking to finally locate young Mr. James, but when I did he seemed quite eager to have me publish him, and I even gave him advance pay for whatever he comes up with next."
Castleton paused, giving a look of faint bemusement. "Which is part of why I'm here," he went on. "I haven't heard anything from Christian in a while now, and was wondering if something's wrong."
Satine again glanced at Dr. Dieudonné, attempting to absorb all the information that had just been handed to her. That explained a lot—such as how Christian had obtained the money for the trip to Egypt—though she had to wonder why he hadn't simply told her the truth. Her lips pursed for a moment, then she turned back to Castleton and, seeing an opportunity in the making, decided to tell him the truth.
"Christian is in jail."
Castleton looked shocked—and with good reason. After all, Christian looked entirely harmless; who would ever think the young writer would be imprisoned for something?
"Whatever for?"
"Well, Monsieur, that is another long story . . ."
No more than six hours later, Christian was startled by the sound of the cell door swinging back on its hinges. Looking up from the waning light of his dying taper, he saw one of the gendarmes standing there, along with Castleton, and behind him Satine, who wore a triumphant look on her face.
"You're free to go," the guard told him, gesturing him out of the cell.
Christian blinked, but deciding not to question it, leaned down and blew out the candle, then gathered up the journal he had been writing in, tucked the pencil behind his ear, and rose to move somewhat awkwardly out of the cell, hampered slightly by lack of real exercise over the time of his confinement.
The first thing he did was sweep Satine up into his arms and kiss her properly, something he hadn't been able to do for weeks, and she returned the favor, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline.
Even then, however, she didn't quite share the enthusiasm Christian did, unable to help the troubled feeling that lay beneath the joy of his release. She simply hated thinking they were indebted to anyone again in such a way. It was silly, she knew, to feel as such—Christian could make enough money writing to quickly repay his debt to Castleton, and then everything would be fine, and they wouldn't have any obligation or attachment to anyone.
Yes, everything was going to be fine.
As the lovers drew back out of a mutual need for air, the guard cleared his throat politely, seeming quite scandalized by the passionate kiss that had just been shared outside a jail cell. "Yes, well. You can go now."
Christian grinned at the man, then took Satine's hand in his own, extending his free one toward Castleton. "Monsieur Castleton, I feel you must have had something to do with this."
"I certainly did, though Mademoiselle Satine really deserves all the credit," he responded with a smile. "But come—it seems we have a lot of catching up to do."
Author's Notes: Lyrics used are VNV Nation's "Holding On," which is such an incredible song. Go listen to it. I'm very sorry this chapter took so long to write, but I had some little plot kinks to work out. Subsequent chapters should come more frequently—and even more so with reviews to keep me going!
I also have to note that, if any Harry Potter fans happen to be reminded of Gilderoy Lockhart by Alexander Castleton, it's not just you. He reminds me of him, too.