The Renewal of Love
"I still can't believe it," Christian stated in a bit of awe, emerging from the small washroom that was connected to Satine's bedroom, running a fluffy towel over his wet black hair. His first insistence upon getting back to the Dieudonné home (after being welcomed back by the doctor, and exchanging hugs with Giselle and Sophie, of course), was to take a proper bath and to shave. He had never been one to grow a beard, and quite frankly in Satine's opinion it was not a look that suited him at all, obscuring his boyish features far too much.
"What?" Satine asked, rising from her lounging position on the bed. She moved to take the towel from him, and began to assist in drying his hair, though she seemed only to manage to tousle the unruly strands even further.
Christian gave a mock disparaging look at her feeble attempts of helping along the process, but submitted to it nonetheless, going on to state, "Everything that Alexander's done. It's really quite amazing . . ."
In all truths, however, he shared the same doubts about the situation that Satine had—though neither of them had yet spoken of their concerns to the other. He didn't like being indebted to Alexander Castleton, no matter how nice and seemingly trustworthy the man was. One institution that Montmartre had firmly removed from his sheltered upbringing was the tendency to trust too easily.
Alexander had, in short, paid the Duke off, given him money to drop the false charges that were being held against Christian. "Like most of the aristocracy," Castleton had explained, "he flaunts a greater fortune than he really has, and is easily bought."
And even though Christian had expressed to Alexander how great a debt he felt this to be, the American man had simply shrugged it off and told Christian, "I'm sure you'll write enough to more than make up for it."
Satine nodded slightly, with faint resignation, then released the towel to allow it to settle around his shoulders. "I know."
Christian eyed her in concern, thinking perhaps she was feeling ill. "Are you all right?"
Correctly interpreting his meaning, she nodded, then shook her head only a moment later, as if dancing with indecision on the matter.
"Yes. And no. I just find it difficult to trust anyone anymore, Christian," she said with a sigh.
"I know. And I don't blame you for it," he responded. "After all, I didn't even tell you about Alexander's offer. It was major news, I'll admit, and I didn't share it with you. I'm sorry, Satine—I just didn't want you to be worried."
Feeling as if a major weight had been lifted off his chest, Christian smiled a rueful sort of smile, bowing his head forward and looking up at her through the tangled fall of raven hair. "I'll never keep anything else from you, though, I promise."
Satine looked distinctly uncomfortable, and with good reason. She felt the welling of guilt inside herself, and rather than melting into his embrace and reaffirming the words, she instead pulled back and went to retrieve the letter from the narrow desk that she had received from his father.
"This came just today," she admitted, holding it out to him.
Christian took the letter with a furrowed brow, seeming a bit chagrined upon notation of the heavy scrawl on the envelope's front, and his expression did not alter as he read the letter.
" 'Words do not pay debts,' " he stated after a moment, his tone a bit detached from it all. "He always used to say that to me—I found it ironic that he'd quote Shakespeare while declaiming the very same profession."
He gave a thoughtful pause, handing the letter back to her, then a beat of silence passed between them. "But I didn't write to him . . ."
"I did," Satine responded, setting the letter back on the desk. "I wrote to your father, Christian, pretending to be you, and asked him for help . . . and that was the response I got. I'm sorry to have done it behind your back—I would have told you, but I thought you'd disapprove . . . and I didn't know what else I could do."
She sighed, and crossed back toward him. "When Monsieur Castleton arrived earlier, I was on my way to see you . . . then I was going to see the Duke."
Christian stiffened notably, though he did not say anything. He just swallowed hard, and stared at her in puzzlement.
"The Duke told me, of course," she went on, the words punctuated by a bitter laugh, "that there was a way to get you released—if I agreed to go to London with him. I had run out of options," she finished with a sigh.
"I'm sorry I had such a lack of faith, Christian. I should have believed more in love—it really does overcome all obstacles, I should have learned that by now."
Though still trying to absorb and quell his anger and frustration toward the Duke—while at the same time praying fervently that he would be absent from their lives from this time forward—Christian reached out to draw her into the circle of his embrace.
"It's all right. But let's make a promise never to hide anything from each other again."
She nodded, and leaned against him comfortably, relishing in the way they simply fit together, as if made to be that way. He was familiar in such a manner, and brought a warmth to her such as had been absent for all too long.
It was like the sunshine after a spring rain, and as her head rested against his shoulder she inhaled his scent, not at all like the men she was once accustomed to dealing with. They had all carried the odor she came to associate with men—cigar smoke and musk and the cheap perfume of the woman they had bedded last. But Christian, he smelled of soap and fresh air and typewriter ink; like pleasant things once forgot, but never quite faded from memory; like home.
Her fingertips lifted to run down his cheek, along the curve of his jaw, and a smile appeared on her face.
"Smooth," she stated approvingly, looking back up at him. "Now you can kiss me again."
"Is that a request?" he inquired, and leaned in to press his lips against hers, as with the same motion he tossed the towel aside.
"Mm," was all she murmured after the break of the affectionate gesture, again feeling that comfortable reassurance. He was just like home.
After that brief pause for air, their lips had found each other's again, and they moved in the direction of the bed with impassioned motion, Satine's hands grasping at Christian's shirt and pulling it untucked along the way. As he nearly tripped on the rather considerable hem of her skirt, however, Christian gave pause.
"Dr. Dieudonné told us—" he started, but Satine cut him off with another kiss.
"It's been weeks," she stated, not sounding unreasonable about it at all, "and I've had time to recover."
Unable to deny the logic in this, Christian reached around her and began to unlace her corset, his fingers moving nimbly along the garment, as he had become quite accustomed over time to this particular task.
Drawing in a breath as the stays loosened, Satine seemed to remember something, though she didn't seem particularly concerned as she took note of it.
"But . . . we do have dinner with Monsieur Castleton in an hour," she said, while in the midst of fervently unfastening the row of buttons down the front of Christian's shirt.
"Mm, and one of the Dieudonnés might need something," he responded, feathering kisses down her jaw and along her neck and collarbone. After a moment more of dutiful concentration upon the task at hand, he triumphantly finished unlacing the back of the dress, and after slipping the straps over Satine's shoulders, it fell to the floor in a puddle of crimson silk.
"I locked the door," Satine answered, helping Christian to shrug off his white button-down and pull his undershirt over his head.
"But we really shouldn't," she added responsibly.
"You're right," Christian agreed, though as they fell back among the tangle of sheets, neither of them found time to feel particularly repentant about it.
Some forty-five minutes later, Satine was tossing clothes out of her trunk, debating over the things she'd actually brought from the Moulin Rouge and attempting to decide which dress would be best suited for the occasion.
"Blue or pink?" she finally asked, whipping around to hold both dresses up for Christian's appraisal.
Christian paused in his groping around under the bed, trying to find his left shoe, which seemed to have turned up quite missing, and squinted at the two proffered gowns, looking between the two in consideration before finally responding, "Blue matches your eyes."
Satine glanced at them again with a brief moment of indecision, then tossed the pink (along with four others she'd dragged out) back into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. Pulling the gown of sapphire silk over her head, she struggled with the buttons that ran up the back—ruefully thinking over the fact that while Christian excelled quite a bit at unlacing things, she'd been largely forced to put her corset back on herself—then hastily pinned her hair back with a pair of silver, sapphire and diamond-studded combs, two of the few things she'd wanted to hang on to among her jewelry.
"I still can't find my other shoe," Christian lamented, giving a scowl. He was still only half-dressed, one side of his shirttail left untucked, his suspender on that side left dangling, and of course, there was the matter of the missing shoe.
Satine started toward him—and promptly almost sprained something tripping over the run-away shoe. "Here it is," she stated with some amount of exasperation, picking it up and handing it to him.
"Thank you," he responded, and leaned forward to kiss her.
It was a brief kiss, however, as Satine logically took it upon herself to remember what happened earlier started with just a kiss. Of course, there never really was such a thing as just a kiss, and she didn't want to be even later than they already were.
Dinner passed uneventfully enough. It was spent mostly discussing what had happened, this largely for the benefit of the Dieudonné family, who were in attendance at their host's insistence, and as they languished over dessert, it was Castleton who brought up their plans for the future.
"Christian—are you and Mademoiselle Satine still intending to move to Egypt?"
"Actually, that depends on the advice of Dr. Dieudonné," the young writer responded, casting a glance to the older man whom by now he had come to respect and admire quite a bit.
The doctor gave a thoughtful pause, lifting his wine glass to sip briefly at its contents, and it was only after he had completed this motion that he offered his advice.
"I believe that it would still be beneficial to the mademoiselle's condition to take the trip to Egypt. The spring air of Paris will be of no help to her, perhaps even more of a detriment than winter has been, and of course my contact in Cairo is still awaiting your arrival, as I have not had time to notify him otherwise."
Before anyone else could comment upon this, Castleton stated abruptly, "Then it seems that you shall indeed be going to the Land of the Pharaohs, and I think I shall join you there. It will be an excellent backdrop for your next story, Christian, if I may say so."
He lifted his wine glass in the manner of a toast.
"To Egypt!"
To Egypt, of course, meant leaving everything in Paris behind. While this was not a particularly regretful occasion as far as leaving Montmartre, Christian made one last trip back to say his goodbyes to the Children of the Revolution. Satine declined to accompany him, as it still brought up a few too many unpleasant memories, but she did send her love to the Bohemians, and a letter for Harold and the others back at the Moulin Rouge. It was clear she still suffered a bit of lingering guilt for abandoning them as she had, though it was not a decision she could say she regretted, only the manner of its execution.
When Christian arrived at Toulouse's studio, he found that the Bohemians had retrieved the things from his garret for him, along with the original copy of Spectacular Spectacular, though Christian insisted they keep that, as they might still find cause to put on a Bohemian Revolutionary show in the future.
"Oh, Christian, things just aren't going to be the same around here without you!" Toulouse exclaimed in his lisping tone, reaching up to hug the taller man around the waist.
"If one good thing came out of all this, it was meeting you, Toulouse. Meeting all of you," he added, though they all knew he was excluding having met Satine from all this, as that would certainly outweigh everything else.
Then in turn Christian shook the hands of Satie and the Doctor, imparting upon the former a few pages of lyrics he'd come up with, but which had never been put to music, and to the latter an unopened bottle of Absinthe. When he came to the Argentinean, he held out his hand to the other, but was soon pulled into a great enveloping hug, a kiss planted on each cheek.
"Nothing funny," the Argentinean added ruefully as he released Christian, "I just like talent."
Christian grinned back at him, then gathered up his things and exited Toulouse's studio, feeling a bit of melancholy, for while they were still there, and would remain in his memory, he had the inkling he wouldn't ever get to see them again, not like this.
After Christian was gone, Satie sat down at the piano with the lyrics he had been given, and began to compose the tune.
"Gotta find a way, I can't wait another day,
Ain't nothing gonna change if we stay around here.
Gotta do what it takes, 'cause it's all in our hands,
We all make mistakes, but it's never too late to start again.
Take another breath, and say another prayer . . .
And fly away from here,
Anywhere, I don't care.
We'll just fly away from here,
Our hopes and dreams are out there somewhere.
Won't let time pass us by, we'll just fly . . ."
Author's Notes: Much fluff, but now it's off to Egypt. Lyrics used are Aerosmith's "Fly Away From Here," which sprang into my head as I was completing the chapter, and seemed to fit Satine and Christian well.