Artistic Licence
"Satine, I've just been thinking, that—since we've been—since you and I—well, I love you, and I can't imagine my life without you in it—and I was wondering if—if you'd . . . m-marry me."
Giving his own reflection a disparaging look, Christian looked down at the small velvet box in his hand in frustration. In it was his mother's ring—a single diamond of brilliant clarity, set into a surrounding of delicate filigree petals and leaves that were intended to make it appear a rose. The band itself was gold, twisted together like the stem of the rose would be.
It was an heirloom that had been passed down through generations of the James family—and though Christian had thought his sister Margaret should have it, she had insisted he keep it to someday give to whomever he chose for a wife.
Naturally, that person was Satine.
But he faced one distinct problem—asking her.
After all they had been through, one should think such a thing to be simple. He was an eloquent writer. He composed stories of love and romance that brought people to tears! Yet, when it came to proposing marriage to the woman he loved, Christian was at a complete loss.
One thing was certain, however—practicing in front of the mirror was getting him nowhere. The door of the apartment creaked open and he quickly snapped the box shut and slid it into his pocket, thinking it was Satine—but instead, it happened to be Alexander Castleton who came inside.
"I knocked, but I don't think you heard me," he apologized, then offered the writer a skeptical look.
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"N-no," Christian stuttered out. The other man looked unconvinced, so he paused, cleared his throat, and tried again.
"No. Satine's gone down to the lobby—I was just, um, working on my story."
"Ahh." Despite the fact that Christian was standing a good six feet away from his desk, Alexander seemed accepting of this, and he nodded, stepping away from the door.
"How's it coming along?"
Christian moved back over to his desk and picked up a few pages that had been set alongside the typewriter. He held them out to the other man, and Alexander accepted them, settling down into a nearby chair to read.
He remained silent as he read, lowering the pages with a pensive expression as he finished. "So, Colin represents you—"
Christian nodded.
"—and Sarah represents Satine?"
"Yes. What do you think?"
Castleton paused, then handed the manuscript back to Christian. "I think it's a good story . . ."
"But?" Christian asked, sensing a bit something else to that comment than the man was letting on.
"I don't know," he responded, giving a slight shrug. "I mean—I don't want to infringe on your artistic licence. You're the most talented writer I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot."
Christian cleared his throat in embarrassment of the compliments, and turned to set the pages of his book-in-progress aside, shuffling them to straighten them out.
"But I still think there's something you don't like about it," he said, turning back to the publisher. "I'd like to know what it is—because it might be something that would be better off changed."
"Well," Alexander said reluctantly, lifting a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose in consideration of just how to correctly word what he was going to say.
"Sarah, she's . . . well, she's a prostitute—excuse me, courtesan—and I have to wonder how that will go over with our audience. You might want to consider changing her to something a little more . . . socially acceptable," he stated diplomatically.
Christian frowned in response to this—not out of disdain of the fact he was being criticized, as that was being done in a constructive and polite manner, but because he was a bit confused as to why Alexander would bring it up.
"But," he responded after a moment, "It's important to the story."
Castleton raised an eyebrow, as if waiting to hear why.
Christian, who had enjoyed too long the freedom of Montmartre, and the adoration of the Bohemians he wrote for, felt suddenly as if he were back in London, in his father's home, being scrutinized about why he would want to waste his days writing silly stories about love, when he should be doing something constructive—like learning business skills, or courting a suitable girl to be his wife.
"W-well," he stammered out, hating the fact he had to be so self-conscious over what was their story, his and Satine's, "It's important because we have to sympathize with Sarah's point of view. You see, she's jaded, and she doesn't believe in love—then comes along this idealistic young man, Colin, who simply sweeps her off her feet when she's least expecting it.
"We have to understand the world she's coming from, and know why love, usually a many-splendored thing, is so bad, so dangerous. We have to know why it's so important that she allows herself to fall in love with someone, when it's been forbidden for the whole of her life."
Realizing his speech was quickly turning into a tangent, Christian allowed himself to trail off, drawing in a breath.
Alexander blinked a bit at the vehemence shown by the young man, then he nodded his agreement. "You're right—but, you know, those of us without the creative genius you have don't always see these things, and have to have them pointed out to us."
Just then, the door opened and Satine came into the room, carrying their mail. The hotel attendants usually brought it up for them, but that day she had decided to get out of the room and go downstairs to wait for it to arrive herself.
As she entered, Castleton stood. "Well, in any case—I think I'll be going. Christian, keep up the excellent work. Miss Satine, you have a nice day."
He let himself out of the room, then Satine glanced back over her shoulder at the door, before turning back to Christian with a look of question. "Did I interrupt something?"
Christian seemed to consider that for a moment, before finally shaking his head.
"You look like there's something wrong," she pressed on, crossing the room to him. "Is it the dreams again?"
"No," he responded honestly, rising from his seat.
"Oh." Accepting this—if not entirely believing it—Satine turned her attention to the letters she was carrying, and handed one to him. "You have a letter."
Christian accepted the proffered envelope, which was addressed to him from a Mlle. Sophie Dieudonné. He smiled at it, feeling somewhat cheered, and reached for his letter opener.
"If I didn't trust you so much, I might think I had some competition," Satine remarked teasingly, walking over to read over his shoulder in a manner of mock scrutiny. "How are the Dieudonnés?"
"It looks like they're doing well," he responded, shifting around to kiss her softly in greeting.
He turned back to the letter, then went on, "Sophie has decided she wants to be an actress like you . . . and Philippe is teasing her about it."
"Well, I say Philippe doesn't know anything, like most of the rest of his gender," Satine chided with a grin. She wrapped her arms around him, then held her own letter out. "Open this?"
Christian glanced at the envelope briefly, before turning it over and cutting the top with the letter opener.
"Merci," she thanked him with a peck against his cheek. Moving away so that she could more comfortably read, she removed the letter from its envelope and unfolded it, scanning the handwriting. "Odd."
"What is it?" he asked, brows furrowing as he looked at the letter.
"I thought it would be from Marie—but it's from Harold," she responded slowly, sinking down into his desk chair.
"Oh." Concernedly kneeling down alongside her, Christian watched as she read the letter, expectantly waiting to know its contents.
Finally, Satine looked back up, calmly handing the letter to him. "It seems Harold's found another financier for the Moulin Rouge, who bought the deeds from the Duke, and they're working on turning it back into a nightclub."
Christian lifted a brow at this and turned to read the letter himself, thoughtfully attempting to read into its contents. Zidler seemed to hold no resentment toward Satine for leaving with no word aside from a letter, and even encouraged her to be happy in her new life, but something about it seemed a bit shallow. He went on to give details of a Count coming into the production—apparently not having learned his lesson from last time, Christian mused—and had plans of making one of the other girls into the new star.
Zidler went on to note in the letter that Toulouse said 'hello,' and that most everyone else was doing well—though, Nini, jilted at *not* having been chosen to headline the show, had decided to part company with the Moulin Rouge, and rumor had it she had taken a certain Argentinean with her. It rambled on for a few more lines, then finally closed with 'Tell Christian I wish him well. Love, Harold.'
"Well," Christian said slowly, when he'd finished, "it's nice at least to know Harold's doing well."
"Mm," Satine responded distractedly, absently fingering the envelope in her hands.
"Darling, are you feeling all right?" he asked, brow knitting in worry.
"I'm fine," she assured him with a nod. "I just feel a bit sick."
Seeing his look of alarm, she hastened on to correct herself, "No, it's not that. I've a bit of a headache."
"Maybe you should lie down, then." Christian rose to his feet and moved to help her up.
Satine started to object, but as she rose, she pressed her hand to her forehead and nodded in assent. Looking up at his stricken face, she smiled reassuringly, leaning to kiss him. "Don't worry, Christian, I'm fine."
He nodded, then as she disappeared into the bedroom, sat down at his desk and removed the small velvet box from his pocket. As he opened it up, the setting sun's rays fell across the ring nestled inside, striking a prism off a facet of the small gem, and he gave a sigh.
Diamonds were the hardest substance known to man, but his own seemed so fragile . . .
Author's Note: Short-ish chapter, but I have a lot of things to compress into the next one, and I didn't want this one to end up ten pages long. (If in the meantime you get bored, and like Harry Potter, let me give myself a shameless plug for my own vignette Shed Not a Tear.) Thank you for all the reviews — please do keep them coming!
And on a random note — I find the new beige background most disturbing.