Jusqu'à la Fin du Temps
I awoke all throughout that night in fleeting moments of consciousness, only to have Marie insist I go back to sleep. Each time, everything felt distant and hazy, and disconnected. At one point, I made out the silhouettes of Harold and Marie as they talked in low voices to a third figure – the doctor, I realized – and I supposed he had given me something to help me rest.
I vainly remembered my promise to have dinner with Christian, and the fact he would be waiting for me despite Harold's earlier demands. The passage of time was aware to me only when I'd awake to find the moon at a different point, until Marie finally pulled the shade against the coming sunrise.
My sleep was fitful, plagued by the knowledge of what had transpired earlier; that my love had been discovered; that Harold knew everything – and yet I had to wonder how anyone couldn't have seen it. Christian and I had thought ourselves to be careful, but through the amorous smiles and meaningful glances, anyone with good sense could easily guess what was going on between us.
And Harold demanded we end it all – that I end it all. But could I do that? Christian's love was the most precious thing I'd ever had, and I was being asked to give it up. I knew he wouldn't understand, either. He was too naïve; he believed that love could overcome all obstacles.
But I realized, then, that rules were there for a reason – and there were consequences for breaking them.
When I finally felt well enough to be on my feet, Marie allowed me to get up, and I first moved unsteadily to the window to pull up the shade and let the sunlight and fresh air in, having found the room increasingly stuffy as the day progressed. Then when I went to get dressed, she refused to lace my corset, but instead insisted I wear something looser. I gave in easily, not feeling comfortable enough to breathe in a corset yet anyway, and donned a pink silk kimono.
The walk of only a block to Christian's garret left me out of breath, and while I stood in the hallway plagued by a wracking cough, the door swung open and I was left to look up with an abrupt gasp for air. Christian stood there in the doorway, his face painted with worry, and his eyes . . .
Though I loved everything about him, from his startlingly enchanting voice to his way with words, his eyes were unusual. His were eyes that I could drown myself in easily; at times, they could appear a verdant shade of green that would make even the most beautiful emerald pale in comparison, while at others they were the brilliant azure of the sky.
And on this evening, that sky was broken upon by the grey haze of clouds, the soulful depths of his eyes reflecting a sorrowful and betrayed look I hadn't seen since that night on the elephant when I tried to sway his proclamations of love with my own blunt refusals, and the pain there tore at my heart.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently, his question breaking upon the reverent silence of my study.
I blinked and glanced about, feeling for the first time awkward in his presence.
"Nothing," I responded with that careless reassurance that instantly found its way into my tone. I wanted nothing more than to simply stay here with him forever; to be in the warmth of his presence and content in the knowledge of our love, but instead I felt as if I had already done him wrong, because I knew with a dire weight on my very soul what I was about to have to do.
"Are you sure?" he prodded with a tender concern as he ushered me inside, closing the door with a soft click.
I was quick to offer further reassurance, and for a long moment afterward, he remained silent. I could only imagine what he had spent the entire night before doing. I knew he had waited for me, and in my mind I envisioned him pacing from the window to the table upon which our carefully prepared candlelit dinner would have been waiting, the passage of time marked with the burning of the tapers into short stubs of wax that the flame would gradually be drowned in.
Off to the side, fastidiously arranged beside that Underwood typewriter would be the latest pages of Spectacular Spectacular, ready for the reading he knew I would want to do. It was a privilege I held, reading the show as he wrote it, and though I at times offered suggestions, they came rarely, as in my eyes his writing was perfect creative genius.
"Where – where were you last night?" he finally asked hesitantly, as if afraid of what the answer might be, but his heart crying out in desperate need of the knowledge. He didn't touch me, but I knew he wanted to, as his hands lingered just short of wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into an embrace.
"I was sick," I responded, and I could hear the hoarse tone of my voice, prompting me to clear my throat. Such an excuse was not an act – but then, it never was when I was with him.
He was the one person I could be myself with – I was always Harold's sparrow, the Duke's Sparkling Diamond, but I was Christian's love. He saw past the makeup and the extravagant costumes, past the whimsical air, and through to my soul – and he loved me for me, despite all the things I had done.
He accepted the explanation – or seemed to try to, at least – and I sensed he was struggling desperately between his own doubt and the desire to trust me. Still his eyes searched mine for questions I couldn't readily answer, until finally I turned away from him and walked over to sink down on the side of the bed. I was still not feeling well, and everything resting upon my shoulders was only further encumbering.
"Are you all right now?" he asked, and the concern in his tone was genuine, but the words were half-hearted, for I knew as well as he did that my health was not the only thing on his mind.
"I'll be fine," I responded – lied – and watched as Christian moved back and resumed his seat at the typewriter.
Unlike usual, few words passed between us – no jokes, no laughter, no affectionate words or playful touches. The atmosphere was somber, as if aware of my mood. The slow clacking of keys soon enough filled the air, but they were almost reluctant against the stillness, until they subsided completely and he pulled the sheet from the typewriter.
He hesitated, then asked again, "Where were you last night?"
I looked up from the handkerchief I'd been clutching, a slight frown on my face. "I told you . . . I was sick."
My words carried hesitation, and he rose from his seat, moving over to perch lightly on the bedside.
"You don't have to lie to me," he said, his voice softly prompting.
I knew he had allowed his imagination to wander – he thought that perhaps I had spent the night with the Duke, as had been originally intended by Harold, and with what I had to tell him, I didn't try to correct him or belay his fears. Perhaps it was best – or at least easier – that he should think that.
I remained silent for a long moment afterward, avoiding his gentle, trusting gaze, a look that pleaded for reassurance that I couldn't give. I steeled myself against my next words, and said softly, "We have to end it."
Christian stiffened, and I knew he was about to protest, but I pressed forward. I had to keep going before I lost the nerve.
"Everyone knows. Harold knows. Sooner or later, the Duke will find out."
The explanation held every bit of logic I could summon, and yet I couldn't force myself to be any more convinced by it than he was.
"On opening night," I continued slowly, "I have to sleep with the Duke . . . and the jealousy will drive you mad."
He rose abruptly in denial of the words, and moved out onto the ledge, circling around as I went to stand at the open doors. All the while he was speaking his thoughts aloud, searching for some way to work through what I saw as the inevitable.
"Then I'll write a song," he said earnestly, "And – and we'll put it in the show. And no matter how bad things get, or whatever happens, whenever you hear it, or when you sing it, or whistle it, or hum it – it will mean that we love one another."
He paused, finishing, "I won't get jealous, I promise."
I resisted, but I felt my resolve crumbling as he spoke, his words breaking my heart. He pressed his lips to my brow in light, fleeting kisses, but I took a deep breath and turned away, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Things don't work that way, Christian," I said sadly. "We have to end it."
I was resolute, but then he began to sing – his words soft, but backed by the intensity of passion and love.
"Never knew I could feel like this . . ."
I stilled then, listening, and though all logic told me to be firm, my heart swelled at the words, and I knew that there was no more resisting.
"Like I've never seen the sky before.
Want to vanish inside your kiss,
Every day I love you more and more . . ."
He paused, coming up behind me and gesturing over Montmartre.
"Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?
Telling me to give you everything . . .
Seasons may change, winter to spring,
But I love you . . . until the end of time."
And there, on the balcony, as we stood looking over Paris, Christian wrote our song. And I knew in my heart with every note sung that Harold had been wrong – that every skeptic, every doubter of love had been wrong. There was no force more powerful than love, nothing stronger, and ours would last. It had to.