Chapter Five: God Help The Outcasts
Disclaimer: Come on, you all know it's not mine… Don't even pretend that you're going to sue me.
A/N Part Una: Dedicated to tambourines everywhere.
~*~
The square outside of Notre Dame teemed with people, scurrying this way and that underneath the cathedral gargoyles' baleful stare. The bells rang across the Seine, clear and deep, reminding the people of Paris that mass had started, or was in session, or had ended, or maybe just to remind that God was in the midst of their city. Men, women and children walked briskly in and out of the portals, heads bowed and breath hushed before the sacred space of Notre Dame.
A solitary figure stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the vast structure. It was ironic, really, that a man whose name meant "believer in Christ" should be so reluctant to enter the church. But somehow, Christian didn't feel right in doing so. The stone statues of the Gallery of the Kings glared down angrily at him, and he turned his eyes away. He'd never been particularly religious: God was an abstract being, a harsh and benevolent figure all wrapped up in sin and penance. A contradiction wrapped in enigma. He'd never felt the presence of the Holy Spirit. His mother had described God as pure bliss: the only time Christian had ever felt bliss was with Satine. And according to his father, his society and his church, that was wrong. How could being with the woman he loved, the one Christian the one Christian assumed he would marry someday, be a sin? How could being in love be wrong?
My son, keep your father's commands, and don't forget your mother's teaching.
Algernon's words resounded in Christian's head, and he saw his father, standing in his study, reading aloud from the family Bible… Trying to convince him that his soul was in great peril if he went to Montmartre…
God is love, thought Christian bitterly, and yet it is a sin to love a prostitute.
A prostitute will treat you like a loaf of bread…You cannot carry hot coals against your chest without burning your clothes.
Christian shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He was too tired to go into deep theological debates with himself.
Three weeks had passed since Spectacular Spectacular's dramatic opening night.
Three weeks of sneaking in and out of the hospital, the Duke an ever-present figure, striding down the corridors and bursting into Satine's room without knocking. Three weeks of flimsy excuses to explain why the lowly writer visited the star so frequently.
Three weeks of sleepless nights and tense days.
Three weeks with only a kiss on the hand from Satine, and no more.
Three weeks of praying, pleading, making bargains with God to save his love. But the churches around Montmartre were small and filthy with the sins of their clergy: places long since forsaken by God. But Notre Dame… Here was somewhere pure, somewhere that was clean enough, big enough, grand enough for God to live. Christian knew that God must answer prayers here: perhaps if he lit his own little candle and prayed, God would finally take notice. And maybe, he'd feel the peace he'd always heard of, the forgiveness for every sin he had committed… Except love. Christian raised his chin defiantly and sniffed. He would never apologise for that.
I would rather spend eternity in hell with her by my side than face heaven alone
Hunching his shoulders, Christian took one last look at the stone kings above the doorway and ran up the church steps, pausing at the threshold to take off his hat. He shivered in the cool of the doorway and then entered, the silence and the heavy scent of incense folding around him. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when they did, he felt small and insignificant in the presence of such grandeur. Christian played with the hat in his hands nervously for a few moments, before following the other worshippers towards the eastern end of the church, where rows and rows of tiny candles were lit and prayers were made. There were no discrepancies here, no distinctions made between men and women, the poor and the rich. He watched an old lady, bent double over her cane, lighting a candle and murmuring under her breath. A young man, dressed in a dapper blue suit, top hat in his left hand, was clutching at a taper, his eyes fixed upon the stained glass window. It cast weird colours on him, bright reds and greens that seemed to flicker uncertainly as his lips moved in a silent prayer to the Virgin.
Stiffly, Christian took hold of a taper for himself and found a little tea light at the edge of a row. The sunlight streaming from the stained glass warmed his back a little, but it didn't bring him comfort. He hesitated as a woman about his age stood next to him and repeated a prayer that Christian hadn't heard since he'd left home.
Agnus Dei
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Agnus Dei
Dona nobis pacem
The woman glanced at Christian and gave him a sad smile.
"I hope that God will help us both," she said, and touched Christian's arm lightly. He jumped at the contact and stared after her as she walked briskly away. Briefly, he wondered why a loving God could allow so much pain in the world that his people had to queue to pray for help. Shivering despite the sun, Christian lit his own candle, repeating the prayer the young woman had said.
Please, he thought. Save my Satine. I'll do whatever it takes. A priest walked past, and Christian watched him pass, vaguely remembering his father telling him to confess his sins… Start again. He lit another candle, next to Satine's.
For me. Please… save me. Bring me some comfort. Keep me well… for her.
Christian had followed his father's instructions to see a doctor, only a few days after Satine had entered the hospital. After what seemed like hours of prodding and poking and drawing blood, the doctor had proclaimed Christian perfectly well.
"Perhaps a slight cold, but nothing more. Be sure to come see me again in a few weeks… You can never be too careful."
Christian had promised, had even made an appointment there and then. Because he had to be well. He had to be strong. He had to be able to look after his Satine.
A breeze rustled through the church, flickering the tiny flames. Christian held his breath as his own candles flickered, but did not go out. He sighed, feeling strangely relieved, then turned on his heel and walked briskly from the church. He'd promised Satine he'd be there by noon.
* * *
He's different now, thought Satine. More serious. Tired. She and Christian were seated by the window in her room. The doctor thought that the sunshine might make her feel a little better, but all it did was make her eyes itch in the light. Christian sat watching her thoughtfully, looking small and exhausted in the armchair. He smiled at her, but said nothing. She wanted to turn away, because looking at him, seeing how her illness had affected him, hurt her, stung her with poison, and yet she could not look away. Because it was Christian, and no matter what, he always filled her soul with peace.
"Christian," she murmured, reaching for his hand. He grasped it and kissed her palm almost absently. She wanted desperately for him to do more, for him to reach across and kiss her hard on the mouth, but she knew he wouldn't do that. She'd made him promise that he'd keep his distance, and keep healthy, and Christian was a man of his word. And despite the ache in her heart, she knew that she was right. One of them had to be well, be strong enough for them both. She had never told him, but she was terrified. Terrified of dying and leaving him for God only knew what. Terrified that the illness would cripple her, or make her barren, and she desperately wanted to be perfect for him.
"I went to Notre Dame today," he blurted out. "I lit candles for us."
Satine didn't like to say that she doubted that God would listen to a prayer about a whore, but Christian seemed to guess what she was thinking.
"It doesn't matter," he said, slipping off the chair and kneeling before her. "You're better. I know you're going to be fine… We'll be fine." He smiled, and for the first time in days, Satine saw a trace of the old spark in his eyes. "A few months, and this will all be a bad dream."
"Take me away, Christian," she said, the words bursting from her lips before she could stop them. "Take me away."
Christian moaned and buried his head in her lap. "We've been through this, Satine," he mumbled into the folds of her nightdress. "I can't risk it. What if you had a turn for the worse-"
"You just said that everything would be all right," she interrupted.
"Yes, because the doctors are here," he replied, looking her in the eye. "We've been through this, Satine… I won't risk your life."
"I can't stay here, Christian!" Satine cried, "I can't keep pretending that we're nothing and that the Duke is everything! I can't keep lying! I'm too tired…" She trailed off, knowing it was no use. It was an argument they'd had every day, an argument that went round and round in circles.
In the beginning, Satine had asked Christian to take her away, far away from the hospital, the Duke, Paris even. She hadn't felt that there was much hope left for her, and the thought of spending the last days of her life with the Duke, hiding Christian away, had been too much for her to bear. She'd argued with Christian, insisting that he carry her away, at one point screaming at him. And always it was the same, tired answer.
We haven't the money. You're still too ill – if we leave, it could kill you. What if we got caught? Where would we go? How would we live? And so on.
I want to, he'd said once. But we can't.
He was right, of course. Practically, they couldn't go… But in her heart, Satine knew that she was right: if she stayed in this hospital much longer, she would die. And the Duke would soon find out about them – how could he not? – and what then? What would the jealousy, the anger, the sheer betrayal make him do? It was dangerous for them to stay, and dangerous for them to leave. It was a horrible trap.
"I will take you away from here" said Christian suddenly. She stared at him in surprise. "But not yet."
She sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll hold you to that," she said, smiling. Christian laughed shortly and nodded. "I know."
"Christian!" The door burst upon, and Toulouse stood there, gesticulating wildly at Christian. "The Duke!"
Christian stood up quickly, knocking the vase on the windowsill to the floor. It shattered, spraying water and yellow tulips over the floor. He swore and started to pick up its fragmented pieces. Satine grabbed his arm.
"Leave it," she said. "Just go!" Nodding and kissing her forehead hurriedly, he stood and ran out the door. Satine shuddered, and then shut her eyes. The easiest way to deal with the Duke was to pretend to be asleep.
*
Toulouse had left his warning a touch too late: the Duke was striding towards Christian, Warner a pace or two behind him, carrying the most enormous bouquet of flowers Christian had ever seen. The Duke spotted Christian and narrowed his eyes.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped, his sharp little moustache working furiously above his lips.
"I was just seeing if Mademoiselle Satine would be well enough anytime soon to open the play again," said Christian hurriedly, aware that he'd used this excuse three times in the past week.
"I doubt," said the Duke icily, "that her condition has made such progress since yesterday."
"Um," said Christian.
"For a writer," sneered the Duke, "you're being very ineloquent and inconsiderate. She is very ill and does not need any…" He stopped, staring at Christian. All too late, Christian realised that Satine had left a lipstick kiss on his cheek. He rubbed at it desperately.
"She, er, got a bit… emotional. About the play," he said, crossing his fingers behind his back.
The Duke didn't move, didn't blink. He looked stiffly past Christian, at Satine's door, and then his eyes flew back to Christian. "Oh," he said softly. "I see." Neither man moved for a moment (except Warner, who shuffled his feet slightly), and then the Duke swept past Christian, barely giving him a second glance. Warner scurried after him, glaring at Christian as he passed. Christian let out a sigh of relief but didn't move from his spot. He gazed after the Duke, at Satine's room, furrowing his eyebrows.
"Come on, Christian," said Toulouse, tugging on Christian's coat. "We should go home."
"Yes," said Christian, shaking himself, but he still didn't move. There was a low murmur of voices coming from Satine's room, and Christian strained to listen. Toulouse smiled sadly at his friend.
"She'll be alright, Christian… The doctors will look after her."
Christian nodded dully and allowed the short man to drag him away, his grip surprisingly strong.
As they left the hospital, Toulouse clapped his hands together. "Well," he said, "where shall we dine?"
"Christian!" shouted a voice from across the road. Christian glanced up and saw his sister run towards them, heedless of the traffic around her. "Christian!" gasped the girl again, flinging herself into his arms. Tactfully, Toulouse greeted Emily by touching his hand to his hat before walking briskly off. Christian smiled gratefully at his friend and patted his sister's shaking back. "There, there, Em," he said. "It's all right."
"No, it's not! Everything's just a perfect mess! We haven't seen or heard from you in three weeks!"
"I'm sorry," whispered Christian, "I didn't mean-"
"No, it's not you," interrupted Emily, pulling away from him, wiping her eyes. "It's…" She sighed and fiddled with the black shawl draped across her shoulders. "Well," she amended, "it is partly you, but it's father as well."
Christian smiled. "How is he?"
"Oh, you know…" She paused. "He's worried about you. He wants to make up."
"So do I," said Christian, taking her arm and leading her away from the hospital. "But he wants me to give up on Satine, and I won't do that." Emily was quiet for a few moments.
"You really do love her, don't you?" she murmured eventually. She smiled as Christian nodded. "Well," she continued, smiling faintly, "it was about time you settled down!"
Christian chuckled shortly. "It's a pity Father doesn't see it that way though… He just doesn't see that she's-"
"A person?" Christian nodded again, leading Emily into a park, empty tennis courts to their left, a little stream to their right. "What is she like?" asked Emily, suddenly.
"You really want to know?" asked Christian, surprised.
"Of course! I mean, if she's going to be my sister-in-law, don't you think I should know more about her? What?" she added, for Christian had stopped walking and was staring at her. "Oh, you don't think that we all think the same as Father, do you? Uncle Lolol, Mother and I, we all want to know more about her… If you love her, then she must be wonderful!"
Christian grinned at her, and Emily giggled. "Really?" he asked again. "You don't think that I'm- I'm some sort of…"
"Idiotic, romantic fool? Well, yes, we think you're that. But we love you anyway." She sat down on a bench. "Well, come on then. Gush about your love."
Christian sat next to her and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Well, she's… she's… beautiful."
"I could tell that," said Emily dryly.
"She's…" Christian shut his eyes, trying to pin down that wonderful, soaring feeling he felt when he saw Satine, the way he'd felt when he'd first laid eyes on her, and kissed her and talked to her about the past, and their future together. The way she looked when she smiled, or when they stayed up all night talking, making love as dawn spread her rosy fingers across Paris. He smiled. "I don't know how to describe her," he admitted finally, and Emily laughed.
"And you call yourself a writer!"
"If there's one thing I've learnt since being here," said Christian thoughtfully, "it's that there are some things that can not be pinned down by ink and paper." He paused, and looked at his feet, his old cracked shoes scuffing the dirt under the bench. "How is everyone, anyway?"
"Oh," sighed Emily. "The same. I mean, Mother's frantic with worry about you… Every day she comes up with some new, terrible thing that might have happened to you. She wanted to come visit you, you know, but Father wouldn't let her – he said that you had to… you had to lie in your bed."
"Hmm," said Christian, noncommittally, frowning at his shoes. Emily hesitated, but plunged on.
"And you know what Mother's like when it comes to Father… She becomes like a little mouse who can't say no. Probably why she married him," she added darkly.
"You shouldn't say things like that about our parents," said Christian absently, feeling that he should say it, but privately agreeing with her. He had memories of his mother when he was younger, sitting in the park with him, painting pictures together. She encouraged him to go wild, splashing red, green and blue across the canvas in untamed extravagance, using his fingertips instead of the brush. And when he was done, even though the pictures were a frightful mess, she'd always looked at them fondly and told him that she'd put them on the wall at home. She never did, of course: Algernon had turned his nose up at the pictures, and Victoria had quietly folded the pictures up and put them at the back of her wardrobe.
Once, sitting in the park, feeding the ducks with a three-year-old Emily, Victoria had whispered to Christian that she'd always wanted to paint the way he had done, using the wrong colours and her fingertips. He'd asked her why she didn't, but Victoria had only shaken her head and returned her attention to the ducks. As he'd grown older, Christian understood why, as he watched her worry the servants about making her husband's dinner precisely the way he liked it.
Christian had always believed that love only had the power to free one from the toil of life and soar above it all. But as he got older, and the distance grew between himself and the rest of the Evans', he realised that it didn't. Not always. Not in his mother's case.
When he'd announced that he would be leaving for Paris, whilst his sisters shrieked and his father shouted, Victoria had only smiled at her son and told him that she wished that she could visit the capital with him. But she couldn't, because she loved Algernon, and he wanted her at home. Before he'd left, Christian had had a blistering argument with his father (deciding that since he was already on bad terms with the older man, he might as well get everything off his chest) about Victoria. It had been hopeless: Algernon was stubborn and old-fashioned, and nothing could change his mind. A wife belonged at home, not gallivanting about, painting dreadful, abstract pieces.
Dimly, Christian realised that Emily had continued speaking, and he forced himself out of his memories
"Lolol's been busy," she said, picking at her shawl. "He's gone all around Montmartre, asking about you. It seems like everyone knows the Voice of the Children of the Revolution."
Christian snorted. "I doubt that I am… I just express what I feel."
"Which is what everyone else feels," smiled Emily. "He – Lolol, I mean – he's spoken a lot to that funny little man… Oh, what was his name? Toulouse?"
"Really?" said Christian in surprise. "He didn't say anything to me!"
Emily shrugged. "Well, I don't know what they were talking about, but Mother is just thrilled that you're such good friends with him – she just loves his art!"
Christian smiled tightly. But Father won't let her near him… or his art, he thought.
"And how are you?" he asked out loud. "You haven't said a word about yourself."
"Oh," said Emily, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Worried about you, of course, but… Well. You're all right, aren't you? You're in love, and that's what you've always wanted."
"Yes," said Christian, thinking of Satine, ill and close to death; the Duke; the tension; the distance he'd forced between himself and his family; the tears he'd wept every night; the terrible fear; the wonderful happiness. "This is all I've ever wanted," he said, surprised at the conviction in his voice. "All I've ever wanted."
* * *
Christian had intended to get back to his garret after visiting Satine, to change out of the formal clothes that he'd worn to Notre Dame, and then go to the Moulin Rouge and see what the latest news was. Spectacular Spectacular's future was uncertain now; it hadn't been performed since Satine's collapse, and now the thing that Zidler dreaded above all was happening: advance ticket sales were dropping off.
Instead, Christian found himself spending a happy afternoon with Emily, wandering around the park, gossiping idly about family friends and relatives. It was all trivial, run-of-the mill stuff: engagements, parties, scandals, marriages, illnesses; the usual rot that Christian had always found dull and insipid. But in the watery rays of the winter sun, he found that he liked it. It was safe to talk about other people's lives, easier to judge others than it was to judge oneself. For the first time in his life, he saw what it was that his father and society friends clung onto: safety. Bohemianism threatened to blow all that away and bring about a Revolution. Christian had never thought of Algernon as being frightened before. It was an odd thought.
Emily had left him at about six o'clock, long after the streetlights were switched on. Christian hoped that she wouldn't get in too much trouble with their parents when she returned to the hotel where they were staying. He hadn't asked why they stayed in Paris: he supposed that Algernon wanted to make sure that the black sheep of the family didn't do anything more disgraceful than loving a courtesan.
In the end, Christian had decided not to return to his garret, instead going to a florist to buy Satine a bunch of flowers. There was no way he could afford the type of extravagance the Duke could lavish on her, but at least he knew what Satine liked. With a little help from the smiling shopkeeper, he handpicked a bunch of white violets, pale primroses, deep red carnations, and softly scented wisteria.
"Who are these for?" asked the shopkeeper, smiling kindly at Christian as she wrapped up the bouquet with white ribbon and brown paper. "Mother? Wife?"
"My wife," said Christian, too busy counting out his money to pay attention to what he was saying. The shopkeeper leant over to a small vase of blue flowers on the counter, plucking out a few of them, and wrapping them up with the rest. She winked as Christian stared at her.
"Every lady likes to be given forget-me-nots," she said, and Christian returned her smile.
As he walked back to the hospital, Christian hummed. The moon was full, coating Paris with a white frost wherever the streetlamps couldn't touch with their bright light. Suddenly he felt like laughing, despite his melancholy. He was young, and he was in love with a woman who loved him back. His family were in town, and despite all the tension, he had spoken with his sister. He touched the slip of paper in his pocket on which Emily had written the address of their hotel; maybe in the morning he could visit his mother and take her to meet Toulouse, whom he was certain she would love. Then perhaps if the weather was still fine, he could take Satine outside into the sunshine… maybe to the park by the hospital, and they could feed ducks. And if they ran into the Duke… well, Satine would be able to think of something, he was sure-
Suddenly, something grasped the back of his coat and yanked him into an alleyway. Surprised, Christian tripped over backwards and sprawled heavily on the floor, knocking over a large wooden box, and a cat yowled. Something connected solidly with the side of his stomach, and he let go of the flowers with a pained cry and curled up around himself. As he lay there gasping, a pair of shiny black shoes came into his watery view and a hand picked up the bouquet.
"How sweet," sneered a voice somewhere above Christian. "Our penniless sitar player, off to visit his beloved." Christian looked up painfully at the two men in the alley with him. He couldn't make out the faces of his two attackers, but he could guess well enough who they were.
"What-" he began, and the Duke raised his hand. Warner kicked Christian again, and then hoisted him up off the ground, slamming him into the wall.
"Did you really think you could fool me? Did you think that you could keep it a secret?"
"Actually," said Christian in a thin voice, "yes, I -" He fell silent as he heard a barely audible click and felt something cold and round press against his temple.
"Silence!" hissed the Duke. He started to say something else but stopped, apparently too angry to speak coherently. Warner twisted Christian's arms behind his back painfully as the Duke collected himself. "I will not be made a fool of," the Duke murmured finally. "I will not have my… myself – I will not be toyed with!"
He was silent again. Shock slowly dissolved in Christian's mind, replaced by a sudden, blind panic. He struggled, but Warner only tightened his grip.
"Perhaps," said the Duke, "I can make an example of you, boy." His face came into Christian's view, bloodless and impassive. Christian swallowed. "Without you, perhaps Mademoiselle Satine will realise…" He smiled slowly. "She'll see the maharajah's true qualities… the advantages. Don't worry," he added sardonically. "You'll be a martyr to your friends, I'm sure." He turned to Warner. "Kill him."
And with that, he turned and marched out of the alley, still clutching Christian's bouquet in his hands.
"No!" cried Christian, wriggling out of Warner's grasp for a few moments, but it was no use: Warner caught hold of his shoulder and threw him back against the wall, face against the brick. Christian felt the gun pressed against the back of his head, and shut his eyes, waiting for the final shot.
There was a silence. Warner sighed.
And then there was a shot; or at least, there was a short, sharp rip in the air and Christian jumped. Something heavy slumped against him, and the gun barrel fell from his head. Turning slowly, Christian felt the heavy lump slip further down and then fall away altogether. He looked down and gasped in surprise. Warner lay on the floor, unconscious, the gun lying next to him.
"Well," said a female voice, "he's not so tough."
Christian looked up and squinted into the darkness. "Baby?"
The petite woman giggled, looking very different to her Can-Can persona, wearing a demure green dress and a scarf over her blonde head. Christian gaped at her. "Lucky I decided to come this way this evening, hmm?"
"What did you do?" he wheezed, holding his side, still breathless from Warner's kicks.
Baby Doll brandished a strangely familiar black case. "This is pretty heavy, especially for a little girl." She smiled wickedly, holding the case out to him. "I've got a pretty heavy swing. Harold was going to take it to her," she continued, unconcerned when Christian leaned against the wall instead of taking the case. "He said that it was Satine's and the Duke wanted her to have it, but Zidler didn't have time to do it. I said I'd do it, and they trust me with her things, so…" She shrugged as Christian finally took the case. "Pity I didn't have Chocolat with me – he would have really laid into him."
Nodding a little dazedly, Christian opened up the case, looked at its contents for a moment, and then swore, remembering bitterly when he'd last seen it.
"My," said Baby Doll, a smile playing on her lips, "I didn't know you knew words like that."
Christian looked up at her, away from the diamond necklace's enticing light. "I've seen it before…" he started. "I forgot how…"
"Yes," nodded Baby Doll. "It's no wonder it could knock out a fat brute like this." She nudged Warner's body with her booted foot.
"It's caused a lot of trouble," said Christian, looking back at the necklace. Baby Doll frowned and then shrugged again.
"Well, I'm sure you know what to do with it."
"Yes…" said Christian slowly. He looked up at Baby Doll again and smiled, a plan forming in his head. "I do. Thank you."
She waved a hand dismissively. "I've wanted to do that to that pervert for ages… He's always skulking around the changing rooms, whenever he can get away from his master-"
"The Duke!" cried Christian, hoisting himself up. "He's gone to Satine! I've got to-"
"Relax," said Baby Doll, catching hold of his arm to steady him. "He went in the opposite direction to the hospital – he was heading back home. I saw him."
"Are you certain?" asked Christian. Baby Doll nodded. "But he took my flowers…" He stopped talking, realising that probably sounded very stupid.
"I swear on my mother's grave," she said seriously. "He's probably gone home to plot… He'll let his anger fester for a while, and then decide what to do with Satine."
"Oh, well, that's comforting," said Christian, pulling himself free from Baby Doll's grasp and limping out the alley, checking both ways as he went. Baby Doll followed him, laughing faintly.
"He thinks you're as good as dead; you've got a head start on him. And since you know what to do with that," she nodded at the black case in his hand. "Well… I'd say you've got the upper hand. Better play it, before the Duke realises."
Christian nodded, suddenly feeling very awkward. "I… thank you-"
"Josephine," she said. "My name's Josephine. It doesn't sound right when you call me 'Baby'."
"I suppose not."
"What are you waiting for?" she said, after a little pause "That goon to come round?" She gave Christian a little shove.
"Why are you helping me like this?" asked Christian, turning to face her. He couldn't quite make out her face, her scarf casting a shadow over her eyes.
"Because… I like you. And I like her. And I need to know someone who is happy… It gets too damn depressing around here." She pushed him again. "The sooner you get moving, the sooner I can get back to somewhere warm."
"I don't know how to thank you," said Christian, walking backwards away from her.
"We'll just say that you owe me one. If ever I need any help, I'll expect you to come galloping in."
"You can count on it," said Christian, smiling at her. He thought he saw her smile back at him, and then she turned her around, starting back down the road towards the Moulin. Christian watched her for a moment, and then stared down at the case in his hands, forehead creased in thought. After a moment, he nodded to himself and started to run, his sides aching and head spinning.
* * *
Satine lay in her bed, hands clasped together in what would have looked like a prayer to a bystander. But she wasn't praying. She felt that she was barely awake, floating on a current of sweet dreams and bitter nightmares, falling into neither and profoundly glad of it. Even the sweet dreams she had, dreams where she and Christian lived outside of the city in a little cottage, left an acrid taste on her tongue. Because that's all it was: a dream. Christian deserved a little house in the country, with a little wife to go with it, and she wasn't sure that she could be that little wife.
Usually, these musings kept her awake for hours, tossing and turning in helplessness, but tonight she was disturbed. The door was flung open, and a breathless Christian flung himself at her.
"Christian!" she cried. "What are you-" She stopped, peering closer at his face. "You're hurt! What happened?"
"That doesn't matter," he said, grabbing her hand as she went to caress the bruise on his cheek. "Listen-"
"Who did this? Was it the Duke?"
"Darling-"
"-it was him! Oh, I thought he seemed different this afternoon! All distant and thoughtful, and angry, and-"
"Satine!" interrupted Christian, catching her other hand in his own. "It doesn't matter."
"Yes it does! He knows, Christian, and he'll-"
"Satine, I'm going to take you away."
"Now?" asked Satine dazedly. Christian shook his head.
"No. But soon – by the end of the week – tomorrow even! I know where we can go, and it'll be safe, perfectly safe. It'll even be good for you; it's in the mountains, all that fresh air-"
"You're serious," she whispered.
"Of course I am," he said, kissing her hands. "You're right – the Duke does know. And he thinks he knows that I'm dead, but we've got the upper hand now."
"He tried to… didn't he?" asked Satine quietly.
"It doesn't matter, darling. We're going to get away from him, away from the Moulin Rouge!"
"What about the show?"
"I don't care," whispered Christian, cupping her face in his hands. "I don't care about the show. We have each other… that's all that matters."
Christian leaned forward, and Satine shut her eyes, knowing that if he kissed her, despite everything she'd said and he'd promised, she'd kiss him back. But he didn't: he sighed and then kissed her hands again. Satine swallowed and spoke, wanting to break the awful silence.
"How are we going to…?" Christian smiled wickedly, and held up a black case. Satine stared at it, and then at him. "What's that?" she asked, a dim memory floating back to her.
Christian opened the case. She stared at its contents for a moment and then swore.
"That's just what I said," said Christian thoughtfully.
Satine nodded. She knew that the diamond necklace couldn't have physically changed since she'd last seen it, that night in the Gothic Tower, but whereas it had looked beautiful then, it seemed vulgar now. Vulgar and ugly. She glanced up at Christian, who nodded at her silent question.
"This," he said, smiling almost fondly at the jewellery, "is our ticket out of here."
* * *
A/N Part Dos:
My son, keep your father's commands, and don't forget your mother's teaching. [Proverbs 6:20]
A prostitute will treat you like a loaf of bread. [Proverbs 6:26]
You cannot carry hot coals against your chest without burning your clothes. [Proverbs 6:27]
Agnus Dei (Lamb of God)
Qui tollis peccata mundi (Who takes away the sins of the world)
Agnus Dei (Lamb of God)
Dona nobis pacem (Grant
us peace)
