Chapter 5
It certainly didn't help matters that Satine was carried to the sick room by none other than Christian James himself, nor did it bring a smile to anyone's face that the Duke, too, had already occupied the room as of five minutes before then, and was recovering from a similar bout.
As little as Christian enjoyed the idea of leaving an unconscious Satine with the Duke—especially when that Duke was glaring heatedly at him all the while—he found at least a bit of comfort in noticing that Harold stood just inside the doorway, not to mention the ever-present Warner just outside it.
Once Christian had left, silence hung like a think blanket over the room, causing Harold to shift uncomfortably as the Duke stared pointedly at Satine, waiting impatiently for her to wake up. Just then, Marie came bustling into the room, snapping orders at Harold to retrieve the canister from such a drawer, and a handkerchief from that other dresser.
Satine awoke quickly enough to the liquid searing its path down her crusted throat, and continued to cough up what had been loosened into the handkerchief, tainting its ivory perfection with drops of her own crimson blood. She vaguely wondered how it was that every time, she was given to stain a new, glowing white cloth, but then her head spun and she closed her eyes to shut out her surroundings.
Upon doing this, memories of the past few hours came flooding back, and Christian came to mind. "Where is he, Marie?" she rasped.
Marie turned from where she was helping the Duke, and asked, "Where is who, child?"
"Christian?"
The Duke's lip curled.
"He's up writing, just as usual. Now you get yourself some rest before the show tonight." Having finished what she could do, Marie left that as a final bidding and left the room.
After a moment, the Duke spoke up. "I spoke with Marie earlier," he put on a smile, and though it wasn't entirely forced, it looked most unnatural on him, "about our wedding preparations."
Satine sighed inwardly. "Oh, yes?"
Now the corners of the Duke's thin lips dropped, as he noted her apparent lack of interest in the subject. "Yes, in fact. She's arranged it to be right her in our beloved Moulin Rouge, the very night after the show's over."
Satine gasped, and sat upright with a start. "To-tomorrow night?" she cried.
"No, Pumpkin."
Just noticing Harold at the door, Satine's brow knitted in confusion. "But, tonight is…."
"Despite what you may have been told," the Duke's eyes narrowed in Zidler's direction, "the show will not be closing tonight."
"The show must go on," said Harold weakly.
"…Or the writer," the Duke finished in a menacing tone, "will be killed."
Satine's breath caught in her throat. "Christian? Why, what does he have to do with anything?"
"He has everything to do with it," the Duke said in a tight voice, his tempter rising. "You might as well know that he sold our play to some high class shindig in Paris, and this is what has become of it." Now he turned to Zidler, enraged, and driven by his own fury. "I've exhausted every penny I can afford, and I want it repaid. There are no two ways about it, Zidler; this show will go on, with or without an audience!"
Harold took a step backwards in defense. "It will go on, dear Duke, there's no need to get upset…."
Another realization seemed to dawn on the Duke, and he turned his attention back to Satine, squinting his eyes in suspicion. "You knew nothing about this, am I mistaken?"
Satine let out a shallow laugh. "Duke, don't be silly. It's all news to me, let me assure you." Simply for good measure, she added, "Anything I hear goes directly to you, my dear."
He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then it's settled."
Satine rose and gathered her medicines.
"Where are you going, gosling? Marie said you should rest…."
She slipped past him, and then turned with a slight smile. "I'll be resting in my room, Harold." Heading down the corridor, she muttered to herself, "Perhaps there I'd actually be able to rest…."
Satine's thoughts raced as she strode toward Christian's garret with a growing sense of urgency. If she stayed for the show to go on…she'd be wed to the Duke in the blink of an eye, and before anyone could suggest another way about it. If the show didn't go on…she shuddered at the thought.
At the same time, a little voice in the back of her head was screaming with rage. What the hell do you think you're doing? it hissed, Running to some poor, fantasy-driven writer for…what, for love? Love, Satine?
She nodded resolutely. "Yes."
You're going to regret this, it warned. There's no telling how long this 'love' is going to line your pockets. Then it laughed—a shrill, cold laugh that sent icicles shivering down her spine. You really think it's going to? You are a fool, Satine. A fool. You're a fool to believe. A fool to—
"I thought I'd killed you!" she whispered so fiercely that a passing man turned and gave her a crazed look.
…But it had been silenced.
As Satine stood outside Christian's door and waited to be let in, it occurred to her how very often the stage was set this way, her standing outside his garret, and also how little he'd escaped the walls of his room lately. However, she conceded, it seemed that every day his stack of written work doubled in height (not to mention its state of disorder).
She half wished she could invite him outside for a bit of fresh air while she passed on the news she'd been given earlier, but being seen together with him would only add to her problems.
So with a sigh, she finally opened the door gently and poked her head in. Christian was sitting at his typewriter, as usual, his eyes fixed intently on the page before him as his fingers struggled to keep up with his mind.
After a moment, he tore his eyes from the piece of paper to cast an acknowledging side-glance in Satine's direction, and held up one finger for a brief second, before it was needed back on the keys.
Satine smiled and stood patiently, smirking a little at his state. The water-heavy towel over the back of his chair indicated that he'd been in the shower when inspiration struck him, and his untucked, unbuttoned shirt and yesterday's trousers only served to further the evidence, proving that this must have been some grand idea.
As if to put a stamp of authenticity on her analysis of the scene, Christian then pulled the sheet from his typewriter and stood with an air of self-satisfaction. "Done."
"May I see?" Satine asked, stepping towards him.
Christian hesitated, looked at it again, and shook his head. "That's just the first rough draft," he said modestly.
"Oh," said Satine. After a short silence, she spoke up again. "Well, I came to talk to you about…there's a lot going on with the show that…" she sighed, "we need to talk about. May I sit down?"
~*~
Stage lights burned, casting splashes of color to dance upon the already red, blue, and gold-filled stage.
Music whirled. Dancers spun. Colors blurred. Crowds roared.
Satine collapsed.
The show went on.
No one rose to sing.
But the music, the dancers, the colors continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if all was well and as planned.
The people were pleased only when the Diamond rose at long last.
And the show went on.
~*~
The Duke summoned Satine promptly after the performance that night.
She stumbled into the Gothic Tower exhausted, irritated, and coughing like a choking child. But the Duke rose from where he'd been seated, routinely kissed her hand, and led her to the table.
"So good of you to meet me here, my dear," he said.
Satine put on a smile and swallowed hard. "Is it anything important? Forgive me, but I truly must be getting to bed…" she then corrected herself, "must be getting home soon."
"Ah, yes, quite a performance you gave tonight, my dear."
Quite a performance I'm giving tonight, you might add. "Well, it wasn't without its flaws."
"You behaved splendidly," he assured her. Here, he ceremoniously beckoned a butler to produce a large velvet box. The Duke placed it before Satine, his tight smile giving way to a look of solemnity. "I meant this to be a betrothal gift, and found this to be an appropriate opportunity to present it to you, my dear."
Perplexed, Satine lifted its luxurious lid to reveal an extravagant, intricately diamond-woven choker. Satine's eyes widened.
"Oh, my dear, sweet Duke…how can I ever accept this?"
The girl in her head squealed with delight. It's beautiful, the voice chirped, it's all you'll ever need. It's all you've ever needed! Why change now?
Back in his garret, Christian repacked the few things he'd brought when he first arrived in Montemartre, along with an odd or end he'd accumulated here or there. His written work was neatly sorted, for a change, and enclosed in a makeshift portfolio.
With the size of bags he'd packed, one would have thought him going to a nearby inn for a night or two, at very most. But this was all he really needed. It was all he'd ever needed, really.
No need to change now.
Disclaimer: The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…).
Author's note: ::Blinks.:: No songs. Can you believe it? I can't. But anyway, this took a while for yet another really short chapter. I don't know what's getting into me. I had to post this, though—it had been altogether too long. (Die, writer's block, DIE!!)
Oh, and Bethany darling, you've got me entirely wrong. Chop off my hands and I'll learn to write with my feet. There's no stopping me. I was just wondering if people had given up on this story, not wondering if I should stop writing it. ;)
It shouldn't take me as long to write the rest *crosses her fingers* because I've finally finished an outline for it. So…that's my hope.
Constructive criticism? Please?