Chapter 6
"What do you mean, Satine has consumption?" The young man stared at his friend, anxious and bewildered.
The older man nodded solemnly. "I heard it from a good, reliable source. 'The Sparkling Diamond's dying,' he said. And I don't doubt 'im a bit, no sir, I don't."
The younger man's eyes grew wide. "You don't suppose she had it…nine weeks ago, Thursday night, do you?" he asked urgently.
The other's lips thinned to form a firm line. "Can't say she didn't." He gave his friend a grave look. "You'd best get yourself in to a doctor."
"Half the men in town will be waiting there in line, if they heard what you heard! You're sure it's true?"
"My nephew's kept up with his old friend who's a frequent visitor to that club. He heard it straight from his girl's mouth. And you saw her in that play, of course…."
~*~
Realization stabbed into Satine's stomach like a double-edged sword. It had all seemed so far off…the show's end, her supposed wedding, her inevitable funeral. But when she'd been hit with all three the moment she'd stepped into the Moulin that morning, she was absolutely overwhelmed.
"It's over, Satine," they'd told her. The news of her sickness had spread overnight, and now, she was told, the entire city had begun to regard the club as if it was teeming with the disease; nobody came near it, save for the girls who couldn't avoid it.
Not a seat had been sold for that night; not a single ticket. On top of it all, the Duke feared further publicity, lest news of his similar condition leak out and be exposed.
And so, the show was called off.
Now that it was over, truly over, Satine felt suddenly crushed. She had been so preoccupied these past few weeks that the rush of the stage and the glory of an audience, the feeling of character and the freedom of becoming another person, even a courtesan, had been overwhelmed. She'd been living her dream, and barely noticed.
But now that dream was over.
With the last performance having been the night before, the stage was being redecorated—now for a wedding. Mine, she realized as she walked numbly into the auditorium after talking with Zidler, and saw the Duke beaming hungrily at her from a front row seat as if he'd won a great prize and couldn't wait another moment to claim it. That night—that very evening, she would be wed to a single man, owned for the rest of her life.
That prospect frightened her beyond anything she'd ever faced before.
"Tonight, my dear, you will become my bride," he said over the rows of chairs with an ambitious smile.
She had to act now; whatever she was planning had to be carried through that very evening. Again, she was overcome by a feeling of complete and utter helplessness.
That was when the doctor had entered, a grave look in his eyes, followed by Marie, and the regular tag-along, Baby Doll. The latter made eye contact with her for a moment, and Satine was altogether shocked to perceive what she correctly read as pity on the other girl's face. But then Baby Doll broke the contact, and averted her eyes in shame.
"Mademoiselle Satine?" the doctor said slowly.
"Yes," she responded, lifting her chin to feign self-assurance.
"Perhaps we'd better sit down for a moment," said Marie, softly.
Satine raised an eyebrow and followed in order. But something burned in the pit of her stomach, something washed through her head such a feeling of dread that she felt she knew what was coming.
"We thought it best not to tell you until after the show, and there's still no easy way of saying this…" he began again.
"What is it?" Satine asked apprehensively, becoming aware of her death grip on the wooden chair she sat in, that had turned her knuckles nearly as pale white as her face. Marie crossed herself, muttering something and looking towards the ceiling, and an entirely new emotion swept through Satine—panic. She bit her lip, and stared evenly at the doctor, knowing he would soon enough proclaim her fate.
"I regret to inform you that you have consumption."
She blinked. "W-…I-I knew that, or at least I'd assumed it…."
"You're…dying, Satine."
Today, all her dreams had ended.
Today's the day when dreaming ends
I've woken from my night
But all it's done is reinforce
That I can't stand the light.
I guess I'd better wake up,
Open my eyes and see
Gone's the certainty of yesterday
Here's cold reality.
The sun's too harsh, it's beam exposes
All my faults the shadows hide
What once looked like a bed of roses
Revealed its thorns, shriveled, and died.
I guess I'd better wake up,
Open my eyes and see
Gone's the certainty of yesterday
Here's cold reality.
It was in that state, numb and shaken, that she stood for what would be her last time ever before the doorway of Christian's garret. In her hand she grasped the leather handle of the suitcase Marie had hastily packed together. That day seemed so long ago, now. But then again, several years had passed in the last couple of hours.
One look at Satine, and Christian pulled out his case, quickly covered and latched his typewriter, and met her at the doorway, his face revealing an assortment of emotions ranging from excitement to terror.
It wasn't as if he hadn't done anything like this before. It was with almost greater trepidation that he'd abandoned his father's house in the black of night with dreams to start a new life. But the second time certainly wasn't the charm.
Had Satine been asked to recall the details of their escape that afternoon, the story she told would have been blurred and full of holes. The pain in her spine and hips had become all but unbearable, and her head spun as if she'd just gone through a washer and been wrung dry.
Christian, however, was as alert as he'd ever been, as Marie silently took their trunks out to a waiting carriage, then instructed them to board it separately, and from different locations.
The driver waited patiently through this, obediently following Marie's stern directions, and now expecting further instruction from the young couple to whom his service belonged. Receiving none after a minute, he glanced back at them. Both looked more than anxious to get moving. "Where to for you young lady and gentleman this afternoon, hmm?"
The two looked uncertainly at each other.
"J-just take to the other side of the Odéon - Théâtre de L'Europe," the young man said, after a moment.
The young woman's eyebrows came together.
"Is that right with you, ma'am?"
She glanced at the young man, and the driver noted a bit of an uncomfortable tone between them. "I suppose…" she relented.
The driver turned back around and started them on their way.
"Just into Paris?" Satine asked softly, "Shouldn't we go somewhere…else?"
Christian looked down at his hands. "Well, I-I'm expected to be there for the opening of …the show…."
"Ah," said Satine, crossing her arms in front of her and turning her head to watch the city amble by as the horses' steady gait brought them from the place she'd called home for nearly as long as she could remember.
"If you'd prefer to go elsewhere…" Christian offered quickly, and then stopped.
Then what? Satine thought, I'm welcome to do so? "No, that's fine," she consented, "As long as we're not found."
The driver couldn't help but overhear their conversation. They must be planning to elope, he thought. But he vaguely wondered if so, why it was that he could feel the tension in the air from his seat in front. None of your business, he scolded himself, keep your nose clean, and the beeswax with its rightful owner.
Satine pursed her lips tightly. Oh, I told you! the girl gloated, almost gleefully. Here he cares more for his precious play than he does for you, Satine. You see now? And that's not the end of it, you know it's not. He ruined your chance to be a star, in favor of this play. He ruined your dreams, Satine. What did I tell you? What have I been telling you all along?
Inside her head, Satine had no voice to argue back. What she considered her own thoughts were too weak to stand up against this chilling one, both sickeningly sweet and repulsively sour. But she wouldn't open her lips to verbally reprimand her own mind while Christian was sitting right there. She couldn't. So she had been defeated.
Christian eyed Satine worriedly. Her basic body language indicated clearly that she'd not taken his words well. What did I say? he wondered, mentally kicking himself for not watching his words more carefully. I don't care about the show, he reminded himself, half wanting to burst out and voice this. But on the other hand, they shouldn't be found amidst the hubbub of Paris. And the show would get them money, which they would need to make a new life. After all, she couldn't possibly expect to continue her former job now, could she?
The only words that broke the stiff silence after what felt like an excruciatingly long ride were, "Any specific motel?"
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: Two days. I just wrote an entire chapter (though again, shamefully short) in…two…days. :D The song wasn't real polished, I know…but I stuck it in there (literally) anyway. *Sigh* Ah, well. I'm getting somewhere now.
I repeat: constructive criticism? Please?