Chapter 7
"Should I wear anything…specific?" said Satine, as she sorted indecisively through her sparse wardrobe in the room they shared on Boulevard Berthier. She was, in truth, astounded by the number of large, ruffled skirts Marie had managed to stuff into one relatively small case, and with only minimal wrinkling.
Christian's head popped in from the bathroom, where his hair was being tousled dry with moderate success. "You'll look gorgeous in anything, sweetheart."
Satine smiled a little, but said with a sigh, "That's not much help."
"I'm sorry," said Christian, retreating back into the bathroom. "I'm not much for fashion, you know."
Satine could all but see his grin through the walls, she was so certain of its presence. "Ah," she smirked. "Well, I suppose it will look silly for you also if I show up dressed absolutely appallingly…."
"Impossible!" came from the bathroom.
"Care to place a bet on that, monsieur?"
"If you wish," he responded, "As long as you're not thinking of your dresses from the show…."
Satine eyed her costume longingly, having slipped in at the last possible moment on a haphazard afterthought. The thought had occurred to her, actually…what would happen if two Hindi courtesans appeared? She pictured the confusion sardonically.
At her silence, Christian said worriedly, "Satine?"
"Don't be silly!" she laughed, and shoved the dress to the back.
Christian was impressed by the size of the building as they approached it that evening, but not near so much as Satine. "It's…huge, she breathed as they made their way up the stairs and between the massive pillars. It was all she could do not to rush Christian in her desire to see the interior.
They were intercepted almost immediately, however, by a man who seemed about in his mid-forties, despite the deceiving silver-gray hair that capped his round face. "Monsieur Christian, you made it," he stated with pleasure, beaming at the two of them as he strutted to meet them just outside the doors of the Odéon - Théâtre de L'Europe . Satine caught a fleeting glimpse of red and gold corridor before the door slid shut again. "Come right along with me, I think we might get you introduced to the cast before the show begins!" he said enthusiastically, clasping Christian's hand eagerly. "Christian James, if I'm not mistaken?"
Christian nodded, reflecting the man's radiant grin.
"Jean DuPont. Pleasure. And who is this stunning lady you've brought with you tonight?"
As Satine followed his gaze up and down her body, she felt a pang of recognition that she dearly hoped was unaccounted for. From your trapeze, they all look quite identical, she reminded herself. You'd be perfectly comfortable with this situation back home, wouldn't you?
Alarmed to find herself referring to the Moulin as "back home," and at the same time, utterly unnerved by her present position, she quickly said, "Satine," and left it at that, her perfect smile finishing the job.
"Ah," said DuPont, turning back to Christian with a start, "right this way, then."
Satine only smirked. Christian had noticed the momentary exchange, and if the daggers shooting from his eyes at the other man could have materialized, the amount of blood spilt that minute would have caused quite a scene.
If there was one thing that infuriated Satine, it was feeling second best.
And that was more or less all she'd felt that day.
All morning—all week, really, if not longer still—the focus had been on the show. Not her show, per say, but the one she'd been robbed of. The Odéon Theatre's show.
The show, performed on a far superior stage to the one quickly constructed in the Moulin—that one, makeshift in comparison, paled alarmingly against the one that stood mere meters in front of Satine now. Hers shone where this one glistened, echoed where this one resounded, presented where this one vaunted.
This was made all the more obvious if one had lived with a writer named Christian all the while, as Satine had.
And Satine had never, ever felt the catch deep in her stomach that she eventually made out to be jealousy, before this evening.
As Christian had shaken hands with the Hindu Courtesan (who wore a more extravagantly gold-laced gown and had larger eyes and fuller lips then Satine could ever recall seeing, for all her time in show business), Satine's mind had turned a modest smile into a suggestive smirk, and a level gaze into a lustful stare. This altogether foreign sensation burned its way up her middle until she wordlessly tugged Christian along.
But the worst part was that…he knew. He could see through her, a feat that had come in handy ever since that day they'd met with such false exteriors.
They had taken so few steps when, after a side glance at Satine, Christian drew her to him and kissed her warmly.
…Which should have solved everything, she reminded herself as the lights dimmed and he took her hand in anticipation. But somehow, somehow it seemed that he'd only succeeded in confusing her further.
The stage lights rose then, as did the curtain. The crowd issued an audible intake of breath as red- and gold-clad dancers began to fill the stage, and their voices filled the air. Now a mesmerized hush fell over the people. Such a familiar reaction, Satine thought. The scene before her was less than familiar, however; she'd never seen it from this perspective. There she sat in a plush red seat in the audience—a fish out of water. Not only out of the spotlight, she was out of the whole picture.
She eyed Christian, watching proudly.
Something was wrong. Christian could feel it—in the air, and also, quite literally, in Satine's hand. She was as tense as he'd ever seen her, but held his hand reluctantly, as if afraid of even that diminutive commitment. Was it possible that she was…wary of him, for some reason that must have eluded his imagination?
Whatever was wrong, he watched tears form and grow in her eyes with silent alarm. However, when Satine glanced over to find him staring at her anxiously (irritably?), the scorching look she threw him was enough to make him avert his eyes, restricting himself to an inconspicuous glance now and then.
For that reason, he was justifiably shocked when she stood and quickly fled the theatre, ignoring furious whispers, her skirt floating gracefully behind her.
"Satine, darling, what is it?"
It was Satine's turn to be startled as Christian, having left a crowd (angry at the disturbance), came running to where she stood, leaned against the stone wall of the theatre. She quickly swallowed her rage and hurt to give him as empty an expression as she could muster. Only one excuse came to the top of her head.
"I felt ill for a moment," she explained quickly, "but didn't see any need to create a scene."
Not entirely convinced but concerned nonetheless, Christian reached towards her and said, "Are you sure you'll be alright? Perhaps we should call a carriage—you ought to rest, if there's any chance…."
As soon as the words had left her mouth, Satine regretted them. Of course, this would only worry him further. She smiled reassuringly and spoke as he trailed off. "No, I'm fine now. It's passed."
If only he would clarify his priorities….One way or the other would make all the difference.
Why do you care, anyway?
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: Yet another short chapter. Perhaps I should be getting used to them, though I dislike the prospect….This was…well, more than I actually had planned for it. Does the last line seem melodramatic? I'm afraid it might….
Anyway, many thanks to reviewers, and also to my mother (isn't this a first?!) for letting me use her typewriter—then I had to write something! :D
Constructive Criticism? :D (I'm gonna keep on asking for it. Thanks go to Ben, the single person brave enough to give it.)