Satine lays back onto her gilded sofa, in the elephant, and breathes quietly; they are all gone, she can finally sift apart her feelings. Love is such a powerful word, and to use it too soon is potent. Like venom, drawn from a wound, she must draw this bohemian writer from her soul. The connection she felt was nothing more than a mere jolt one gets now and then; seducing the duke is not only the sensible thing to do, it is the only path worth taking.
But then she thinks of Christian, with his dark hair and light skin, so sensitive and fragile, who acts every bit like the tortured artist he is. She remembers the jolting feeling she got from being near his gentle yet feverishly passionate aurora, and his hands, like birds, fluttering about whilst he blathered on about nothing she cared about.
And Satine knows she'll never breathe quietly again.