"I don't understand," he said, anger and confusion mixing on his face. Careful not to snap, careful not to shout at the woman who had only been kind to him, he nevertheless wanted to shout. Christian was not a violent man, but none of this made sense and all of it seemed unfair, unjust.
"I need to go home. To Montmartre. Do you know the way?"
Was Montmartre his home now, anyway? It didn't matter. He wanted to stay with her. Who else would clear away the weeds? Who else would keep the flowers alive around her grave? He'd given up on living some time ago, and being pulled away from Satine again felt like he'd have nothing left but living.