Author's Note: I was stuck on Crazy Love and waiting for my turn to write in the two chapter fics I am writing with Hannah (She's a Star) and Madi (Sugar Princess)/Hannah, so I just came up with this idea...thanks so much to my girlies, The Moulin Rouge Molls (Nana and Madi), and to the Academy, and the Association for Silent Films, and I'm getting carried away with myself, so here it is.
Oh yes- if you could help me think of a good title, please do so. It'd be much appreciated.
January 1902
"Please, Christian, come out of your shell and with us to the theater!" The voices of Stuart, Gregory, and Marcus, Christian's three best friends, rang out into his apartment.
The theater. Satine had loved the theater. And so had Toulouse. Both were gone to him. "I can't." He made a weak excuse.
"Why not?"
"Because...I'm...working."
"You're not working, Christian. You haven't touched your typewriter in weeks. Not after the success of your book. Now scrub up, shave, and get dressed. You're coming with us. We're going to see 'The Shopkeeper's Daughter.'"
After much prodding, Christian finally gave in. Humming the song he'd written for Satine, he ran the sharp razor and shed the whiskers that had been neglected for a few days. Christian smiled at his reflection in the mirror, quite pleased. What a bar of soap and a razor could do to a man! He dressed in his clean, crisp tuxedo and let Marcus loan him a top hat. He hadn't been clothed like this since...since Satine. That thought was instantly sobering, and upon noticing, Gregory shoved a cigar into Christian's hand. "For your spirits." He grinned. "Cheer up, Chris. It's just one night."
"You can come back and wallow in your self-pity tomorrow. Have a good time," Stuart teased.
Christian smiled. "I'll try."
The past two years had been quite uneventful and then quite eventful. After Satine's death, Christian had written his book. His opus, his masterpiece. It had gone over quite well in Paris, mostly to those who had frequented the Moulin Rouge or at least known of it. Harold Zidler and his clan of can-can girls had left, leaving the place deserted. It was like a graveyard full of drunken Bohemians and loose boards.
After selling his book, Christian had received quite a bit of money that he used to buy himself a new apartment. He found a new circle of friends-the Bohemians of the Rouge had become a bunch of hazy drunks-and a steady job. Life had begun to go on normally again. Toulouse, who had been a frequent visitor at Christian's new home, suddenly was confined to a sanitarium. And when the artist went back to his family home, Christian knew it was the end. Toulouse died in September of 1901, sending the poet back into a deep depression. He hadn't even said goodbye.
But with time, all wounds heal. Except for the deep wound that had been made after Satine died. Nothing could heal that. Christian's friends tried to set him up with their pretty female friends, but he wanted nothing to do with them. It was only Satine, and only Satine for the rest of his life.
"She's dead," they would complain. "You need to move on, Chris." And then they'd shove bubbly Lizzie in his face, hoping for just a little change in his sullenness.
"I can't. Not now. You don't understand; you've never loved like this before."
Sometimes, he felt sorry for the girls they'd introduce him to. The poor things were roughly pushed away, for Christian wanted nothing to do with them.
And now they were on their way to see 'The Shopkeeper's Daughter,' a musical comedy that had just begun its run. Three pretty, giggling girls, clad in bright outfits like the Diamond Dogs used to wear, followed Christian's friends like obedient puppy dogs. Everyone was laughing and making merry, drinking hearty ale and smoking cigars. Everyone but Christian, who was haunted by the thoughts of Satine. Theaters always made him think of her.
That day, the night of Spectacular, Spectacular, had been so overwhelming. He'd reclaimed her love again and then lost her. And sobbed on the stage for what seemed like hours, pretending he was still holding her. They'd had to pry her body from him only moments after she died. Her body hadn't been cold yet. And he never saw her again; Christian couldn't bring himself to go to her funeral. "It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all," Toulouse tried to console. Harold, trying to make up for everything he'd done wrong, sent Christian Satine's pet bird, the bird he'd loved and cherished until it died. Died like Satine. Died like the leaves and the Moulin Rouge.
"Do you like theater, Christian?" Theodora Cox, the young woman accompanying Stuart, asked, cocking her blonde head to the side and surveying him with glittering eyes.
"Our buddy Christian loves the theater." Gregory cut in, smiling almost maliciously at his friend.
"He wrote a show once." Marcus added. Of all Christian's friends, Marcus was most like the poet. He had grown up much the same way as Christian: overbearing father with a religious fanaticism, a father who wanted his son to inherit the family business.
"You did?" Kathleen O'Hara, a vivacious Irish girl with wild red hair, tilted her head in the same direction as Theodora.
"Once. At the Moulin Rouge."
"Didn't that place go under after the death of one of the whores?" Theodora asked.
That stung. "She wasn't exactly a whore..."
"What was she then? A saint?"
"Her name was Satine. I knew her. She was a lovely girl."
"What was your play called, Christian?" Kathleen inquired.
"Spectacular, Spectacular. A truly Bohemian dream."
"Oh yes, Bohemians," Kathleen sniffed. "Those absinthe addicts."
At this moment, Christian hated all upper class British girls. They were aloof and snobbish, only caring about their money, how much their partner was worth, and what he could give to her.
"Many of those absinthe addicts were my friends. And many were very talented. Have you ever heard of the late Toulouse-Lautrec, Dora?"
"Can't say I have."
"I didn't think so." Christian leaned back in his seat and looked out the carriage window, seething with anger.
Christian couldn't help loving the actor's world. If he hadn't been a writer, an actor would have been his calling. How glamorous they all seemed. In his tuxedo and top hat, he did feel alive again. Christian hadn't felt this alive since her death. They purchased their tickets and sat down in the soft, blue velvet chairs, waiting for the dark blue curtains to open.
"Who's starring in this?" Christian leaned over the dark head of Holly Sewell, Marcus's fiancée, and asked his friend.
"Um, Marshall Peck and a new girl, someone that hasn't been onstage here before."
"This should be interesting."
"I'm sure it will be." Holly smiled sympathetically at Christian, revealing straight white teeth-a strange thing for a British girl. Christian did like Holly. She was a sweet thing, nicer than the other two girls that had accompanied them.
Finally, the lights dimmed. The curtain rose, revealing a stage set to look like a marketplace. Marshall Peck, in all his leading-man glory, was playing the role of David Percy, the town hero.
For most of the first act, Peck bantered with the shopkeeper, a graying old man who looked like Harold Zidler. (Christian was sure, however, that it wasn't.) Obviously, the character of David Percy was in love with the shopkeeper's daughter, who had yet to make her appearance.
Christian was rather bored. The comic lines were well written, but this was no Spectacular, Spectacular.
His thoughts drifted back to Satine. She would have been wonderful in this role, he guessed. She had been such a wonderful actress! And all of her talents had been wasted on the Moulin Rouge.
Finally, after a musical number between the shopkeeper and David Percy, the shopkeeper's daughter, Madeline, took the stage, waltzing in with a rosy parasol and roses tucked in her hair, looking like a mythical fairy goddess. "Well, David Percy!" She rang out, smiling brightly.
The actress playing Madeline had long, semi-curly golden hair and was very tall; almost taller than Marshall Peck. "This must be the new girl," Marcus commented.
"She's pretty." Holly approved. "And she's a good singer, too."
"Very good." Christian agreed. "She sounds remarkably like..."
No. It wasn't Satine. Satine was dead. In a grave. She had died of tuberculosis almost three years ago. But this actress, she sounded exactly like her. Even their movements were alike. Only their hair was different. Whereas Satine's had been auburn, this woman's was blonde. It couldn't be her. Maybe he was imagining things. Hallucinating. Christian wanted to believe that this was Satine so badly that anything was possible. But of course she was dead. Satine had died on the stage during Spectacular, Spectacular. In his arms, too, which could only verify the fact.
"Can I see those, please?" He asked Holly. She handed him her opera glasses and he peered into them.
In the opera glasses, she saw a reflection of his past.
The woman on the stage was clearly Satine.
Oh yes- if you could help me think of a good title, please do so. It'd be much appreciated.
January 1902
"Please, Christian, come out of your shell and with us to the theater!" The voices of Stuart, Gregory, and Marcus, Christian's three best friends, rang out into his apartment.
The theater. Satine had loved the theater. And so had Toulouse. Both were gone to him. "I can't." He made a weak excuse.
"Why not?"
"Because...I'm...working."
"You're not working, Christian. You haven't touched your typewriter in weeks. Not after the success of your book. Now scrub up, shave, and get dressed. You're coming with us. We're going to see 'The Shopkeeper's Daughter.'"
After much prodding, Christian finally gave in. Humming the song he'd written for Satine, he ran the sharp razor and shed the whiskers that had been neglected for a few days. Christian smiled at his reflection in the mirror, quite pleased. What a bar of soap and a razor could do to a man! He dressed in his clean, crisp tuxedo and let Marcus loan him a top hat. He hadn't been clothed like this since...since Satine. That thought was instantly sobering, and upon noticing, Gregory shoved a cigar into Christian's hand. "For your spirits." He grinned. "Cheer up, Chris. It's just one night."
"You can come back and wallow in your self-pity tomorrow. Have a good time," Stuart teased.
Christian smiled. "I'll try."
The past two years had been quite uneventful and then quite eventful. After Satine's death, Christian had written his book. His opus, his masterpiece. It had gone over quite well in Paris, mostly to those who had frequented the Moulin Rouge or at least known of it. Harold Zidler and his clan of can-can girls had left, leaving the place deserted. It was like a graveyard full of drunken Bohemians and loose boards.
After selling his book, Christian had received quite a bit of money that he used to buy himself a new apartment. He found a new circle of friends-the Bohemians of the Rouge had become a bunch of hazy drunks-and a steady job. Life had begun to go on normally again. Toulouse, who had been a frequent visitor at Christian's new home, suddenly was confined to a sanitarium. And when the artist went back to his family home, Christian knew it was the end. Toulouse died in September of 1901, sending the poet back into a deep depression. He hadn't even said goodbye.
But with time, all wounds heal. Except for the deep wound that had been made after Satine died. Nothing could heal that. Christian's friends tried to set him up with their pretty female friends, but he wanted nothing to do with them. It was only Satine, and only Satine for the rest of his life.
"She's dead," they would complain. "You need to move on, Chris." And then they'd shove bubbly Lizzie in his face, hoping for just a little change in his sullenness.
"I can't. Not now. You don't understand; you've never loved like this before."
Sometimes, he felt sorry for the girls they'd introduce him to. The poor things were roughly pushed away, for Christian wanted nothing to do with them.
And now they were on their way to see 'The Shopkeeper's Daughter,' a musical comedy that had just begun its run. Three pretty, giggling girls, clad in bright outfits like the Diamond Dogs used to wear, followed Christian's friends like obedient puppy dogs. Everyone was laughing and making merry, drinking hearty ale and smoking cigars. Everyone but Christian, who was haunted by the thoughts of Satine. Theaters always made him think of her.
That day, the night of Spectacular, Spectacular, had been so overwhelming. He'd reclaimed her love again and then lost her. And sobbed on the stage for what seemed like hours, pretending he was still holding her. They'd had to pry her body from him only moments after she died. Her body hadn't been cold yet. And he never saw her again; Christian couldn't bring himself to go to her funeral. "It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all," Toulouse tried to console. Harold, trying to make up for everything he'd done wrong, sent Christian Satine's pet bird, the bird he'd loved and cherished until it died. Died like Satine. Died like the leaves and the Moulin Rouge.
"Do you like theater, Christian?" Theodora Cox, the young woman accompanying Stuart, asked, cocking her blonde head to the side and surveying him with glittering eyes.
"Our buddy Christian loves the theater." Gregory cut in, smiling almost maliciously at his friend.
"He wrote a show once." Marcus added. Of all Christian's friends, Marcus was most like the poet. He had grown up much the same way as Christian: overbearing father with a religious fanaticism, a father who wanted his son to inherit the family business.
"You did?" Kathleen O'Hara, a vivacious Irish girl with wild red hair, tilted her head in the same direction as Theodora.
"Once. At the Moulin Rouge."
"Didn't that place go under after the death of one of the whores?" Theodora asked.
That stung. "She wasn't exactly a whore..."
"What was she then? A saint?"
"Her name was Satine. I knew her. She was a lovely girl."
"What was your play called, Christian?" Kathleen inquired.
"Spectacular, Spectacular. A truly Bohemian dream."
"Oh yes, Bohemians," Kathleen sniffed. "Those absinthe addicts."
At this moment, Christian hated all upper class British girls. They were aloof and snobbish, only caring about their money, how much their partner was worth, and what he could give to her.
"Many of those absinthe addicts were my friends. And many were very talented. Have you ever heard of the late Toulouse-Lautrec, Dora?"
"Can't say I have."
"I didn't think so." Christian leaned back in his seat and looked out the carriage window, seething with anger.
Christian couldn't help loving the actor's world. If he hadn't been a writer, an actor would have been his calling. How glamorous they all seemed. In his tuxedo and top hat, he did feel alive again. Christian hadn't felt this alive since her death. They purchased their tickets and sat down in the soft, blue velvet chairs, waiting for the dark blue curtains to open.
"Who's starring in this?" Christian leaned over the dark head of Holly Sewell, Marcus's fiancée, and asked his friend.
"Um, Marshall Peck and a new girl, someone that hasn't been onstage here before."
"This should be interesting."
"I'm sure it will be." Holly smiled sympathetically at Christian, revealing straight white teeth-a strange thing for a British girl. Christian did like Holly. She was a sweet thing, nicer than the other two girls that had accompanied them.
Finally, the lights dimmed. The curtain rose, revealing a stage set to look like a marketplace. Marshall Peck, in all his leading-man glory, was playing the role of David Percy, the town hero.
For most of the first act, Peck bantered with the shopkeeper, a graying old man who looked like Harold Zidler. (Christian was sure, however, that it wasn't.) Obviously, the character of David Percy was in love with the shopkeeper's daughter, who had yet to make her appearance.
Christian was rather bored. The comic lines were well written, but this was no Spectacular, Spectacular.
His thoughts drifted back to Satine. She would have been wonderful in this role, he guessed. She had been such a wonderful actress! And all of her talents had been wasted on the Moulin Rouge.
Finally, after a musical number between the shopkeeper and David Percy, the shopkeeper's daughter, Madeline, took the stage, waltzing in with a rosy parasol and roses tucked in her hair, looking like a mythical fairy goddess. "Well, David Percy!" She rang out, smiling brightly.
The actress playing Madeline had long, semi-curly golden hair and was very tall; almost taller than Marshall Peck. "This must be the new girl," Marcus commented.
"She's pretty." Holly approved. "And she's a good singer, too."
"Very good." Christian agreed. "She sounds remarkably like..."
No. It wasn't Satine. Satine was dead. In a grave. She had died of tuberculosis almost three years ago. But this actress, she sounded exactly like her. Even their movements were alike. Only their hair was different. Whereas Satine's had been auburn, this woman's was blonde. It couldn't be her. Maybe he was imagining things. Hallucinating. Christian wanted to believe that this was Satine so badly that anything was possible. But of course she was dead. Satine had died on the stage during Spectacular, Spectacular. In his arms, too, which could only verify the fact.
"Can I see those, please?" He asked Holly. She handed him her opera glasses and he peered into them.
In the opera glasses, she saw a reflection of his past.
The woman on the stage was clearly Satine.