A/N: My mother had this brilliant idea, but since she doesn't have much time to write, I decided to flesh it out and use it for a story. She read what I had and added more, so most of it is hers. I got her a fanfiction account and considering how much fun we had pounding away at this, I hope she will write more. Usual disclaimer applies; we own nothing and don't really have anything worth suing for. Here you go. –Jan McNeville

She Went to Save Us All

The gendarmes searched for the Duke's ornate necklace for days, with the black-eyed, whiny aristocrat paying them outrageous sums to keep looking despite the cold. It was worth multitudes of francs, considering the perfect blue stones and platinum settings, but oddly it was never found. The main suspect, Christian, willingly let his small, cold room be searched while Chocolat guarded him. The tall dancer gave Christian's hand a reassuring squeeze, as if to say that despite being made to guard him like a criminal, he believed in his innocence and offered his sympathies. At last the snarling Duke left Montmartre, leaving the Moulin Rouge closed, Harold Zidler ruined, and most of the performers and stagehands out of work.

Satine was gone, buried in a churchyard under her legal name, Marie Satine Zidler. Not everyone was surprised when the secret of her parentage came out, but the Argentinean gripped Toulouse's cane tightly in his hand and held it to Harold's face, calling him something nasty in Spanish before he passed out. Christian gave him just a grief-stricken sidelong look, and that was enough to send the rotund man up to his newly rented garret of poverty to curl up with a bottle and handkerchief. It was all his fault, at least in his own mind.

Slowly, most of the dancers found other jobs. Petite Princesse, however, soon found that little people were only in demand in wild Bohemian nightclubs, and when the Bar Absinthe burned down, she was penniless. One night she made up her mind to end it all, for the kind of life prostitution offered one like her was far from worth living. She couldn't afford poison, but alcohol was always available, and the freezing Paris winter could end anybody's life.

So she wrote a note leaving her few remaining costumes to other dancers, who could take them apart for the lace, satin and closures, and her worn daguerreotype of herself, Satine and Chocolat to Christian. Calmly, Petite Princesse opened her garret window and downed an entire bottle of absinthe, the five-sou brand instead of the cheapest. Considering it would be her last taste of anything, she figured a little splurge would be justified. She passed out as the snow began to blow into her room. Hypothermia was painless and nothing was cheaper.

To her surprise, Petite Princesse woke up the next morning. She had been wrapped in a warm blanket that smelled of the perfume Satine used to wear, and her window had been tied shut with a long, multicolored scarf she recognized. Written on the same sheet of paper below her impromptu will, in a graceful hand, were six words:
'She went to save us all.'

Something wrinkled was peeking out of her nightstand drawer. When Petite Princesse opened it, it was full of francs, enough to live on for a few months if she managed frugally. A blistering hangover making her squint, she went over to the window and untied the scarf. It could only be Satie's. Despite her headache, she went quickly to thank him.

Erik Satie was surprised. He had loaned his scarf to someone to cry on when Satine had died and hadn't seen it since. Still, Petite Princesse's earnest kisses and thanks forced him to realize how she inspired him. A month later, his song 'Tiny Dancer' was finished, with words grudgingly written by a grieving Christian, and it was played by a shaven-headed band at Satie and Princesse's small wedding. It became a popular hit, and eventually the happy couple were able to leave Montmartre for Canada. Neither of them ever thought to ask where the money had come from, and eventually an elderly, widowed Princesse, still wealthy from her husband's operas, donated that sum times ten toward the building of a chapel in Montmartre where grisettes, women of the town, orphans, and all of society's outcasts would be welcomed. It was properly called St. Joan's, but the parishioners called it la Petite Cathedrale Satine.

A month after Petite Princesse's suicide attempt, Nini-Legs-In-The-Air fell victim to consumption. The Argentinean and the Doctor carried her to a Catholic hospital, but there was only money enough to keep her there one night and the good sisters who tended the ill said that she would have to be sent to the desert to recover. China Doll sold her costumes, convinced her Argentine lover to sell his suit, and the Doctor freely parted with his watch. Christian, who had been told of Nini's condition by Toulouse, threw some money at him and resumed his destructive drinking. Still, there was far from enough to save Nini.

Mome Fromage, who was staying with her friend at the hospital, fell asleep praying, and when she awoke, her folded hands were resting on a pile of money. She asked the nuns if anyone had been by, and they insisted they had seen noone. Later, as the Doctor was counting the money to see how much there was, he noticed a few words written on one of the banknotes:
'She went to save us all.'

With Nini safely on a boat with Mome Fromage, bound for America and with train tickets to the dry, arid city of Santa Fe, the Argentinean began to wonder about all the money that had been appearing just when it was needed. He questioned fellow Moulin Rouge dancers, stagehands, and even a couple of bartenders, most of whom had similar stories of funds suddenly appearing with the same mysterious note.

Some dancers had found their rent paid in full for the quarter, with the receipt pinned to the door and signed with that simple phrase, 'She went to save us all.'

The ex-stage manager had gotten a telegram announcing he had been recommended to work at the Paris Opera House. Years later, when he asked his boss why he had been given his good job, M. Firmin replied that someone had paid for him to be considered. He showed the stage manager the letter that had accompanied the money, and sure enough, it was the same handwriting and had the same elusive phrase.

While Christian was still in deep mourning, food would arrive for him and sometimes his garret would be cleaned as he slept. Satine's bird was always fed, and its' cage was often polished, even when Christian was too drunk. It was strange; especially considering Toulouse was too short to have reached it.

Once he finished writing the story of Satine, he had a hard time finding a publisher. No one wanted to read about a whore, editors insisted. Several suggested he change the story, making Satine a dancer and having them live happily ever after. Christian knew he couldn't break his promise, and vainly he struggled to publish his lost love's story.

Suddenly, a publisher was found! James Random was willing to let Christian use his presses and binding staff, but he had to pay for the first printing run himself. Christian sold everything he owned and reluctantly went back and joined the Paris branch of his father's firm, but he could still only afford to print about two hundred copies. Sadly, he prepared the envelope to take to Random's house, knowing his book would likely disappear, when a sound from downstairs startled him. He hurried down the stairs to see what it was, and found noone.

When he returned, the thin envelope of francs was bulging and even had money spilling out. A note, written on the back of a daguerreotype of Satine, Petite Princesse and Chocolat, said simply:
'She went to save us all.'

Over six thousand copies of 'Moulin Rouge' were printed in its' first self-supported run. The book rapidly sold out in French, and in translation became a worldwide bestseller. Years passed and plays and films were made of it, one actually starring the great Sarah Bernhardt, Satine's heroine. Christian attended the French premiere and told Mlle. Bernhardt of how Satine kept a picture of her in her dressing room. The great actress was moved to tears.

By 1958, when the latest Moulin Rouge film, starring Jose Ferrer as Toulouse-Lautrec, was due to premiere in France, Christian was an elderly gentleman with godchildren and grandnephews and one favorite grandniece named Satine Marie. She was twenty and going to be married soon, and Christian decided a gift of heirloom type jewelry would be appropriate. Sapphires, maybe, to match her pretty eyes. Somehow, he still found that he loathed diamonds.

So despite his bad back and arthritis, which had gotten worse ever since he turned fifty, he hailed a taxicab and traveled from jeweler to jeweler. Cartier's had nothing suitable. Harry Winston was just the same. He wanted something unique, but he didn't know just what, and the cabbie was getting impatient.

Finally, Christian got to the last jewelry store, surprisingly close to where the ghoulish mouth to Montmartre had once been. The neighborhood had cleaned up a lot, but in his mind's eye Christian could still see Bohemians larking about. There was only the smell of spring, but Christian could sense perfume, paint and absinthe where there were none.

Memories almost choking him, he went into the store. There, a friendly-looking fellow with glasses, a squint and a loupe around his neck was happy to help him. The jeweler looked a little like a taller, more myopic Toulouse. Stammering, Christian told the jeweler whom the gift was for, and described her as best he could.

"Blue eyes, you say? I think I may have just the thing...come with me." The young jeweler motioned the old man to follow him into the back room, trusting him by instinct. He began to open drawers, looking for some antique sapphire earrings he could have sworn he just saw a minute ago.

Christian, meanwhile, was staring at a velvet-covered bust on the worktable in shock. There, partially assembled, but still recognizable, was the gaudy and tasteless but ornate necklace the Duke had given to Satine.

"Wh-what is that?" he stammered. The jeweler turned around and smiled.

"Oh, that? It's sort of a pet project of mine. I've been fixing it up, thinking maybe the Museè d'Orsay would like it." Proudly, the jeweler showed the necklace to Christian. "There was a man who used to sell my father stones and bits of platinum setting. Papà didn't know what to make of them, but he held on to them. When the man brought us the remainder of the stones and setting recently, I started putting the necklace together from a picture that was tucked under the lining of the jewelry box it rested in. I keep it in the back room to work by. Would you like to see?" Without waiting for Christian's' response, he started to the workroom and returned with a faded yellow news clipping, that he carefully put into Christian's shaky hand.

Christian was astonished. There was Satine in her Hindi costume, the paper wrinkled and old but her smiling face still lovely as if it had been taken yesterday. Zidler, the Duke, the Argentinean, and the new writer were all smiling at the camera, but the lovely Satine was looking at Christian with love lighting up her beautiful face. Christian pointed to the smiling man in the picture.

"That man is me," he said quietly, and from the way he gazed longingly at Satine, the jeweler knew he was telling the truth. "Please tell me about this man, the one who brought this to you."

"Yes, monsieur, he was a very tall fellow who didn't speak much." The jeweler was pleased. "He came in from time to time with stones and the occasional setting piece. I can't tell you much more about him, as I was always in the workroom, and he preferred to deal directly with my father. I believe it was a matter of trust, that he felt perhaps my father would save the stones and restore the necklace when the time was right. Frankly, I never even had the chance to see the man's face."

Christian thought a moment. "Did the gentleman ever say anything about how he came to possess the necklace?" he asked quietly.

The jeweler replied in a soft voice, so as not to be overheard by any other customer in the little store. "I believe that he told my father the whole story, and that may be why my father has never sold a stone."

"Do you think that he came by the necklace illegally?" Christian asked softly.

"No, monsieur, I am convinced that the necklace instead was a possession so dear to him that he was only breaking it up under the most extreme circumstances. I know that the gentleman often referred to it as 'her final gift'. I assumed it came from someone that he had cared for very deeply, perhaps his mother or his wife."

Christian looked at the honest jeweler, and dreading the answer, asked him," Would it be possible to speak with your father about the gentleman?"

The jeweler's reply was sad. "I am sorry, sir, but my father was the victim of a stroke several weeks ago. He can no longer talk, and is bedridden in our apartment upstairs. My wife takes care of him while I work here in the shop." As he saw Christian's eyes fill with tears, he quickly added, "However, his mind is good, and if you can ask him questions, he can nod an answer to you. Come back at six o'clock, when I close for the day, and I will take you to him."

Christian thanked him, and left the store. This was madness, but he had to find out who had been selling bits and pieces of Satine's necklace. This person had stolen the necklace from the Moulin Rouge, probably while Satine was dying, and left all of them, Toulouse, the Argentinean, Zidler, Chocolat, and himself under a cloud of suspicion for years. He thought about what he had heard about the Duke over the years, that he had gone from investment to investment, and not all of them had turned out well. "It would be just like that sorry fool to steal the necklace, report it stolen and then sell it bit by bit in the very neighborhood that it was stolen from." He thought to himself." Then, if the jeweler was not fooled by his story, he could make the claim that is was stolen by someone from the Moulin Rouge, because of where the stones were sold."

As Christian walked on through the neighborhood where he and Satine had been so happy, his anger rose. He convinced himself that the Duke had taken the necklace, and used it to support his foolhardy schemes, while holding them hostage to suspicion. By the time he returned to the modest jewelry store, he was red in the face and ready to explode.

All thought of anger and revenge left him as he was ushered into the sickroom of the elderly jeweler. Apparently there had been few visitors to the old gentlemen since his attack, and he was in a state of excitement. His daughter-in-law had lovingly washed and combed his thin, silver hair, and dressed him in a freshly laundered and pressed satin dressing gown. Embroidered slippers showed beneath the handmade quilt that covered his now useless legs, and his right arm rested on a pillow on which the word "Grandfather" had been cross stitched in a childish hand.

Madame Clovier, the old gentleman's daughter-in-law, made Christian welcome with a cup of hot tea and some freshly baked rolls. She quietly whispered, "I am so glad that you have arrived. When my husband told Papa that there was someone here to find out about the necklace, he became happy for the first time since the stroke. He does not speak well, but he wants to talk to you alone. If you cannot understand him, please call for me and I will help you." With that, she gently kissed the old man on the head, and left the room.

Christian quietly walked over to the chair that had been set next to the wheelchair. He looked around the comfortable room, noticing that it was clean, well furnished and every care had been taken to insure the old gentleman's comfort. On a table by the window were many framed photographs, with a large wedding portrait of a beautiful young woman centered among them. Christian felt a momentary pang of loss at the evidence of a life filled with love and family, wishing for the millionth time that his beloved Satine had lived and not left him behind.

With his good left hand, the old gentleman motioned Christian to sit. His face, curiously unlined as a result of the stroke, was misshapen, but his eyes were alert and vital. He looked deeply into Christian's face, almost as if to read his mind. He struggled to speak, "Ch...Ch...Ch..."

"Christian, my name is Christian."

The old man shook his head. "Ch...Ch..." He sighed deeply and then his eyes lit up. With his good hand, he pointed to the table by the window. Christian, got up and went over to the table. There were many pictures, a lovely bowl of flowers, a box of bon bons and a small jewelry box.

The man pointed and waved his hand at the table again.

Christian started touching object after object, and the gentlemen shook his head no time after time. When he touched the box of candy, he nodded so vigorously that Christian feared he would fall from the wheelchair. Christian picked up the candy, and was about to sit back down when the old man said very clearly, "More".

"More what?" Christian asked, turning to look at him. The old man pointed back to the table, and Christian resumed touching items, until the old man nodded again. Picking up the framed picture he had wanted, Christian then returned to his seat.

The gentlemen sighed deeply and relaxed as if he had done his job well. Smiling his crooked smile, he pointed at the candy box. Christian opened the lid, feeling as if he was conspiring with the old gentlemen to get a forbidden treat. He offered the opened box to him, and with his good left hand, the old man pointed to a large chocolate treat. Christian picked it up and offered it to the man, but he shook his head vigorously again. He then pointed to the picture.

Christian looked at the picture, and looked back at the man, puzzled. It was a photograph of the Moulin Rouge, with the whole company standing in front of the theatre.  It was a picture he knew well. It had been taken the week before the grand opening, and had been featured in the ads and posters. They were all there, Zidler, his beloved Satine, Toulouse, the band, the dancers, and the Duke, looking proud and happy. He was standing next to Satine, as always. He thought to himself, "This was such a wonderful time, before the Duke suspected our love, before she left us. Look how happy everyone was, and how everyone took his natural place. There's Zidler, next to the Duke where he can whisper to him, about how much more money the show could use. There's Nini, next to the Argentinean, and Chocolat, standing behind Satine, as if to protect her from the sunlight, just like he protected her from everything else." Suddenly, he stood up, and the candy went flying from his lap. He looked at the old man. "Chocolate?" He grabbed the candy box, and looked for the piece that had gone flying in the excitement. "You meant Chocolat, didn't you? He was the gentleman with the necklace!"

The old man nodded, tears of joy and relief streaming from his tired eyes. Madame Clovier, hearing the noise, rushed into the room. "Mon Dieu! What is going on in here? Papa, are you all right?"

The old man nodded, and clasped her hand. Then, he pointed to Christian and the box of candy scattered across the floor. She looked at Christian and smiled. "You must be the right one, then. My father-in-law has waited many years to meet you." She looked down at the old gentleman, and motioned for Christian to sit down.

"Many years ago, we were struggling to keep the jewelry business going. The area was not good, and there were more people selling than buying jewelry. A very tall, black man came to Papa and asked to speak with him. He told him a story of such love and pain that he agreed to buy the jewels he brought in, and not resell them. Over the years, the man came in and sold diamonds and pieces of a beautiful platinum necklace. When things were bad, we would sometimes ask Papa to sell one or two of the diamonds, but he insisted that things would improve if he kept his promise to the man."

"Papa was right, as people of faith usually are. A few years after the man started to sell the diamonds to Papa, a wave of new people moved into the area. Many bars closed, to be replaced with shops and markets. People took pride in the area, and with that pride came better times. We began to flourish, and in fact we did well enough that we could have moved to the finest area of Paris. However, Papa felt that we should stay true to this neighborhood, true to his promises. So here we remain."

"Last year, the man came again, and asked to meet with Papa. After many hours he departed, leaving behind the rest of the necklace, and an envelope. Papa told me that if he ever got to the point that he could not work, I was to get the necklace out and have my husband put it back together. He also said, that I was to guard the envelope and give it to a good Christian man who would come asking about the necklace and the Moulin Rouge. I thought he meant a vicar, so I did not make the connection immediately, but I understand now, that you are the person the black man expected. Here is the envelope." With that, she daubed her eyes and handed him a think envelope.

Christian looked at the old man, the crying woman and then at the envelope. "The man was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge named Chocolat. He took care of my beautiful Satine, and protected her from an evil man. Please, tell me where I can find him."

Madame Clovier took him by the hand. "I don't know where he is. The last time we heard from him was when he gave Papa the envelope for you. Go now, and read it in private. I pray that it contains the answers you seek." She moved quietly over to her father-in-law and wiped a small tear from his eye. "I am glad that you came to our store, today, monsieur."

With that, Christian clasped her hand warmly, and thanked the old man profusely. "I will be back, I assure you. Please ask your husband to make haste in finishing that necklace, as I will want to purchase it. The old gentleman is correct. Your faith will be rewarded. Thank you ever so much." His arthritis forgotten, he bounded down the stairs and out into the spring night.

Looking around, he now found the old neighborhood to be a place of charm and beauty. For the first time, he noticed the many small gardens, bursting with spring flowers. He noticed the blossoms on the chestnut trees, the daffodils, the freshly painted buildings and the smiling people. He stepped into a small cafe, ordered a glass of wine and with trembling hands opened the envelope.

Out of the envelope came two smaller envelopes. On the larger of the two, in a thin, fine hand was written, Christian. He opened the envelope, and began to read: Dear Christian, Please forgive the deception, but I was only doing what I was told to do. Darling Satine made me promise to watch over you, and all of her "family" from the Moulin Rouge. I did not dare tell you where the necklace was; for fear that you would insist that I return it to the Duke. Satine felt that it was hers, well and truly earned, and as her property it should be used to take care of those she loved.

Mr. Clovier was very kind to me, and made sure that I could have the money to help when people were in need of assistance. Now it is your job to continue to the task that Satine set for me. I am sure that you will do your very best, and that the people of the Moulin Rouge, and their descendants, will benefit from the love that you and Satine shared. In this way, you and Satine will have a family that goes on for generation after generations, just as you both deserve.

 In the other envelope you will find a list of the names and addresses of everyone who has been helped by Satine's last gift. You will also see a list of the many foundations, endowments and charities they have founded in her name. You will be pleased, but not surprised to know that all of these bequests have come from their hearts, as a testament to the love Satine showed to all. No one, save Mr. Clovier, was aware of what I was doing.

I am doing well, and I am successful in what I have chosen to do. I have followed your success, and I am sure that Satine is as proud of you as we all are. Perhaps our paths will cross, perhaps not. Be assured, that if you ever need me, I will be there, just as I promised Satine. As always, Chocolat.

Christian opened the other envelope and found four pages of names, addresses and figures. The scope of the generosity was beyond belief, and the love expressed for his darling Satine was touching. He took his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes and stared into the distance.

"More wine, sir?" the young waitress asked him. He smiled, handed her a handful of francs and gently shook his head. "Is everything all right sir?" she asked him, concern in her voice.

Christian straightened his hat, put his handkerchief into his pocket and stood tall. "Yes, everything is all right. For the first time in many, many years, everything is all right. Good evening to you." He smiled and strolled into the darkening spring evening.

The young waitress walked over to the owner of the cafe, and handed him the money for the glass of wine Christian had ordered. As she counted the very generous tip he had given her, she smiled. Showing the money to the owner, she asked him, "This is much too much for one glass of wine. Perhaps it is a mistake? Should I try to give it back to him? I can probably still catch him."

The tall black man smiled, "No, I am sure he meant for you to have it. Look at how happy he was when he left. Enjoy the money. Do something nice for someone you love when you get home." As she went to go wait on another table, he pulled out a faded daguerreotype and whispered, "You went to save us all. Thank you."

     

'She went to save us all.'