Prologue

Paris. A city of lights, enchantment, beauty, and, of course, love. Le Tour Eiffel. Le Musée du Louvre. Château de Versailles. Sacré-Cœur. And, of course, the Moulin Rouge!

1873

The small tenement was wracked by the bitter cold winds that seemed to be in a constant uproar in the poorest district of Paris. Most of those unfortunate enough to spend their winters in the unheated flats were huddled together before whatever warmth they could provide. The night was frightfully cold, but not unremarkably so. Inside perhaps the dingiest building on the street, however, a young woman fought for her life.

"Mademoiselle, relax. Deep breaths. You mustn't fidget so!" The ruddy-faced midwife sponged the forehead of most recent patient as she encouraged her. Secretly, she wished the woman would hurry it up already. She had a family at home to care for and the night wasn't getting any younger. The woman's labor pains had been going on for hours. She was little more than a girl herself and this was clearly her first child: she had probably had imagined half her contractions. It was unlikely that anything was going to …

"MADAME!" the woman screamed, her fingernails digging into her palms. The midwife pulled her thoughts together: perhaps the baby was coming tonight after all. "I see the head, Mademoiselle! Breathe … and push. Un … deux … trois … quatre …Ah, Mademoiselle! Vous avez une belle petite filleYou have a beautiful baby girl!"

Expertly, the midwife cut the cord and cleaned the screaming child. She already had a shock of red hair, just like her mother. She offered the little girl to her mother, who took her quickly and smiled dazedly at the infant. "Ma fille … how very perfect," she whispered hoarsely. "Perhaps the … the only good thing I have accomplished …" She smiled and her voice choked off into a cough. "Give her … this …" She reached feebly for the necklace around her throat. "And please … tell her … tell her I love her."

"Hush, there, child, you can tell her yourself in a few moments…"

"No!" The woman's coughs grew more and more desperate. "My little girl! My little diamond … my very own…" Her eyes closed and, slowly, her gasps slowed to haggard breathing and then … the midwife placed her head on the woman's chest for a pulse … there was nothing. "Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?" the midwife called, desperately trying to raise the woman.

But there was no hope.

The midwife crossed herself and looked around the tiny flat. The woman had been alone when she had come; she had been summoned by a neighbor who had heard the woman screaming. There was no sign of life in the entire apartment. The walls were bare except for an empty hook and one gas light hung from the ceiling on a piece of wire. There was a rickety table next to the bed; the midwife's bag was sitting on the only chair. There was no food, except for the crust of bread that had been meant for the midwife's own supper. She peeked under the bed – ah! There was something! She pulled out a valise, expensive by the look of it. Inside was a cloak, a small box and some books … no money. How would she have paid me? the midwife wondered. She thumbed through the books: a Bible, a prayer book, even a cheap novel. The prayer book looked brand new, its ribbon marker not even frayed, but the novel had clearly been read many times. One page was folded down; the midwife flipped to it. One word had been circled: SATINE.

"Satine …" she mused, realizing for the first time that she did not even know the name of the young woman. How would she track down family to care for the little child?

Merde, the child. She looked around and breathed a sigh of relief. The girl had drifted to sleep almost immediately in her mother's arms, not even realizing that the woman who gave her life had lost her own in doing so. Quietly, she turned back to the valise, to the box at the bottom of the bag. There was a windmill engraved on the wood and, underneath: The Moulin Rouge. She nodded, understanding. The woman, perhaps she had been a dancer … if that was the word for them. The midwife had heard nothing good of the women who worked in the famed cabaret; she had cared for a number of them herself. It was no shock that the young woman had found herself pregnant and with no one at the Rouge to turn to… She shuddered at the tragedy of it all, and then, remembering, opened the box. There was a Rosary inside and a small picture, of a young woman – the same one in that very room – and a man. They were holding hands and laughing into the camera as if daring the world to laugh with them. The girl's gown was fine and not the type of fine that comes from dancing the cancan all night … the type of fine that only clean, upper class money can buy.

A lusty cry from the bed woke the midwife from her reveries. She returned to the infant, who stopped crying as soon as she was picked up. Her tiny eyes hadn't even opened yet. The midwife's heart went out to the baby and she found herself wondering if she could take her home and … No. Absolutely not. I've enough mouths to feed. I'll bring the child to the church and let the nuns deal with her.

She wrapped the baby in the cloak she had found in the valise. She placed the Rosary around the woman's hands and left her with her prayer book and Bible. When she was found, they would know to give her a proper burial. She remembered the woman's orders and removed the delicate necklace, placing it in the box with the photograph. Almost as an afterthought, she ripped out the page with SATINE and tucked it into the valise. Then gently, she placed the baby in the bag and, rocking it slowly to keep her asleep, made her way to the local church.

The church was dark and empty this late at night and the midwife knocked four times at the small gate to the cloisters. Perhaps the nuns were at their prayers, perhaps the wind masked the knock, but no one came. Eventually, she made her way to the heavy wooden doors that opened into the church. The midwife walked quietly to the candlelit tabernacle and laid the valise at the feet of the statue of Mary. The saint seemed to smile down on the girl. She peeked inside the basket. The infant was fast asleep. "Dieu vous bénisse," she whispered. "God be with you."

The nuns who awoke for morning prayers found the child. They brought her to the Mother Superior who, after having heard how the babe was found at the feet of the Virgin Mary, declared, to much joy, "If Mary herself has sent us this child, then we must be meant to raise her. Of course, the child must have a name."

A young woman, a novice by her habit, raised her hand timidly. "Mother," she said, procuring the paper from her habit and handing it to the Mother Superior, "this paper was with her. I think her name is Satine."

"Satine?" The Abbess furrowed her brow as she examined the paper. "It is not the name of a respectable girl." She stroked the baby's red hair. "Never mind that. We will call her Marie-Christine, after the holy Mother of God who has so clearly brought her here for us. And Clemence…?"

"Oui, Mother?" asked the same novice.

"You will care for the child in place of your other duties. Take her now to your quarters; I will have Sister Joan bring a cradle from the attic. It is old, but the wood will hold up for our purposes. The sisters and I will spend the day in prayer for the infant and her mother, whoever she is."

"Oui, Mother. As you wish." The nuns filed out of the room. Mother Superior handed the newly-christened Marie-Christine to her caretaker and blessed the baby. As soon as she was placed in Clemence's hands, the baby immediately began to sob. "Shhh, shhh!" Clemence whispered frantically, overwhelmed by the loud cries. She offered the child her finger to suck. The little girl ignored it, her screams getting louder and louder. Mother Superior turned and stared at Clemence, who smiled weakly.

It was going to be a long day.