The Moulin Rouge. A night club, a dance hall, and a bordello. Ruled over by Harold Zidler. A kingdom of nighttime pleasures where the powerful and rich came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of all these was the woman I loved, Satine, a courtesan. She sold her love to men. They called her the Sparkling Diamond. And she was the star of the Moulin Rouge. The woman I loved is—dead.
Night fell over the cobblestone streets of Southampton, the moon casting a silvery glow throughout the parlor of a small but comfortable hotel room. A man, barely forty years old, sat before a rusty typewriter. His fingers rested upon the circular black keys, and he was so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that he did not hear the door connecting to the bedroom pop open. Instead, he continued to type, a single tear rolling down his cheek, mingling with his thin beard.
A child, a girl of six, made her way towards the man, her strawberry blonde curls slightly messy from sleep. She wrapped her small arms around his waist, startling him. He glanced down, a small smile caressing his lips. She said nothing as she crawled onto his lap, allowing him to take her small hands and kiss them softly. Soon, my precious darling, we will be away from this place. Away from a place that holds such painful memories, he thought, beginning to type again. Charlotte was his only true reminder of his wife Satine, for she was their daughter.
"What are you doing awake at this hour, milady?" Christian smoothed her hair, sniffling a bit, and wiping his eyes quickly with the heel of his hand. Charlotte shrugged, snuggling against his chest. "I don’t know. I miss my mama," she whimpered, causing him to bite his lip and try not to break down.
"I know," he replied, holding her close. "I know you do."
Though several months had passed since the fatal illness which struck his love, Satine’s death seemed as though it had only happened yesterday.
Satine lay upon the bed, her breath coming in horrible gasps. Charlotte lay beside her mother, clutching at the frail hand. Christian sat on the opposite side of the bed, blotting her feverish skin. The more Satine coughed, the stronger the taste of blood became in the back of her mouth.
"Stay with us," Christian begged as her eyes slid out of focus for a moment. She heaved once, gazing at him. "My love…" he whispered. "Please…" He swallowed hard. "Satine…"
"Mummy," Charlotte sobbed, causing Satine to look at her.
"Char-lotte…" she croaked. "Watch ov-er-Pa-Papa, d-darling." Another cough, and Satine grasped Christian’s hand, squeezing it. "Tell—our s-story, Christian," she gasped. "Christian, you—must go on—both of y-you. You have so much m-more to give." She touched her husband’s forehead, and then her daughter’s. "I will always be with you," she told them, before settling back against her pillows, her lips barely open. "I think I must leave…you now."
Moments later, the sparkling diamond became still, the last petal wilting from the red rose which sat on the windowsill.
"Father?" Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, noticing that her father was crying softly, his hand over his mouth.
"Oh, poppet…I’m sorry." He gasped as she wiped his tears away and kissed his nose.
"I did not mean to make you sad, Papa," she apologized, chewing on the end of her nail. Christian shook his head, pushing the carriage to the side, and he lifted her into his arms.
"Shh." He kissed her cheek, gazing into her emerald eyes. "I love you. And everything is going to get better for us, I promise."
Charlotte nodded as he brought her over to the open window, giving her a view of the British city. "It will," she agreed. "I know it will. The Titanic will take us to America. It is the ship of dreams, and yours will come true one day, like Maman said."
Christian took a deep breath, looking at her. "Speaking of the Titanic, my dear heart, it is very late, and tomorrow is sailing day. We’ll want to be up fairly early to reach the docks before they get too crowded, and I know you’ll want to try your last spot of an English breakfast beforehand." He lowered his head, and she hugged him again.
Soon he carried her into the bedroom they shared, leaving the story to sit until later. He helped her back beneath the covers, pulling down the blankets on his side. Charlotte watched as her father untied his boots, and scootched closer as he slid beneath the sheets, allowing her to rest her head on his chest. So much had occurred in the writer’s life that it was hard to believe half of it was real. From leaving England against his father’s will to moving to Paris and joining the other children of the revolution, to meeting the strange bohemians in the flat he rented, to putting on the first modern bohemian production of Spectacular, Spectacular. Satine had helped him through it all, despite several mishaps revolving around a certain Duke, but still, the two managed to overcome all odds to be together. They’d run away from the Moulin Rouge after the first performance, determined to change their stars.
Now, no matter how hard he tried, Christian knew that the dirty streets of England were not a proper place to raise Charlotte. Using the last of the money he and Satine earned from setting up their own tiny theater, which he’d turned over to a couple of proud investors, he’d purchased two third class tickets to board the White Star Line’s brand new luxury liner. America was their destination now, the land of opportunity. He could see Satine’s smile in his head, and it was as though she were truly looking down on them and promising, Be happy, my darlings, for I am here.
Christian rubbed Charlotte’s back, listening as the child’s breathing softened. "Never knew I could feel like this…like I've never seen the sky before…I want to vanish inside…your kiss…every day I love you more and more…" He sung softly, ignoring the drunken laughter of a couple of late stragglers on their way home from the pub. "Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing…telling me to give you everything…seasons may change, winter to spring…but I love you, until the end of time."
With a final yawn, Christian closed his eyes, his mind clouding in the darkness of sleep. When her father’s voice stopped singing, Charlotte slowly turned towards him, touching his nose with her own. "I love you," she whispered.
Christian opened his eyes again, feeling his heart swell with love and pride. "I love you, my cherub." He did not release her as they both sank into sleep again, merely comforting each other by their warm embrace.