The final in the trilogy… I must at this point acknowledge Yvi for her wonderful fic, "All We Have To Sell", which has been truly inspirational.
I seriously recommend reading Devilry before this, and Armoury as well, as Treachery is more of a follow up to both of them (whereas Armoury and Devilry can stand separate from one another). It's not absolutely necessary, but it's highly recommended.
This piece is narrated by the lovely Juno and takes place just after Satine's death.
TreacheryI've seen your flag on the marble arch,
Love is not a victory march,
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah…
"Hallelujah", by Jeff Buckley
Never fall in love. That is our mantra, our golden rule, the one Harold either jokingly tells girls when they first arrive at the Rouge or shouts in their faces when they show signs of breaking it.
The rule is broken, of course. We can tell ourselves that we are stone, nothing but puppets dancing devoid of all possible emotional attachment, but under our makeup we are so very, very human, and humans fall in love because that is the way of the world. I would call it ironic, if I knew how to describe such things. But I am not the philosopher or the untrained yet charming poet, so the task of describing life falls to others. I merely live.
I'm not exactly talented, I'll admit, though I do work hard. Schoolgirl is different; she has no desire to take the lead solo in dances, or even to be in the front row. She observes life through sharp, dark eyes, watching but never taking part, as if through not participating she can somehow make time go by faster. Tonight she sits stiffly in her in her velvet auditorium seat, watching everything, revealing nothing. Her shoulder blades poke sharply through her thin skin, her red plaits contrasting against her pale face. She is smaller without her cancan skirt, as if some part of her is missing. She wears a ragged dress as she leans forward onto her hand, waiting, like the rest of us, for Harold Zidler to arrive and tell us the reason for this meeting. Her eyes leave the surrounding dancers and focus instead on the back of the chair in front of her, seemingly bored.
I don't think Schoolgirl has ever been in love.
I was in love once, or at least I thought I might have been. He was a client of mine and liked to read me fairytales. He would call me Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, a different name every night. I tried not to see the money he laid on my table before he left, tried not to care when he left, which he did, every night. I knew I was breaking the rules, but I couldn't bring myself to treat him as just another customer.
I should have, of course. It would have spared me so much.
He didn't love me, of course, and I was a fool to believe he did. He wasn't malicious or anything, and in a way he was as lost as I was. I was his play toy, his distraction as his heart tried to find his real Cinderella, his true princess. He found her, and I never saw him again.
I didn't know his name. Some men prefer not to tell their names, and we never ask them for them, anyway. After all, when you look at it, it's simply a business transaction.
I wish I had known that man's name, though. I wanted him to be more than a client, but that's all he ever was and all he ever turned out to be. A while after he stopped coming, Nini sat me down in the dressing room and gave me a talking to.
"No use whining about it, Cecile," she said in that no-nonsense way of hers. I knew by the way she addressed me by my real name that she was serious. "You know the rules. You're lucky that he paid; otherwise Harold might have turned you out of the Rouge without thinking twice about it. Don't ever let it happen again, got that?"
I was very young then and so frightened of Nini and the older girls that I could do nothing but nod. Nini stood up and patted me on the cheek as she went by. "Good girl. You'll learn. They always do."
I learnt, alright. From then on, sex was an occupation only. I made no efforts to remember the men who paid for me, even those who returned on a regular basis. I was nothing but an object to them, and they meant nothing but money to me. Or at least I tried. Sometimes it was very, very hard. But as the months and finally years went by, it steadily became easier. I'd become a Rouge girl at bright-eyed fifteen and now at nineteen I feel about ninety.
I still dream that one day some young man will come and whisk me away somewhere. When I was young the dream didn't extend further than that, but now the young man should ideally have a full pocket, no taste for alcohol, a tidy inheritance on the way and no odd perversions. So far there hasn't been any sign of him.
Liberty, who had taken to philosophising at one time in an attempt to win Travesty's favour, once said that it is much easier to forget the rules if you have fancy dresses and a full belly every night. No names were mentioned, but we all knew whom she was referring to. Satine. Satine, who advocated the rules about not falling in love even more than the Four Whores did, fell in love with someone who couldn't even afford to spend a night with her. It was the worst kept secret at the Moulin Rouge, and it sent girls like Liberty and Antoinette reeling.
"It's just not fair!" Antoinette burst out once in the dressing room; our usual place for all gossip and conversations. "We're working ourselves to death trying to perform that Bohemian drivel, and she's off sleeping around with the writer!"
"She's such a hypocrite," Liberty spat while trying to darn one of her stockings. "I mean, if I had known no one was going to care, I would have gone with that waiter who whistled at me the other day. He was a darn sight more handsome than any of the rakes here, I'll tell you. But oh no, Zidler has his rules, except when his precious Sparkling Diamond is concerned, of course." Liberty was so worked up that she stabbed herself in the finger with her needle, which prompted a flood of swearing.
"I'm sure Zidler will care when he finds out," Garden Girl spoke up quietly, relieving Liberty of her sewing and fixing the ripped heel without blinking an eyelid. To this day Liberty can't sew well.
"Yes, but will he kick her out into the street for it?" Liberty growled again, accepting the now mended stocking with a gruff "thanks."
Garden Girl pursed her lips. "No," she admitted abruptly, prompting a satisfied look from Liberty.
"Well, I think it's romantic," Harlequin sighed, looking up dreamily from the skirt she was mending. This provoked a mass of groans from various girls.
"Come off it, Harle," Antoinette said, reclaiming the conversation. "You and your romance. It's about time you learnt that this can't happen." I was uncomfortably reminded of my conversation with Nini some years previously.
Harlequin shrugged, unfazed. "It is romantic. After all, who doesn't deserve romance?"
Everyone, even me, spoke the answer. "We don't."
This was the first of many similar conversations between different girls. I didn't really take part, because to be honest I never thought about Satine much. She had never spoken to me or even glanced my way, and as a result I started to think of her as some sort of other life form that was impossible to comprehend. But many girls who had been at the Moulin Rouge longer than I had been saw it was a betrayal. The words "treachery" or "traitor" were often hissed in the shadows of the theatre.
It's all in past tense now, of course. Satine is dead, much to the despair of Zidler who has now lost his best money-bringer. I suspect she meant a little more to him than that, though, judging by her funeral. It was a lovely affair, full of glitter and colour just as anything at the Moulin Rouge was. None of Satine's former clientele attended- a dead prostitute is hardly desirable, after all- but we did, and it was a mixed reaction, I can tell you. Some girls looked quite glad that Satine was dead, others looked angry as if dying was her final act of betrayal, and others simply looked sad. I must confess that I was one of the sad ones. Not because Satine meant much to me, but because someone had died. Satine was hardly a saint, but no one, and I mean no one, deserves to die.
Behind me, Tarot taps me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the dusty auditorium. "Head out of the clouds, Juno," she whispers. "Zidler's here."
Zidler is dressed as he was when the Moulin Rouge was still a dance hall. It suited the atmosphere so well, he our lordly ringmaster, we his trusty circus.
"I'm afraid I have some very bad news, dears," he begins gravely.
"What, a drop of rain fell on his precious Diamond's headstone?" Arabia says in undertone, prompting a wave of giggles from those around her.
"That will do," Zidler says pointedly, causing everyone to shut up abruptly. We haven't been respecting him as much of late, mainly because he hasn't been dictating our dances from on high anymore. But that red suit still commands our attention. "Ducklings, I'm afraid I must tell you…" Zidler resumes, still glaring at Arabia and the other Whores. "It has been decided that the Moulin Rouge will be sold. It will be closed until a buyer can be found. You are all dismissed. I am very sorry."
A wave of cold breaks over me. Dismissed? Closed? The words flit through my mind but don't quite unite to form the shocking truth. Beside me, Garden Girl's face becomes very pale and she slowly begins to weep.
Aside from this, there is an uproar. Several girls jump from their chairs and shout angry obscenities at Zidler in between demands for explanation. Liberty, Schoolgirl and Antoinette are among them, Schoolgirl showing more passion than she's ever shown in her life. Tarot joins Garden Girl in weeping for the loss of their place in the world. Our place in the world. Only now does it start to sink in.
There is cacophony of noise as a group of girls try to stampede onto the stage towards Zidler. The Four Whores lead the charge, followed by Travesty, Dominatrix, Pearly Queen and, surprisingly, Babydoll. They are caught by a group of male dancers and stagehands, none of who seem very surprised; perhaps Zidler told them earlier for this very purpose. There is a quick, brutal struggle at the front of the auditorium and the offending prostitutes are carried off, screeching like jilted birds of prey.
Harlequin pushes her way through to me through the turmoil, a veil of tears covering her face. "It's all over, Juno," she sobs, clutching at me, her strawberry blonde hair escaping her normally immaculate bun. "It's all over."
Tears slide down my face as I hold her. "I know."
Later that night, we congregate on the stage in our glowing cancan skirts one last time. There is no audience assembled before us, not even the wistful Bohemians who hope to somehow gain divine inspiration by watching us whirl about the room. Tonight we perform for ourselves.
Nini, China Doll and Arabia lead us into our final cancan, and the battle begins.
It's an old game we play, and one that was created more for our entertainment than that of the men, derived of the choreographed cancan we would perform every night during the Moulin Rouge's heyday. The entire aim is to be the last one standing at the end of the dance. You get thrown out of the game either when an individual opponent succeeds in dancing you out of the circle or you make a mistake in the footwork. Tonight we attack each other with all of our remaining energy, making up for the lack of an accompanying orchestra by singing medleys of old Rouge songs at the tops of our voices.
Liberty, who as usual is opposing Harlequin, swirls and kicks more than ever before in a final desperate attempt to capture Travesty's attention. Liberty has been besotted with Travesty for as long as I've known her, constantly trying to win Travesty's favour or even simply her approval. So far her attempts have been met with little results, as Travesty rarely even glances her way. Still, Liberty tries. Travesty is her goddess, and like all goddesses she doesn't spare a thought for those who worship her.
Liberty dances frantic circles around Harlequin, adding stunning pirouettes as her tricoloured skirt flies about her. Unfortunately, Travesty is currently engaged in a fierce battle with Pearly Queen and cannot be diverted. Liberty adds a triple pirouette in desperation and stumbles, thus ending her chances in the game. Defeated, Liberty joins the other losers in the auditorium.
I manage to keep up quite well for a time, until things get a little too fast and I falter during a complex set of kicks. My opponent, Antoinette, crows triumphantly as she whirls off to find another challenger and I join Liberty on the plush velvet seats.
Following Liberty's gaze, I watch as Travesty dances Pearly Queen into the wings in a spectacular fashion and then goes off to face Nini. Antoinette gains victory Harlequin in a matter of seconds and then suffers a crashing defeat at the hands of Tattoo. Tartan is pushed off by Babydoll and slowly the number of girls is diminished.
Finally Babydoll and Tattoo admit defeat and Nini, Travesty, Arabia and China Doll are left to fight it out for the title of overall winner. Liberty's eyes still follow Travesty as her goddess spins in a swirl of petticoats, Babydoll and Tattoo's shrill voices carolling above everyone as various girls try to outdo each other providing accompaniment. Because we can cancan…
Unable to outdo each other, four remaining dancers come to halt, panting as they laughingly decide on a draw. Travesty, still drunk on the fever of the dance, stumbles off the stage towards a seat beside Dominatrix, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Liberty glances at her with a look akin to that of an abandoned lapdog that still craves the caress of its mistress. I think she realises that now that we are going to go our separate ways, she will lose sight of her goddess, but somehow I don't think that matters to her.
Not that Travesty would care.
Realising that we have now performed our final cancan, a mournful mood descends on us. It finally hits home; that we are going to lose what we gave our lives in service for. All on the whim of a jilted lover. All on the risk of a pair of fools.
It is probably wrong to feel anger towards the dead. But I do- I think perhaps we all do- and yet somehow I don't care about what's right anymore. All I care about is that tomorrow, I won't have a glittering hall to go to. Tomorrow I might be on the street, I might be run over by a carriage or that phantom man of mine might come and find me, I don't know.
Satine's fame will die as quickly as she did, that much is guaranteed. To be known for one's beauty and skills in the bedroom is a shallow thing, after all, and she didn't live long enough to become known as an actress. We will remember for a while, I have no doubt, until we are too old to remember much at all.
But until then, we will remember the woman who paid the perfect price for her perfect treachery.
And thus my trilogy is concluded. I indulged in this one- I'd been saving up my ideas for it (it is the grand finale, after all). I tried hard with Juno's characterisation; we see so little of her in the film and so few people have written about her (actually, I only know of two fics in which she features- if anyone else has or knows of more, please let me know, as she is one of my favourite characters) that it is very hard to pinpoint her personality enough so that people will recognise her. I thought that since Juno is more of a passive person she would pay far more attention to the feelings of people surrounding her, whereas Schoolgirl is very withdrawn and Babydoll is rather self-absorbed (sorry, but I see her that way, even though I love her).
I apologise for the Liberty/Travesty insinuation: it was a complete accident. I have very little control over the stories I write (thanks to my muses who frequently run off with my plot), and thus the pairing sort of… happened. Sorry if I offended anyone.
Anyway, I will be back with more Moulin Rouge fiction, but until then, au revoir, mes amies!
P.S: I really, really love getting reviews. Not that I'm hinting at anything.