He closed the door behind him, leaving a thick wad of bills in the plate beside her bed, tipping his hat, play-acting that she was a lady. She smiled, lipstick smudged from his kisses, smiled like her heart was breaking, until the door latched. Her smile dropped, as did her fake French accent, the moment he was gone, and she crawled across the soft, velvet and satin sheets to count the money he had left. Good, he hadn't tried to cheat her. She may have been a whore, but no one tried to cheat her out of what was hers, and there were several high-classed gentlemen with scars to prove it. Not from her, by god she never would have had another customer if word got out that she owned a knife, but a girl didn't get through life in Montmarte without befriending a few rough-and-tumble types. Satisfied with the stack of bills, she rolled them up and slid them down the front of her bodice. That wasn't a bad trick, but she would have to turn more tonight if she wanted that new dress she had been begging Zidler for. She exited her boudoir, carefully locking it, before walking down the hallway, back to the dance hall. One cancan was all it took, and a young puppy had virtually fallen into her lap, helpless with desire. She was used to this type, lived off of them actually. They would pay you insane amounts of money, for the promise that they could come and see you again. And of course, you never did see them again. That was the trick. They fell in love, and you robbed them blind.
She remembered love. These boys, they seemed so stupid, whispering promises in her ears, offering her flowers, which she refused and closed the door in their face, and jewels, which she accepted and closed the door in their face. He hadn't been that stupid. He had been young, yes, but he had been rough and true and too damned charming to bother with all that. A solid Irishman, he spoke without all the flowery language. And god she loved him. But, her father had been determined that she be a lady, so he sent her off to France, to live with an aunt. That had lasted all of a week, until she had gotten her little arse kicked out into the street, and had landed in the Moulin Rouge. She wondered if he had ever come looking for her. Not that it mattered.
The Moulin Rouge made you into a new person, with a new name, a new outlook on life. Thats the trick love. Live for today. Life is so fickle sometimes, if you wait for tomorrow, you'll be waiting your whole life. And she had lived by that dogma. She never regretted a single day here, dancing in a satin dress and laying down in satin sheets every night was by far better than trying to claw an existence out on the streets. Girls died out on the streets, either from hunger, or disease, or sometimes because one of their clients didn't like the way they fucked. Here, it was all clean and combed. Dukes, Viscounts, hell there were rumors that a prince had been seen dragging a girl from the cancan line off to a private room. None of the girls would ever tell an outsider if it was true. That was the code, you watched out for each other. You never opened your mouth about what happened behind the curtains to anyone but the other Diamond Dogs. The consequences were the street. No, She would never go back there. The week she had spent working the narrow alleys before she was taken in by Zidler had ingrained that one thought into her head. Never go back to the streets. It was safe here.
The boy left even more than expected, spouting some nonsense about coming back to "save her" from this life. What he didn't understand was that she wouldn't know how to survive in his world. This was as close as she would get. She would have to warn Zidler about that one. He was going to be bad for business, she could tell.
She walked to the basin in the corner and washed before joining the dance again. This time it was an older man, a regular. He has sophisticated tastes, and she was a little surprised that he picked her. Once they got into the room, he handed her a large stack of bills, twice her normal fee. She was so surprised, she gasped. The man smiled, then crooked a finger, calling her to him. She was obedient. He wasn't rough, but kind, gentle, and actually seemed to care that she was just as pleasured as he. She was, and she was pleasantly exhausted by the end. He tucked the blankets under her chin, and she fell into a place that was forbidden. Love was not supposed to happen with a client. But there it was.
She took a little longer to go back to the dancehall. She didn't want anyone else that night, she didn't want anyone else ever. That feeling stayed until she saw him with another cancan girl, sneaking off to another boudoir. He obviously wasn't concerned about her any longer.
She didn't even notice who her next client was. She didn't care. The pounding of bodies, the rush to the head, that was what she needed, to forget him. It didn't help, but it was worth a try. He paid her the regular fee, and she didn't even pretend to be sad to see him go. She walked back to the dressing rooms and grabbed a bottle of absinthe. When the other girls walked back to change out of their dancing dresses, she was happily unconscious, the bottle of green liquor spilled on the floor beside her. One of the older girls woke her, to lead her to a bed, and she started sobbing. All the girls knew what the tears were about, they had all been there, all crossed that line. They turned away, only mildly interested, and some not even that. It was just another broken heart. Another soul lost to the velvet darkness.
Another night at the Moulin Rouge.