Not many people knew that Christian had once been a humourist. He'd worked at a newspaper, and made a living (of sorts) writing of humourous encounters he'd had, 'serious' news stories with a wry twist.
It was all very ironic, really.
He'd never written any funny, mocking stories about love, though. No matter how many letters he'd gotten each week, with tales from married couples, dating couples, ex-couples. No matter how much he'd smiled at them. He'd taken love far too seriously for that.
Perhaps if he hadn't, he wouldn't be in the position he was in now.
Satine would still be dead, but he wouldn't know her from Adam. Another dead prostitute. Big deal.
And he wouldn't be sitting at his desk, writing this tragic, depressing, serious story now. He wouldn't be sitting in this dank, dark, dreary room. (He'd always congratulated himself on his alliteration.)
It was so odd. How Satine had had so much influence on so many people. The Moulin Rouge was falling apart because Zidler couldn't find the energy to keep it up. The other girls wandered aimlessly, with little business because they couldn't smile and seduce because their source of encouragement, envy, jealousy, ideal... was dead. There was no model to live up to. There was no star to try to outshine.
Christian heard of the Duke from time to time. He was an alcoholic, but then, so was Christian. The Duke's moods swung from good to bad in milliseconds, and more than one hooker walked away unpaid, but with a few bruises instead. One minute, the Duke would be whistling, charming with the slightest smile, wink; and the next, shoving a naked woman out of his bed and shouting obscenities at her and berating her for not being Satine.
But then, Christian was not far from that point himself. He'd tried to replace Satine. Failed.
The Duke didn't write; he spoke his thoughts. The Duke was selfish, perhaps, but so was Christian.
Perhaps, then, there wasn't that much of a difference between Christian and the Duke. Who was Christian to say that the Duke hadn't loved her? Who was Christian to say that it was really the Duke who'd killed Satine, and not some horrid disease that more than one person had died from? Who was Christian to say that it wasn't the horrible stress that had been placed on Satine to choose between two besotted men that hurried the disease along?
Who was Christian to say that he hadn't participated in Satine's death just as much as the consumption had, just as much as the Duke had?
It was all very ironic, really.
He'd never written any funny, mocking stories about love, though. No matter how many letters he'd gotten each week, with tales from married couples, dating couples, ex-couples. No matter how much he'd smiled at them. He'd taken love far too seriously for that.
Perhaps if he hadn't, he wouldn't be in the position he was in now.
Satine would still be dead, but he wouldn't know her from Adam. Another dead prostitute. Big deal.
And he wouldn't be sitting at his desk, writing this tragic, depressing, serious story now. He wouldn't be sitting in this dank, dark, dreary room. (He'd always congratulated himself on his alliteration.)
It was so odd. How Satine had had so much influence on so many people. The Moulin Rouge was falling apart because Zidler couldn't find the energy to keep it up. The other girls wandered aimlessly, with little business because they couldn't smile and seduce because their source of encouragement, envy, jealousy, ideal... was dead. There was no model to live up to. There was no star to try to outshine.
Christian heard of the Duke from time to time. He was an alcoholic, but then, so was Christian. The Duke's moods swung from good to bad in milliseconds, and more than one hooker walked away unpaid, but with a few bruises instead. One minute, the Duke would be whistling, charming with the slightest smile, wink; and the next, shoving a naked woman out of his bed and shouting obscenities at her and berating her for not being Satine.
But then, Christian was not far from that point himself. He'd tried to replace Satine. Failed.
The Duke didn't write; he spoke his thoughts. The Duke was selfish, perhaps, but so was Christian.
Perhaps, then, there wasn't that much of a difference between Christian and the Duke. Who was Christian to say that the Duke hadn't loved her? Who was Christian to say that it was really the Duke who'd killed Satine, and not some horrid disease that more than one person had died from? Who was Christian to say that it wasn't the horrible stress that had been placed on Satine to choose between two besotted men that hurried the disease along?
Who was Christian to say that he hadn't participated in Satine's death just as much as the consumption had, just as much as the Duke had?