Enjoy!
13-year-old Christine De Printemps stood at the window, staring up and out, slowly, drying dishes.
"But why, Maman? Why isn't he happy anymore?"
Christine's mother sighed. "Because, ma chou, the Bohemians never live again."
"Again after what, Maman?"
"After anything, ma poupée."
Christine exhaled loudly. "But, Maman, that is so sad."
Her mother rolled her eyes and handed her another dish. "Sad, yes. The very existence of the Bohemians is sad."
Christine looked at her, shocked, holding the dripping, soapy plate. "But, Maman, Papa says that we are des bohemes, aussi, commes lui!"
The older woman sighed. "We are not bohemians like him, cherie. He is the kind that is doomed for unhappiness."
"But why, Maman?"
"Don't ask about things you don't understand."
Christine looked out the window again. "But if I don't ask, how can I understand?"
Her mother was suddenly weary of her daughter. "Christine! Get ready for bed!"
"But, Maman-"
"Christine, I said now!" Depressed, Christine bowed her head.
"Yes, Maman." she said. As she started down the hall, she turned. "Maman?" she called.
There was a sigh. "Yes, Christine?"
"Will you tell me a story first?' came the hopeful request. Another sigh.
"If you insist. But only if you're ready in 15 minutes."
10 minutes later, Christine lay in her small little bed, sheets gathered to her chin. Her mother walked in.
"Did you finish your chores?"
"Yes, Maman."
"Did you wash your face?"
"Yes, Maman."
"Kiss your Papa goodnight?"
"Yes, Maman."
"Very well. What story would you like to hear?"
"The one from the book!" cried Christine, pointing to the small red book on her nightstand.
Her mother groaned. "Not that one again."
"Please, Maman?"
Another sigh. "Alright." she said, picking up the book and opening it. She cleared her throat as if to start, but then she looked up. "Christine, do I really have to? You know the story by heart."
"I know I do," she said, snuggling down into her sheets. "I want to hear it again."
The mother sighed. "Alright. But only the first few lines. After that, it's straight to sleep." she cleared her throat, and started with her slightly french accent.
Christine sighed dramatically.
Christine's mother continued monotonously, until she abruptly stopped and said goodnight.
"Oh, but, Maman," she cried. "You can't stop there!"
"I can't? And why not?"
"Oh, Maman, you must continue! You must!" Christine's mother motioned to the book.
"Christine, this book is long. You must get to sleep, mon chére."
"Then you tell me the story, Maman."
"Christine..."
"Please, Maman? Please?"
A sigh. "Alright. Once there was a writer."
"A very poor writer."
"Yes, Christine. A very poor writer. And he came to Montmartre-"
"Because his parents didn't want him to write."
"Do you want me to tell you this or not?" asked her mother, upset.
"Ooh, go on." said Christine, instantly repentant.
"He came here, and through a very complicated net of lies and trickery-"
"Maman, you know that is not so."
"Christine..." she said warningly. Christine snapped her mouth shut. "And through a very complicated net of lies and trickery, he became involved with a group of not-very-respectable people."
"Maman."
"Christine." Christine sighed, backing down. "And with them, he met another group of even worse company." Christine said nothing, just glared. "People who worked in the infamous Moulin."
Christine sighed and sat up. "Maman, ça n'est pas le nom de l'establishement! C'est le Moulin Rouge!"
"Yes, ma petite. Le Moulin Rouge. It was there he fell in love with the star of the Moulin Rouge- Le diamant étincelé."
"The Sparkling Diamond."
"Oui, ma chére. But their love was not to be. A dark shadow cast over their love... something even more powerful than their love."
"Le pauvre écrivain."
"Yes... and le pauvre Diamant. Not long afterwards, le Diamant brillé mouri."
"This is a terrible story, Maman."
"Oui, mon chou. And the poor writer was never the same. But to immortalize his love, he wrote their story and told the world about them. That story you
have just heard. Goodnight."
Christine's mother blew out the candle and kissed her cheek. She was standing in the doorway when Christine called out: "Maman?"
"Oui, ma poupée?"
"What were their names?"
The mother paused, studying her daughter in the dim light.
"Les noms des deux sont Christian et Satine. Bon nuit, ma chére."
The door was shut, leaving Christine in the darkness. She pulled her sheets closer and snuggled down.
"Christian and Satine..." she said as she drifted off to sleep, with visions of dancers and writers in her head.