The girl stood outside the dilapidated building, taking in the entire
spectacle through hooded eyes.
She raised a handkerchief to her lips and coughed several great hacking heaves into it. Then she replaced it in her bodice.
When she felt thoroughly disgusted with the world, she turned her back on the construction and strutted away.
She didn't know where Zidler was. The last place she had seen Zidler was at the funeral. They'd all been at the funeral. It had been a very crowded affair. The Bohemians had been there, looking as if they didn't know what to do with themselves; the Argentinean had collapsed halfway through the service, and they'd propped him up against a rather gaudy memorial statue, where he'd finally revived just as they tossed the first shovelful of dirt into the grave. Scores of performers -- whores looking ill-suited in the drab black they wore, creatures of the underworld, every one of them -- had clustered around the hole in the ground where they'd finally stuck Satine. Nini was near the front; she'd had a wonderful view as they lowered the exquisite casket into the ground. The coffin had been very beautiful, and every girl there wondered uneasily where Zidler had dug up the money to finance it. Nini speculated that donations had been made by the dozens of tricks and johns that Satine had entertained in her time. respectable older men who couldn't afford to actually be seen at a prostitute's funeral.
The only other person who hadn't been there was the writer.
Life since then had taken a turn for the worse. The Duke still held the deeds; Zidler had run out of money. The Moulin Rouge, in its elaborate theater array, was no longer functional as a nightclub. Many of the girls had still wanted to try, at least, to eke out a living in its still- extravagant walls, but Zidler had simply not had the heart for it any longer. Satine had always been his favorite, he'd never tried to hide it. And now she was gone. Worse, though, was the fact that she'd taken with her the entire production of Spectacular Spectacular, and in fact the entirety of the Moulin Rouge itself.
There was nothing left now.
The girls had taken to the streets.
A few pursued a possible (though probably futile) future in dancing or singing, but the majority of the Diamond Dogs knew that the only skills they possessed had condemned them to a life of prostitution. The vocation had seemed almost pleasant when conducted inside the vice-ridden walls of the Moulin Rouge. Outside, it lost the illusion of charm it had always held for the girls. They crowded corners. Their outfits were no longer rich and colorful. Those who had once only consorted with barons and lords now fought for the affection of the urchins who were in actuality just as poor as the rest of them.
They had once been a higher class of whoredom. Now they fought the substandard Parisian prostitutes for every square foot of the squalid streets.
That wouldn't be a problem much longer, though.
The Bohemians continued to drink as they always had, but without the distractions of their friendly neighborhood bordello, the diversions of absinthe dominated their lives. Toulouse had not painted for weeks; the only use Satie had gotten out of his piano recently was just as a surface on which to place a glass of booze. The Argentinean hadn't danced since opening night. The four had almost completely exhausted the Doctor's extensive store of chemical stimulators
She coughed again, into her hand this time.
She hadn't been laid for days; a life on the street was not particularly flattering for Nini. She looked tired and sick, and there were plenty of healthier-looking Dogs on the street to pick from without having to bother with the fallen bitch with syphilis.
She didn't have syphilis, but she Iwas/I sick. And her only consolation was that she wouldn't be alone as she made her descent to the underworld in which she'd always belonged.
She had consumption. They all had consumption. Satine -- the girl, naive as she may have been to the fact, who had danced among them infected with a highly contagious and fatal disease, the girl who had died the perfect death in the arms of her lover on a glitter-strewn floor -- had taken them all with her.
But a diamond-bedecked grand stage was as different as day is to night to the backest alley of Montmarte, and the last lover Nini had been with had been a wrinkled old man who'd taken fifteen minutes to get it up.
"Stupid bitch," Nini said, wiping a handful of blood on the back of her shift, and made her way back to her corner.
She raised a handkerchief to her lips and coughed several great hacking heaves into it. Then she replaced it in her bodice.
When she felt thoroughly disgusted with the world, she turned her back on the construction and strutted away.
She didn't know where Zidler was. The last place she had seen Zidler was at the funeral. They'd all been at the funeral. It had been a very crowded affair. The Bohemians had been there, looking as if they didn't know what to do with themselves; the Argentinean had collapsed halfway through the service, and they'd propped him up against a rather gaudy memorial statue, where he'd finally revived just as they tossed the first shovelful of dirt into the grave. Scores of performers -- whores looking ill-suited in the drab black they wore, creatures of the underworld, every one of them -- had clustered around the hole in the ground where they'd finally stuck Satine. Nini was near the front; she'd had a wonderful view as they lowered the exquisite casket into the ground. The coffin had been very beautiful, and every girl there wondered uneasily where Zidler had dug up the money to finance it. Nini speculated that donations had been made by the dozens of tricks and johns that Satine had entertained in her time. respectable older men who couldn't afford to actually be seen at a prostitute's funeral.
The only other person who hadn't been there was the writer.
Life since then had taken a turn for the worse. The Duke still held the deeds; Zidler had run out of money. The Moulin Rouge, in its elaborate theater array, was no longer functional as a nightclub. Many of the girls had still wanted to try, at least, to eke out a living in its still- extravagant walls, but Zidler had simply not had the heart for it any longer. Satine had always been his favorite, he'd never tried to hide it. And now she was gone. Worse, though, was the fact that she'd taken with her the entire production of Spectacular Spectacular, and in fact the entirety of the Moulin Rouge itself.
There was nothing left now.
The girls had taken to the streets.
A few pursued a possible (though probably futile) future in dancing or singing, but the majority of the Diamond Dogs knew that the only skills they possessed had condemned them to a life of prostitution. The vocation had seemed almost pleasant when conducted inside the vice-ridden walls of the Moulin Rouge. Outside, it lost the illusion of charm it had always held for the girls. They crowded corners. Their outfits were no longer rich and colorful. Those who had once only consorted with barons and lords now fought for the affection of the urchins who were in actuality just as poor as the rest of them.
They had once been a higher class of whoredom. Now they fought the substandard Parisian prostitutes for every square foot of the squalid streets.
That wouldn't be a problem much longer, though.
The Bohemians continued to drink as they always had, but without the distractions of their friendly neighborhood bordello, the diversions of absinthe dominated their lives. Toulouse had not painted for weeks; the only use Satie had gotten out of his piano recently was just as a surface on which to place a glass of booze. The Argentinean hadn't danced since opening night. The four had almost completely exhausted the Doctor's extensive store of chemical stimulators
She coughed again, into her hand this time.
She hadn't been laid for days; a life on the street was not particularly flattering for Nini. She looked tired and sick, and there were plenty of healthier-looking Dogs on the street to pick from without having to bother with the fallen bitch with syphilis.
She didn't have syphilis, but she Iwas/I sick. And her only consolation was that she wouldn't be alone as she made her descent to the underworld in which she'd always belonged.
She had consumption. They all had consumption. Satine -- the girl, naive as she may have been to the fact, who had danced among them infected with a highly contagious and fatal disease, the girl who had died the perfect death in the arms of her lover on a glitter-strewn floor -- had taken them all with her.
But a diamond-bedecked grand stage was as different as day is to night to the backest alley of Montmarte, and the last lover Nini had been with had been a wrinkled old man who'd taken fifteen minutes to get it up.
"Stupid bitch," Nini said, wiping a handful of blood on the back of her shift, and made her way back to her corner.