I don't own the Moulin Rouge or any of its characters - I'm just a poor, penniless writer, writing about love.
Toulouse's chest hurt with sorrow and confusion. Toulouse had not seen Satine fall, but upon hearing Christian scream for help, had shoved the other actors aside to see what was wrong. Christian sat weeping in choking gasps while his Sparkling Diamond whispered weakly to him. Running his eyes along the somber, painted faces to either side of him, Toulouse saw no surprise – only the jaded resignation that comes with the arrival of an expected tragedy. Squinting again, he saw it was true: the Diamond Dogs had begun their mourning already.
The beautiful Satine's voice was too soft to be heard now, though poor Christian could hear her, shaking his head as new tears slid down his face. Poor Christian, and poor Satine…. The dear fellow truly loved her, and the sight before him sent a sliver of fear racing into Toulouse's warm heart. Friendship had grown up between the two men over the past many months, and Toulouse knew this had the power to break the young man's heart and soul... but he did not expect to hear them shatter.
A small sound at first, an inhalation thick with panic, then a low moan. The dwarf raised his eyes to his friend's hunched figure, swallowing back the prickling pressure of tears. Satine was utterly, profoundly still against the unsteady curve of Christian's arms. Agony clawed across Christian's face as he held her close with pitiful tenderness. A wail escaped him, a child-like cry of abandonment, and he leaned forward, then back, slowly rocking the shimmering figure in his arms. A muted jingle of glass beads as Chocolat removed his headdress.
For several seconds, the longest of Toulouse's life, no one else spoke or moved, a half-circle of garish statues. Christian's lifeblood dripped out in strangled cries and groans, echoing slightly in the hollow of the curtains and the walls. Applause still came from beyond that velvet barrier, but was inconsequential.
Zidler was the first to move, turning as the doctor trotted up, moments and ages too late. The wrinkles on his old face deepened as his gaze fell upon Satine. He murmured something to Zidler, who nodded distractedly, his usual mastery gone. Clearing his throat softly, the older man stepped into the vacant space surrounding Christian, the petals muting his footsteps.
Without speaking, the doctor laid his hand on Christian's swaying shoulder. A lost blue gaze wandered along the black-clad arm, focusing on some place beyond the doctor's fatherly face.
"All right, lad… Come along now." The doctor beckoned at the Argentinean with a bob of his head, then turned back to Christian, bending to grasp his arm gently. The Argentinean strode forward silently and at the doctor's gesture, bent to take Satine's body. Grief had stolen the strength from the younger man's arms, and despite his frantic efforts, he was left on the stage floor while the Argentinean carried Satine's white body into the wings. The glimmering statues parted for him, then gradually melted away in silent huddles.
Toulouse remained where he was. The doctor's murmured consolations fell upon deaf ears: Christian's eyes were wild, blinded by tears, as he stared into the shadow where Satine had vanished. The paralysis that seemed to hold Toulouse's limbs was suddenly gone, and he began to strip away his ridiculous, encumbering costume almost violently. Christian needed a friend, and Toulouse would not abandon him now. Finally, he cast the sitar-costume aside, and clad now in the dark, close-fitting clothes he wore beneath his costume, he limped to Christian's side.
"Christian…" Toulouse tried to catch Christian's eyes with his own, but Christian only bowed his head into his hands, soft moans shakily escaping their embrace. He rocked slowly, lost in grief, oblivious to the doctor's presence and even of Toulouse.
"Are you able to stay with him?" inquired the doctor, professional once more. His eyes flickered to the wings where the dressing rooms were – where Satine was. Of course. The doctor would have to see her, examine her. Such a cold word, 'examine'. Toulouse managed a nod and put his arm around Christian's broad, shuddering shoulders.
"Christian. Christian, it's -" He caught himself before he completed the phrase. The young man's world might never be "all right" again. He finished, "It's Toulouse. Can you hear me?" There was no reply, and a little while later, when the Argentinean returned, Toulouse was starting to feel the beginnings of panic.
Retaining his steely dignity, even in his underclothes, the Argentinean gazed inscrutably at Christian; a deeper shadow that could have been pity overlay his craggy face. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he replaced Toulouse's arm with his own and crooked the other under Christian's knees. With little effort, he lifted the unresisting writer and followed Toulouse to the stairs that led from backstage to the rest of the Moulin Rouge.
Christian needed someplace quiet to rest, to grieve in private, away from the fading applause and the sound of Zidler making an indistinct announcement, voice booming with false humor and cheer. Best to take the poor boy upstairs where the private rooms were and find a place for him there.
When they reached the first flight of stairs, the Argentinean took the lead, allowing Toulouse to set his own pace. The childhood injuries to his legs, besides contributing to his unusual physical appearance by stunting their growth, had left him with what sometimes felt like a perpetual ache in the bones. Now the ache was the last thing on his mind as he followed his friends, listening to Christian's quiet groans tumble down the stairs to his ears, muffled by his hands and the Argentinean's broad chest.
As they reached the upper floor, shrouded in velvet curtains and silence, Toulouse felt he had to break the miserable hush. He said the first thing he could think of that would not be utterly foolish and disrespectful under the circumstances.
"When the Duke finds out…" He almost let his words trail off there, but the need to fill the dark hollow of sound impelled him to continue, "… what do you think he will do?"
The broad shoulders in front of him did not alter their steady pace, but the Argentinean's foreign rumble reached Toulouse a few long moments later.
"To fall in love with a woman who sells herself is to beg for pain." His dark head canted briefly to look down at Christian, who was silent and still. Toulouse hoped he was sleeping, not listening to their words. "The Diamond… She took the Duke's pride and crushed it in her hands. A man rejected chooses to pursue with still more passion, or he himself chooses to reject." Shouldering open a door to the right, the Argentinean entered the room in silence, crossed to the shabby four-poster bed and laid Christian on top of the dusky wine coverlet. His sigh seemed to gust the limp curtains of the bed into an instant's fretting before he muttered, "It always ends bad", and he turned away to take the chair nearest the door, an unreadable guardian. This left the chair nearer the bed for Toulouse, who pushed it beside the bed and clambered up, sitting with a sigh of his own.
For the second time in a mere handful of days, Toulouse found himself keeping vigil over an unconscious Christian, watching him sleep, praying his wounds – this time less visible – would heal in time. The younger man lay like a child's doll, discarded without a thought, left to suffer whatever fortune the fates brought upon him. Certainly, it seemed as though whatever God ruled so high above had discarded this man. Toulouse had no more interest in organized religion than most of Paris these days, but he did have a certain sense of an order to things in the world. Perhaps he himself had fallen out of it, or escaped its notice, in his desire to explore the irregular, curious world he had given himself up to; Christian, though – for him to be left with this piece ripped out of his heart was a tragedy not to be contemplated. If he were left so, Toulouse's trust in that one sort of stability would leave him.
There would be no freedom left, only desperation to find happiness before it is torn from you. No beauty, for desperation eats away loveliness like a moth at an old gown. No truth in a world where purity of heart merits destruction and dreams vanish between your fingers like mirages. No love, if this deepest love could not survive. Love… Christian had said something wondrous about it. Love is like oxygen. And yet that very night, Satine had died, life pressed from her in gasps and whispers, unable to breathe though wrapped in her beloved's arms. Toulouse's head spun with questions, but he had no one to demand the answers from. Perhaps if this all somehow turned out to be all right in the end, he would voice some of them to a dubious deity, and even find some answers. Right now, however, as Toulouse laid his head on the edge of the bed, one hand near Christian's in mute sympathy, that hope seemed more of a farcical illusion than any performance of the Moulin Rouge.
This next chapter begins to reveal what Christian didn't include in his story to us...