Woo hoo, the chapter count has gotten into the double digits!
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.
Charles Dickens, 'A Tale of Two Cities'.
The Moulin Rouge was a realm bereft of seasons and untouched by the notion of time. The dances were performed and business conducted regardless of the date or year, and Marianne only noticed the progression of the months when she glanced into the garden and found the autumn wind tossing the leaves, followed by a sprinkling of snow upon the ground. Flowers burst into bloom and Marianne turned seventeen, then the blooms withered with the end of the next summer and were gone with the turn of the year.
It was February of 1895 and Marianne had been at the Moulin Rouge for almost two years.
The realisation was a shocking one.
"Well, you forget about time here," Antoinette commented lightly when Marianne mentioned it. The two were smoking cigarettes in the garden, shivering slightly in the cold. Antoinette took a drag, her free hand reaching up to brush some snowflakes from her hat. "Jesus, I've forgotten how long I've been a tart!"
Marianne leant her head against the icy bricks, breathing clouds of smoke into the crystal air. The interior of the Moulin Rouge would have provided more warmth, but morale had descended with the temperature and the girls were finding any possible excuse to remain outdoors. Winter was always a hard blow on the residents of Montmartre, and, though they were marginally better off, the girls of the Moulin Rouge were no exception.
The windmill had had her share of victims this year.
The first casualty was Circus, and hers was a loss the Moulin was still recovering from. Garden Girl, who seemed to have an unfortunate tendency for stumbling upon unpleasant scenes, knocked on Circus's door one night to find the Russian dancer spread-eagled on the bed, her tiny throat slit from ear to ear so violently that her head had almost separated from her body. Her eyes, wide open and blood spattered, were turned upwards, as if she had been robbed of one final glimpse of the sky. Marianne heard that everyone looked to the sky before they died.
On the night Circus was murdered, two deaths had occurred. Mermaid, Circus's defender, was so devastated at her slaughter that something within her followed her friend to the grave. She danced and worked mechanically, her voice silent and her eyes little more than empty pits. She drank herself to death three days before Christmas. She was buried next to Circus, with a half decent gravestone. They were later joined by a 'garden stroller' called Musichetta who died of syphilis. That was something to be said for Harold Zidler: he did look after his dead.
Marianne sighed, last night's whiskey and gin providing her with a very persistent headache as they sloshed in her stomach. "Do you think we'll get a good grave when we go?"
Antoinette let out a splintery laugh that turned into a cough. She had been battling a cold for some time. "Oh sure," she retorted with a slight splutter. The movement caused more snowflakes to tumble into her hair. "I can just imagine the inscription. Here lies Antoinette. She was a good lay."
For that Marianne elbowed her in the ribs. Antoinette dropped her cigarette on the ground and threw a pile of snow at Marianne in revenge. "Oh!" Marianne shrieked as an amount of icy water slid down her neck. "You cruel, cruel girl!"
Antoinette cackled with sadistic laughter, which was silenced abruptly when a snowball hit her in the face. "Hey!" she shouted, scandalised. "That's not fair! I was unprepared!"
Marianne ran in great, loping strides towards the dancehall, crowing with the satisfaction of having the last word.
The dancehall was in an uproar when Marianne entered. Zidler and Georges the stage manager were shouting, dancers, both male and female; were swearing, Marie was begging everyone to settle down and one of the young acrobats; a skinny boy of eight or nine, was crying.
Marianne tried to establish what the fuss was about, but with everyone talking over each other it was impossible to make out a single word. "Hey," she hissed, tapping Tarot on the shoulder. "What's going on?"
Tarot turned abruptly, her face showing that she was rather amused by the turmoil. "You know Ceres, the new girl?"
Marianne nodded, frowning. Ceres had appeared at the Moulin Rouge a month ago and had since joined the cancan line, though she was mostly a solitary being. "Yes, what about her?"
Tarot grinned viciously. Somewhere in the background Antoinette was exchanging a few hushed words with Harlequin. "Well," Tarot replied slowly, drawing out the words for effect, "she took off today. Gone without a trace."
Marianne was surprised. Ceres hadn't even begun to build up a reputation yet, and Zidler rarely was fussed about 'bolters'. Those who attempted to run but were unsuccessful were given a short, solid cuff and those were successful in their flight generally were shouted about, then forgotten. It was only new girls who ran and they could be replaced in seconds. Never was there so much uproar about one individual.
"Why does Zidler care so much?" Marianne asked, leaning towards Tarot in order to be heard over Nini's shouting.
Tarot burst into giggles, her hand clamped over her mouth in an attempt to prevent them. "Well, he wouldn't normally care," she chortled. "Not if she hadn't taken off with a whole heap of jewels."
Marianne gasped. "What? Does that mean my…" Marianne prayed her jewellery wasn't part of Ceres' booty. She had recently been presented with an elegant choker and was rather proud of it.
"Oh no, none of your stuff," Tarot reassured her hastily. "Just some necklaces and things belonging to the Four Whores and the Knives." The Knives were the rougher girls dominated by the likes of Tattoo and Pearly Queen. Antoinette had named them so for their sharp tongues.
Marianne couldn't help it; she had to laugh. "Bet they loved that. However, I'm sure the trollops deserved it."
"I'm sure the trollops deserved it!" Tarot mimicked mockingly. "God, with your high talk you would never think you'd been slumming it for so long. Talk like a fucking bookshop girl, you do."
Tarot had no idea how close she was to the truth. Neither did the men, who seemed attracted to Marianne's stage persona. As Liberty she was the muse of countless potential revolutionary leaders who at least appreciated the fact that she could understand what they said. Marianne would feign interest as they read their drafted speeches to her, tactfully not mentioning that she had heard the same argument a thousand times before.
Time had made a cynic of Marianne. Her father's revolutionary ideals were forgotten, as was her love for the bourgeoisie. Becoming a Diamond Dog had taught her that all men were the same. Harlequin still dreamt about being whisked away in the arms of a handsome prince, a mindset that Marianne joined Antoinette in mocking. Reality left no room for such romantic things.
"Oh, don't you ever think of marrying and leaving this place?" Harlequin sighed dreamily one night while sewing in the bedroom.
"No," Marianne answered firmly. "I shall never marry." She turned her attention back to repairing her frayed cancan skirt, a practice that was causing her a lot of grief. Marianne could read books longer than her arm, but couldn't sew up a simple hem without pricking her long fingers.
Across form her, Antoinette shifted in a rickety bentwood chair. Her hair was wet and sticky from the henna she used to achieve its violent shade of tomato. "Harle," she said quietly, tapping her friend on the knee. "We can't marry. Surely you know that by now."
"Why not?" Harlequin replied instantly. Antoinette opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by Travesty, who, having heard the conversation, came up behind Harlequin and slid her arms around the girl's neck.
"Because," said Travesty, leaning close to Harlequin's ear, "whenever your husband is late from work, you'll be wondering which one of us he's spending the night with." A quick pat on the cheek and Travesty was gone again, leaving Harlequin bright red in the face and Antoinette snorting into her mending.
"Sorry," Antoinette gasped when Harlequin frowned at her. "But it's true."
Harlequin set her jaw grimly, glaring in Travesty's direction. "Remind me to slap that girl one day."
Antoinette shrugged, lighting up a cigarette and dripping ash on her sewing. "She's just lucky she got in with the Knives straight away, that's why she's so cocky. 'Course, it helps that she's a bloody ice queen."
Marianne cursed gently as the needle slipped again. Sucking her stinging finger, she stirred and glanced vaguely towards where Travesty was sitting. The brunette was leaning over a table and laughing at something Tattoo said. She was still wearing that coquettish smile on her lips- did it ever leave them? Pearly Queen bent to whisper something in Travesty's ear and her smile widened, its devilry increasing.
No room for such romantic things.
That night Marianne sat restlessly at her dressing table, waiting for the bell to be rung for the start of the performance. She drew up her legs and tucked them under her skirt of wine red velvet, her heavy tricoloured petticoats providing her with a decent amount of warmth. Harlequin had reverted to her usual bubbly self and was helping Garden Girl brush rouge onto her face while Marie did up Antoinette's corset. Antoinette always had her stays bound tight.
Marianne stared listlessly at her reflection in the spotty mirror. Corn gold hair tucked under a black tricorn hat, the crimson in the cockade matching the bloody shade of her painted lips and contrasting against the coal-black on her eyelids. The revolutionary her brothers had never been, Marianne observed with a bitter laugh, absentmindedly spinning on of the jugglers' clubs. Spinning sticks in her hands had been a nervous habit of hers since she was little.
A loud stream of cockney announced Nini's presence. She was arguing with the stage manager. "We need some new acts," she insisted, the bright red windmills of her dress glittering in the light of the oil lamps. "Something with a bit more danger, y'see. The rakes have lost interest in the acts since Circus isn't there to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapeze. Maybe a…" The black haired dancer saw Marianne spinning the club and trailed off. "There's an idea…"
She brushed over to one of the jugglers, fetching an unloaded pistol from his array of items. In a flash Nini was at Marianne's side, pressing the pistol into the younger girl's hand. "Can you spin this?"
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"Bloody hell! I'm turning twenty two this year," Marguerite realised one night with horror. Her shock at this increase in age was so intense that she nearly dusted rouge onto her eyelids instead of her cheeks. Pearly Queen shrugged at this proclamation and Dominatrix raised her head as if to say, Suffer. I am.
"Oh shut it." That would be Travesty. She was turning twenty in the summer and was immensely proud of this fact. "Anyone would think you were an old maid."
Marguerite kicked the brunette under the table. "You shut it. Do you realise that I'm going to be thirty in eight years? Jesus, I'll be like one of those ladies who hang around the garden with wrinkly necks."
Her words had a solemn effect. The garden was full of former dancers and strollers whose legs were too old to perform anymore. They crowded in the gloom with their aging silk dresses as cracked as the stale makeup they slathered over their faces to hide their wrinkled, tired skin. The young girls laughed at them and made jokes behind their backs, as if youth was something they had achieved, not something time had merely blest them with. A Diamond Dog's silent enemy was age.
"No. Stop it." Travesty again. Her fair skin had turned an even paler shade of white upon hearing the word 'wrinkles'. "We shouldn't be worrying about that," Travesty went on, reverting back to her usual bored drawl. "It's not like any of us will see thirty."
That no one saw fit to refute. Pearly Queen pulled at a strand of red gold hair and examined it, as if she was already expecting it to be streaked with grey.
The conversation was prevented from becoming any more philosophical by Dominatrix bursting into the dressing room, her face flushed with fury and practically spitting with rage. "THAT BITCH!!!" she shouted, the words echoing throughout the crowded room. "THAT FUCKING BITCH!!!!" Several girls looked up, startled, but only Urchin had the nerve to snigger.
Marguerite let the older girl rage for a while, and then calmly enquired as to what could possibly be the matter. It did look rather comical, but the girls knew that an angry Dominatrix was something to take very, very seriously. Travesty stuffed a glove into her mouth to stop herself from laughing.
It took a while for Dominatrix to recover enough to give Marguerite an answer. "That little bitch!" she spat venomously. "Ceres. The new girl. She raided the bedrooms and went through all our jewels! She even took your choker, Pearl!"
Pearly Queen let out a strangled cry at the news, Caroline gasped and Travesty choked on her glove. Marguerite did none of these things, but was no less stunned. Ceres. She hadn't been a very prominent girl from what she had seen of her; a small, scrawny individual with hair the colour of dust. Zidler had only taken her on because Circus's spot was empty. She hadn't had the mark of a thief.
"How do you know it was her?" Marguerite asked, praying that she wouldn't be held in suspicion. Her status as the Moulin Rouge's resident thief-by-commission was well known amongst the girls, unless they had proof about Ceres' guilt she would be the prime suspect.
Dominatrix sat down heavily and began spinning one of her knives with deadly efficiency. "Because she's gone. Took off this morning, Zidler's asking around about it. Couldn't have been anyone else, could it? No one would so dumb as to steal a whole load of stuff without nicking off afterwards. Not even you, Tattoo."
Under the circumstances, Marguerite let that comment slide.
"What's been taken?" Pearly Queen asked frantically, already heading for the stairs. Caroline was hot on her heels, moaning something about a favourite necklace. That brought to Marguerite's mind the fact that some of her own jewels might have been taken. She shoved her cousin out of the way and thundered up the bedroom stairs, followed closely by Travesty who was swearing loudly now that she had spat out the glove.
The entire bedroom was in disarray. Jewellery boxes lay beaten and broken upon the ground, remaining necklaces and bracelets scattered in the dust. Nini and Arabia were already there, raving as they collected their remaining gems. China Doll burst into tears and Mome Fromage tried to comfort her.
A few broken clasps and banknotes crunched under Marguerite's boots as she made her way over the floor. Ceres hadn't been thorough in her crime. Marguerite's knowledge of the ways of theft revealed this to be a very rushed job, and Marguerite felt a twinge of pride at the knowledge that she would have done far better. The also appreciated the fact that she wasn't stupid enough to keep her valuables in a jewellery box. Hastily she stepped over the mess towards her mattress to check if her stash of money, some obtained through whoring and some through more illicit means, remained untouched.
She threw back the mattress and instantly didn't know whether to laugh or cry with despair. The money was gone. Every single franc. Marguerite's swearing almost drowned out Travesty's mourning over the loss of her garnet earbobs.
Ceres knew the basics of thieving after all. Well enough to know where a fellow thief might hide her cash.
Ceres, you cunning bitch.
It was almost thought with a hint of admiration.
The next day Zidler summoned them all to rehearsal, despite the collective groan that he was answered with. The dancehall was chilly and the girls shivered in their practice skirts, shawls wrapped tightly about their bony shoulders. Urchin, Garden Girl, Tarot and French Maid were huddled together like chickens on a roost, while Liberty and Harlequin held their hands over their cigarettes for warmth.
"C'mon, Harold," Nini yelled. "Tell us what it's all about and then let us go home."
Satine appeared behind Zidler's shoulder, causing a rush of whispers the flood through the dancers. Zidler silenced them with an impatient wave of his hand. "I want to experiment with some new acts," he justified himself, then murmured an aside to a stagehand that Marguerite only just managed to overhear. "That poor girl, Circus. Do you still have her trapeze?"
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Dun dun duuuuuun… I wanted a little side story about how Satine got her trapeze, and this was the start! Poor Circus, I feel a bit sorry for her, really.