Hello, dears! I'm back with another chapter. Writer's block, be gone! The song lyrics in this are from the theme to the film 'Casablanca'.
The poor tell you, there is no God. Not for you, and not for me either.
'Les Miserables', by Victor Hugo
The Red Room was much larger than your average brothel boudoir, and Marguerite couldn't stop herself from letting out a soft whistle of appreciation. The room was decked in Indian style, according to the latest fashion, with more pillows upon the bed than most girls saw in their lifetimes. Jewels littered the cluttered makeup stand like brightly shimmering candy, and Marguerite felt the familiar thief's itch in her fingers. She was like a magpie, attracted to all things shiny and glimmering that did not belong to her.
At first she had been nervous. Burglary had never been her speciality, and certainly she had never been alone on one of her raids. Travesty's position at the front of the elephant gave her some much-needed confidence, but that did not stop the thought that she was dangerously out of practice.
The ruby necklace wasn't hard to find. Satine was notoriously careless with her jewels, and Marguerite toyed with the idea of stealing the whole lot to teach her a lesson. But that went against her principals. However, she did help herself to some of Satine's absinthe, taking care to smear off any traces of lipstick. Alcohol attracted Marguerite almost as effectively as jewels did.
The rubies sparkled in the gaslight like bubbles of blood cased in silver. They did not contrast against Marguerite's skin- she was too colourful for that- but against milk-white flesh must have looked stunning. No wonder an admirer had given it to Satine. Marguerite found herself transfixed, gazing at the piles of diamonds and sapphires, an amethyst necklace Satine refused to wear (she said it did not suit her), a gold bracelet embossed with ivory…
Marguerite would never be sure how long she stood there, examining various pieces of jewellery, picking up something, putting it down, finding each new jewel more beautiful than the first, when Travesty whistled down below. Unlike her usual smoky voice, Travesty's whistle was loud and piercingly sharp, causing Marguerite to jump in a way that was most undignified. The jerk made her drop the ruby necklace in such a way that it flew across the room, landing somewhere amongst a pile of cushions.
"Oh fuck."
Marguerite hurtled towards the pile of pillows, searching for a glimpse of silver. The logical thing would be to take off without it, but Marguerite had a sense of pride that got in the way of rationality. Outside, Travesty whistled again, more frantic this time, and Marguerite realised that she had to escape now or lose her job and probably a lot more besides. It was too late to go through the door; Satine would see her. Her only option was to go over the roof.
By sheer luck she caught a glimpse of the necklace, grabbed it, and stuffed it down her bodice. Marguerite was not a God-fearing person, but now she reverently thanked 'the man upstairs' for allowing her the foresight to bring a length of rope. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Marguerite headed for the roof of the elephant, glancing towards the ground to see if Satine was there.
The far side of the elephant presented the least risk of being seen, and Marguerite quickly tied one end of the rope around one of the poles. She faintly heard Travesty say something below and Satine answer before she began her climb, trying not to think of the distance between herself and the ground. There was a slapping sound, and Travesty gave a yelp of pain. Perhaps it would be fair if Marguerite bought her a drink as well.
When Marguerite's feet finally touched the ground (she cursed the person who had invented high heeled shoes), she was so relieved she could have bent down and kissed the earth, if it wasn't for the fact that she had no time. She kicked the bushes at the side of the fence to make it look as if an outsider had stolen the necklace and climbed down the roof, and hoped they would take the bait.
"I believe you owe me a drink," she said in the most casual tone she could muster, tapping Travesty on the shoulder.
Travesty spun around to face her, one cheek slightly redder than the other. "Tattoo!" she gasped, her face lighting up. "You got out!"
Marguerite smiled at her. In some ways, Travesty was such an innocent. It was oddly endearing. "Lets just say it's a good thing I can climb…"
The absinthe quickly took hold, and next few hours passed in an emerald soaked blur that fizzed with champagne and triumph. Marguerite remembered vague moments of Travesty's lips across her skin and she returning the gesture, leaving bloody streaks on china white, their fingers entwined, leaving them with swollen, bitten mouths no customer could be responsible for. A final, vicious kiss ended their hours of solitude and Marguerite dragged Travesty to the storeroom where the other girls were anxiously waiting.
"Where have you two been?" Pearly Queen demanded as soon as Marguerite and Travesty slid through the door.
"Repenting our sins," Travesty answered without a trace of embarrassment, nudging Marguerite in the ribs. When Marguerite first kissed her she had coloured, but Travesty seemed fully recovered now.
"Really?" Pearly Queen looked Travesty up and down, scepticism etched across her face. "Travesty, your shirt's undone."
"Is it?" Travesty returned casually, fumbling with a few buttons at her collar.
Dominatrix, patience not being a virtue she was endowed with, roughly pushed Pearly Queen aside and closed in on Marguerite. "Did you get the necklace?" she asked in a manner that suggested she would pull out a knife if Marguerite had not.
Marguerite cast her a look of cool, unruffled disdain. Dominatrix was all talk, to a large extent, and she had been threatened by far more shady types in the past. "I did. Don't look at me like that."
Caroline got up from where she was squashed against Spanish and came forward, her bonnet askew. "You did? Lets see it, then!" she said eagerly, trying to get a glimpse of Marguerite's hands.
Marguerite stepped back for effect, something that was quite hard to achieve in a crowded storeroom, and pulled the necklace from her bodice. Whatever poor light the candles threw out was caught in the sparkling gems, sending red spots dancing across the walls.
The other girls let out a collective gasp of awe. Even Travesty and Dominatrix, who prided themselves on remaining unaffected by all, were silenced.
"Well," Pearly Queen broke in finally with a gulp. "Satine wont be happy when she finds that missing!"
Travesty reached out to brush the gems in Marguerite's hand. "Can I hold it?" she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Marguerite glanced at the other girl in surprise. Travesty wasn't the type to be attracted to all things shiny. "Of course. Don't drop it."
"I wont." Travesty took the necklace from Marguerite and clasped it around her neck. "How do I look?" she asked, posing. Caroline laughed. Travesty could do extraordinarily accurate imitations of Satine.
"Wonderful, darli…" Pearly Queen trailed off, and Caroline began to back away.
Travesty frowned, reaching up towards the necklace. "What is it?"
Marguerite too wondered what had the others afraid. Travesty was standing slightly in front of her and so her view of the other girl was blocked. Gypsy was the one who eventually spoke. "Travesty," she said gently, her voice hushed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say your throat was slit."
"What?" Travesty turned towards Marguerite, still wearing the necklace. "Is that true?"
Red gems spread across Travesty's bare neck like miniscule drops of blood, as if a murderer with a sense for the ornamental had taken a knife to her. Marguerite could not help being shocked. "You look like a ghost, Trav," she whispered. There was simply no way around it. Travesty looked like she was sprayed with blood.
Travesty hastily took of the necklace, uncharacteristically troubled. She held the necklace out from her as if she had developed a superstitious fear of it, but no one volunteered to take it. "Well," Travesty finally rasped. "What do we do with it now?"
Dominatrix gave a frustrated sigh. "Sell it, what else? We'll take it to the pawnshop first thing tomorrow."
Marguerite shook her head, knowing that her expertise in such matters was valued. "Not with something as recognisable as this. It'll be the first place Zidler looks. No, the only place you could pawn this would be a dolly-shop, and they won't give you half of what the necklace is worth."
"And then what?" Dominatrix reddened slightly with anger. "Are we going to give it back now just because these stupid sluts got spooked?"
Somewhere next to Marguerite, Travesty hissed like an angry cat. "Insolent tart."
Dominatrix launched herself at Travesty, Travesty drew her arm back to retaliate and Marguerite only just managed to separate them. "None of that," she murmured in Travesty's ear. "I know how to handle this."
"Do you? Do you really, Tattoo? I'm starting to doubt that." Caroline. Clearly Marguerite had not been quiet enough. "We've got to get rid of it! This was a stupid idea from the start…"
Travesty broke in before Marguerite could answer. "In case I'm not mistaken, Babydoll, you were the one who wanted this," Travesty said with superb arrogance.
"And you did not? Or did you just want to get Tattoo on her own?"
"STOP IT!" Marguerite was so loud she was sure someone outside had heard her, but she was too angry to care. "The necklace is bad news. I'll just go to the elephant and return it later. Make it look like Satine lost it. God knows she's careless enough."
"Take it back? After all that?" Dominatrix's face was livid.
"As far as I know, you didn't lift a finger, Domi." Marguerite grabbed the necklace from Travesty before anyone could stop her and made for the door. Travesty pelted after her and threw herself in Marguerite's way.
"Wait," the brunette said gently. One of her cheeks was slightly swollen, and Marguerite vaguely wondered how it had happened. "I've got a better idea."
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When Marianne was eight, she held her head in the washbasin to see how long it would take before she had to come back up. It had been the perfect isolation- cool, calm and oddly quiet- and she thought she could remain there forever, if allowed, her hair floating about her like some exotic sea kelp. Then one of her brothers had come into the room and pulled her roughly out, spluttering, sodden to the shoulders.
Lying on her bunk still shaken with cramps and bleeding, Marianne wished she had been left in that washroom, her head submerged under the dirty water. The only time she had been cool, calm and quiet. But those things could not be achieved in real life and it was useless to dream after them. There was no quiet for a dirty whore.
A week and half later, Marianne was back in the cancan line and had to work like mad to earn her keep again. Throughout her recovery, Zidler had been reasonably generous, even allowing some portions of food to be sent to her when Antoinette and Harlequin could not afford it. But now she was under pressure to make up the money Zidler had lost, and Antoinette told her that it was an act of extreme compassion on Zidler's part that he did not take eighty percent of her earnings as a punishment.
"He must think you've got what it takes," Antoinette added. It was more likely that Zidler trusted Marianne's new act.
One of the stagehands knew how to shoot, though Marianne did not inquire as to how he had learnt the information. A juggler gave her an old pistol he had used in an act some time ago, and the stagehand (appropriately named Maximilian or Max) taught her how to fire it while the juggler demonstrated how to toss, spin and throw the pistol like a cowboy in the cheap novels of west America.
"Of course, no one really fights like this," Max told her during rehearsal. "But that's not the point, is it?"
The gun-toting revolutionary seemed a popular image at the Rouge. At first, Marianne considered fashioning her act after one of the historical figures she had read about as a young girl, such as her childhood heroines Claire Lacombe and Pauline Leon, but Zidler instantly refused. "Liberty, my dear, this is a dancehall, not a schoolroom," he chuckled pompously the moment Marianne suggested it. "Forget accuracy. Do a few tricks, show them your legs. You have such pretty ones."
Marianne frowned to show her objection to Zidler's attempting to sweet-talk her, but gave in. At least she had an act. Garden Girl, who was by far and away the most talented seamstress amongst the Diamond Dogs, sewed a small holster into the lining of Marianne's black vest, allowing her to reach inside and quickly draw out the pistol. It was a very impressive opening move, provided she was fast enough. Max, who manned the swing doors that let the girls into the dancehall, took to drilling Marianne in the dressing rooms before the show, and Marianne developed an odd delight for drawing the gun on unsuspecting Diamond Dogs backstage and hearing them screech. Tarot in particular had a scream that could break glass.
"You are having far too much fun with that pistol," Antoinette chided gently during rehearsal. It was the first silent moment in days. Satine, the self-proclaimed star of the Moulin Rouge, had spent the past three mornings raving to Zidler about how a burglar had stolen her ruby necklace. Marianne had already laughed at some rather nasty jokes about it from the other Diamond Dogs.
Marianne shrugged and spun the gun deftly in her hand. She had been practicing her gun slinging for the past four days and was due to perform her act for the first time that night. Anxiety gnawed at her belly, and she searched about the hall for something to distract her. Travesty and Tattoo were seated some metres away, and to Marianne's surprise Tattoo actually got up and strolled over to Juno, who was practicing a few dance steps with Tarot. "Juno," Marianne heard Tattoo say, taking Juno's arm in a chummy but insistent manner. "Come and talk to me and Trav for a while."
Marianne watched, puzzled, as Juno glanced beseechingly at Tarot and Tattoo drew the tiny girl away to her table. Travesty smiled at Juno in a way that she probably intended to be welcoming, but instead came off as faintly mischievous. Tattoo pushed the now terrified looking Juno into a chair and pressed a glass of absinthe in her hand, while Travesty leant over, speaking intently under her breath.
What are they up to? Marianne wondered, trying to catch what Travesty was saying. Juno shook her head frantically and tried to stand up, but Tattoo snatched her wrists and held them down. Travesty seemed to be doing most of the talking, while Tattoo poured more absinthe into Juno's glass. "There now," Marianne faintly heard Travesty whisper. "I promise you no harm will come of it. We wouldn't do that to you, Juno." Travesty's smooth drawl was so persuasive Marianne almost believed her on Juno's behalf, if Tattoo had not had that strange grin on her face.
Marianne didn't realise she was staring until Travesty caught her eye and glared pointedly at her. Marianne quickly looked away, face flaming, and tried to fix her eyes on something else. Chocolat had struck up a sentimental music hall tune on the cracked piano, and Max, who was known for being 'good with the ladies', went up to Harlequin and gallantly asked her to dance. Harlequin giggled girlishly, but accepted his offer.
Max and Harlequin waltzed, a rare sight at the Moulin Rouge. Chocolat, enthused, began to sing along in his dark, rich voice, something that made the others stop to listen while Max and Harlequin too centre stage. They did well; Max was a competent enough dancer and Harlequin seemed to be enjoying herself. It was something that did not belong in Montmartre and by rights should be confined to the ballrooms of the rich, but watching Harlequin and Max waltz was a welcome diversion. You must remember this… A kiss is just a kiss… a sigh is just a sigh… The fundamental things of love, as time goes by…
Someone next to her muttered something with contempt, and to Marianne's great surprise that person turned out to be Antoinette. "Sickly sweet, isn't it," the redhead grumbled, regarding Harlequin through viciously narrowed eyes. "Look at her. You wouldn't think she was a whore."
It sounded like something that would be said about Satine, not Harlequin, and certainly not by Antoinette. The two were normally joined at the hip; and Marianne felt a sudden need to defend Harlequin from Antoinette's accusation. "She's only dancing."
"Only dancing?" Antoinette tossed her spectacular mane of curls. "Ha! Watch her face. Oh, that girl is so romantic I could kill her!"
Unfortunately, Harlequin had ended her waltz at that moment and had arrived in time to overhear Antoinette's last words. She stopped dead, hands on hips. Everywhere people were turning to them, eager to watch the imminent argument. "Do you have a problem with me dancing, Antoinette?" Harlequin's voice trembled.
Antoinette did not get up from her chair, choosing instead to glower at her friend. "No, Harle. But I do have a problem with you staring after some boy like a lovesick cow! Do you want to end up on the streets?"
Harlequin flushed; whether with embarrassment or rage, Marianne could never be sure. "Lovesick?" she stammered for a moment, then composed herself somewhat. "What right have you to say something like that? What right have you to dictate whom I dance with, or anything else, for that matter?"
"Dictate?" Antoinette was so furious her voice went up an octave. "Dictate? Who was it that found you in that alley, Giselle, half starved with a baby at your breast? Who was it that told you to leave the brat on the church steps and save yourself? Who found you a job here? You would be dead if it weren't for me!"
The mention of the name 'Giselle' confused Marianne somewhat, until she established that Antoinette must have called Harlequin by her true name. Then the rest of Antoinette's words sunk in. Baby. Harlequin had abandoned a child. No wonder she had encouraged Marianne to do away with her baby before it was born.
Harlequin seemed to crumple before Marianne's eyes. She raised a hand to wipe blackened tears from her cheeks. "Antoinette," she whispered finally. After her earlier outburst, her voice was surprisingly steady. "I told you to never speak of that again."
She turned abruptly and left the dancehall, still covering her face.
Antoinette and Harlequin refused to speak to each other for the rest of the day, and Marianne found herself in the unwelcome position of being their conduit. She took Harlequin's side, thinking that the poor girl was in need of far more sympathy than Antoinette, and spent most of the afternoon trying to convince Antoinette to apologise.
"You did the wrong thing, back then," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.
On this occasion Antoinette actually responded. "I know. I made an awful mess of things."
Marianne, satisfied with the answer, took hold of Antoinette's shoulders and pointed to where Harlequin was sitting at her dressing table, sipping some wine and staring at nothing. "Then go and tell her that," Marianne insisted firmly, giving Antoinette a shove in Harlequin's direction. Being the peacemaker was far more tiresome than she had expected.
With Antoinette now apologising to Harlequin, Marianne took to wandering the corridors to work away the time left till the performance. Her skirt felt heavy against her stockinged legs, and she was in need of new shoes; the current ones pressed painfully on her toes. Silence, she needed silence. With a sigh, she headed for the entertainment corridor. The basin in the washroom would still be full. She would only be a moment… She was about to open the washroom door when some familiar voices floated from the room Tattoo used to do business.
"Word that a bit differently, it sounds as if we're threatening her." Travesty.
"But we are, aren't we?" A different voice, higher, more coarse. Pearly Queen, perhaps, Tattoo's voice was deeper.
"It's a threat, yes, but it's not an immediate one. More like a warning." Babydoll. What was she doing there?
Marianne held her breath, her face so close to the door that her nose was touching it. The next girl to speak was Dominatrix, Marianne would recognise that chilling purr anywhere. "Who cares about technicalities? Just write the damn letter, Trav."
A letter? Marianne shook her head in confusion. What were they up to?
Travesty's voice rang out again; a little frustrated. "Such impatience, Domi! Don't fret now; I'm just about done. Tattoo, do you have any place to hide this and the necklace?"
The necklace. Suddenly everything fell into place. One of the Knives had stolen the necklace, not some passing intruder. It must have been Tattoo; no one else had the skill. Marianne quickly thought back to when she had seen Tattoo and Travesty laughing on the stairs. Tattoo had been holding something sparkly in her hand. But it seemed as if the girls had much more than money on their minds…
A few more minutes of eavesdropping, including a heart-stopping moment when she was nearly caught by Pearly Queen, and Marianne had pieced together the basics of the plan.
She had to admit, it was rather brilliant.
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Another chapter done! Phew. As this will most likely be the last chapter I post before Christmas, allow me to wish you all a very merry Christmas. I want a few reviews as presents, thank you!
References:
Dolly-shop: nineteenth century slang for an illegal pawnshop.
Maximilian: reference to Maximilian Robespierre, one of the leaders of the French Revolution.