Author's Note: I don't own Moulin Rouge. And I don't know what the heck this is, a different PoV of sorts. What can I say? I don't put forth best effort when I write fanfiction.
Father Curie stood in front of the gaping maw that was the front gate to the small village of Montmarte. The grotesque structure towered over the otherwise 'respectable' Parisian street. Curie shrugged his robes closer to his neck, drawing them tightly over his shoulders as he shivered against the cold. He stared out of watery eyes, gazing at the crowd surrounding him, and smiled inwardly while maintaining his pious, sympathetic mask. The fools had taken long enough to listen to his sermons, his warnings. They had strayed and they had demanded that God give them a sign before admitting their wrongs. Curie had prayed long and hard for that sign, any sign, even a small one, that would draw the strays back to him and the parish. And He had come through for His devout follower and priest. The crowd was surrounded by a frosty mist of their sour breath. Curie raised his hands into the air and continued his sermon in his compassionate tone.
"Brothers," He began. "Sisters. Long have I stood in this spot and prayed for Him to show us the way. Prayed for Him to cast the sinners into hell so that we, his loyal flock, might be spared from the depravity and degradation that goes on in this village of sin. And have we not been rewarded? Have our prayers not been answered?" He listened as the crowd buzzed faintly, muttering questions among themselves as more passerby's stopped to watch. He drew a long breath. "That's right, brothers and sisters! The Lord hath struck down she who was the epitome of all the evil of Paris! The Whore of Babylon who stalked among us!"
Among the crowd there was a mixed reaction. There were those who smiled and nodded in wise Christian manner, but there were (Curie could barely believe their audacity) those who also frowned and began to watch the priest with unkind eyes. And, of course, there were those who possessed vacant looks with craned or tilted neck, faint confusion and curiosity show quite plainly on plain faces. After all, Curie reflected, the incident had not been worthy of the front pages. He felt that it should not have merited the small column in the last page of the last section of the newspaper with which it was reported. But there it had been, in its offensive type, disturbing his morning breakfast.
The story had spread fast enough by word of mouth. It had been whispered among those of high-society as they stood stolid after church, their consciences still eased by recent confessions and donations. It had been gossiped among the accountants and shopkeepers as the dawdled their ways to nearby cafes or parlors. And it had been cried or lamented by the depraved sub-humans who, no doubt too troubled by their constant servitude to Satan, rarely even gave a second glance towards the church.
"She was called the 'Sparkling Diamond'!" His voice rose and boomed across the open square. Recognition of the title sparked in even the dullest eyes. "But do we not know that all that glitters is not gold, my brothers and sisters? Has He not shown us what great punishment lies at the end of a road for the sinner? This evil witch died alone!" A faint, angry buzz was heard from the back of the crowd. "Forsaken from His ever lasting love! She was cast into the fires of hell!" There was a sharp scuffling sound, but Curie pressed on. He felt assured by those nearest to him who stood with adoring eyes. "The Syphilis-ridden siren of the underworld! She who sang her song and lured others into the den of deceit and pox! Beelzebub and Jezebel shall keep her company now!"
"LIAR!" A raw sounding scream sounded from behind him and Curie turned. And the foul-smelling, unshaven, gutter trash youth was upon him. While Curie vainly tried to shield himself from the onslaught of blows, the crowd panicked and a few men from the village of Montmarte tried to pull the attacker away.
"You didn't know her!" He was screaming, the stench of absinthe spewing from his throat. "You didn't know anything about her!"
"Get off! Get off! Stop! Police!"
"She was nothing like that! She was better than you!" The Bohemian men from Montmarte finally yanked the man away and dragged him back into village. He was still shrieking. "She was kind! And she was better than you'll ever be! Liar!" Curie barely made out the words of comfort and admonishment the man was being given.
"Christian, calm down."
"What were you thinking?"
"Doesn't matter . . ."
"It matters! What right does he have!" Astonished, Curie watched the sobbing man be led away from the gate. Slowly he rose to his feet while gently rubbing his neck where the madman had gripped it. The crowd was reeling, waiting for his words. Curie turned to face them. He swallowed.
"Do you see, brothers and sisters? What spells this woman cast upon men? Convincing them that there was any good in her blackened soul? Turning us from His everlasting love?" Already those of pious nature in the crowd were smiling again, nodding with self-assurance.