Chapter 6: Blossoming Love

Seventy-two. . . seventy-three. . . Carmine continued to brush her hair doggedly, her jaw set. Ariella glanced up from her vanity to watch her friend, her emerald eyes alight with worry. Carmine hadn't said a word since stalking in at four, and had stormed around the tiny room, nearly destroying everything she got her hands on. Now she was hard at work on her ripping out her hair. Ariella sighed and went back to organizing her makeup. Carmine got into these moods occasionally, when a customer had pushed things a little too far or another dancer had been just a little too bitchy.

Strange, though, that it was happening now. Carmine had seemed very pleased with what had been happening at the Moulin. She now had a regular patron in Vincent Latour, and the man was fairly young and not bad looking at all. Her slender purse and rattling jewelry box was rapidly filling-- evidently the man had cash to burn. But tonight Carmine had thrown the velvet box she'd returned with on the table, not even pausing to share the sight with Ariella.

Carmine finished her hundred strokes and sighed. She buried her face in her hands and turned to Ariella. Ariella sat up straight and waited.

How was tonight, Aries? she asked calmly, and the younger girl relaxed. It couldn't be too serious, then. Carmine had nicknamed her that within a week of sharing the same room. She was like an older sister to Ariella, and the two were especially close. Friendships like theirs-- and with the other girls across the hall-- were uncommon in the Moulin Rouge. There was too much back-biting and competition to get to know each other, but the five of them didn't bother with that. They were too busy fighting off attempts from the older dancers to knock them out of the club.

All right, Ariella answered, a little cautiously. Although the tension seemed to have bled out of Carmine's voice, something was obviously wrong.

And Jonathan?

He's fine.

He's a nice boy, Carmine said absently. Did he bring you flowers again tonight? Ariella nodded, a smile appearing on her face.

Yes. I left them with Sugar. She's still upset over the fire, poor thing.

I don't blame her, Carmine said, her voice softening as she thought of the fourteen year old. Did anyone ever get out of her why she went back?

I think the box belonged to her mother, Ariella said quietly. Carmine said nothing for a moment, but her face revealed her empathy for Sugar.

Poor little thing.

Yes. . . Carmine, what is it? she asked exasperatedly, fed up with this game of small talk. First you come in ready to murder someone, and then you ask me about flowers. What is going on?

Carmine's lips twitched and she reached for the velvet box. She traced her fingers over it lightly, and then slowly cracked it open.

she said in return. I'll show you.

The box slipped open to reveal an absolutely breathtaking necklace and tiara. Ariella gasped involuntarily, her finger reaching out to touch the jewels. A herringbone strand of diamonds circled the surface, and towards where Carmine's collarbone would begin, there were large diamonds spaced apart. In the very centre of the necklace, there were three huge rubies, the last one a teardrop the size of half her thumb. The jewels sparkled dimly in the candlelight--Carmine, like Sugar, preferred the soft glow of the flame. The tiara echoed the necklace in design. The gems would fit Carmine's glossy black hair and golden-brown skin perfectly. Ariella barely managed to tear her eyes away from the jewels.

Where did you. . .?

Carmine said softly. He gave them to me tonight. Her eyes drifted off into the distance, remembering the occasion. . .

Carmine had been sitting before the mirror in a filmy robe and corset, absorbed in repairing her makeup and hair. She flicked her earrings that Vincent had given her last week, admiring the way the diamonds and rubies shone. Perfect. She hunted up her cold cream and began applying it to her hands when she was startled by Vincent coming up behind her.

she laughed weakly. I'm sorry, I thought you were asleep.

He didn't respond, but just plucked the small cylinder off the table. He turned it over in his hands, his mind obviously somewhere else.

he said finally. Very nice.

It's really Bella's, Carmine said slowly, turning to face him. Mine ran out last week and I didn't have time to get a new one. I imagine she'll be a bit annoyed when she discovers that it's gone. She smiled crookedly. But you didn't come over to find out where I get my cosmetics, did you?

Vincent answered. He held out a black velvet box. I-- I want you to have this. Carmine raised a quizzical eyebrow and opened it. When she saw what was inside, she gasped.

This-- where did you-- why--

Vincent smiled openly then. For Carmine to lose her control of her voice meant that this had really affected her. So much for the myth of the blasé courtesan. And her voice hadn't risen to an unbearable level. He'd never imagined that a woman from the Moulin Rouge could possess such elegance, class, and beauty. Her lovely face and the fire in her kisses had drawn him in far deeper than he ever expected to go.

It was a pity that Marie couldn't have those attributes along with the money her dowry had consisted of. But wasn't that what the girls at the Rouge were for? A wife for the money, a courtesan for the love. Carmine's love was expensive-- the contents of the box proved that-- but it was worth it.

I understood it was, shall we say, proper to give the woman you love gifts.

But this-- Carmine stopped abruptly. What did you say? she whispered intensely. Had she heard the right thing? Vincent rested a hand on her shoulder, breathing heavily.

I love you, he said, using the pet name he'd developed for her. You're the most beautiful woman in the world. . . and you really are mine, He lifted her chin and kissed her, even as her heart was sinking. For a brief, painful moment, she'd imagined that he'd loved her. . . really loved her for who she was. . .

She should have known better.

Carmine? Carmine, are you even listening to me? Why does this bother you?

I don't know, she answered Ariella softly, her voice filled with frustration. I don't know! Aries, I need to go for a walk. I'll be back soon, all right? She stood abruptly, and almost ran out of the room, pulling her shawl around her. She ran through the halls, her hair flying behind her in a steady ebony stream. She finally reached the cool night air of the garden, and sank down on a bench.

Ariella was right. This shouldn't bother her. But it did. She angrily slammed her hand against the tree trunk.

she screamed out into the night, her voice raw. She should have known better than to slip up like that. Hadn't her mother taught her anything?

Carmine de Blanchett had been born in the slums of Paris to a Spanish mother and a French father. She had inherited her mother's beauty and talent, and the woman had scraped to put Carmine through dance and acting lessons. Carmine would be an chorus girl in the opera ballet, and then rise to become a full-fledged actress. Her exotic looks would serve her well. But when Carmine had been barely fourteen, her mother had died. Perhaps that was why she was so fond of Sugar. The frightened little girl reminded her so much of herself at that time. Her father had neither the money nor the inclination to continue Carmine's lessons, and the opening in the ballet had slipped away from her. So there she was, trained to be on the stages of Paris, doing laundry for the bourgeois. Was it any wonder Carmine had wandered to the Moulin Rouge? She had been born to be on stage. The common life was not for her. Or so Mama had told her.

But somewhere in between her lessons and her mother's work to keep her daughter beautiful, Carmine had become a dreamy hopeless romantic. Ironic, wasn't it, that the girl who seemed born to be a smoldering temptress was a wilting flower at heart? She had craved love desperately, but her pride had always stayed stiff. She would not allow herself to fall for some Bohemian musician. But a wealthy man. . . no, there were no rules against that.

Vincent is married, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. And he's not the sort of man to cast aside any of his social standing for a mistress. Especially not a common whore from the Moulin Rouge.

But that didn't mean that they couldn't be happy. She would make him fall in love with her. She had to. He was a man of intelligence and taste, and she would make him see there was more to her than a pretty face and a pair of open legs. And a mistress to a man like him would live in a great deal of luxury.

There was one more factor that Carmine dared not admit, even to herself. She loved him. Loved him for his taste, his judgment. He was civilized and clean. Every remark betrayed his intelligence and education. Carmine had always loved the better things in life. Silks, jewels, theatre, art, and music. Perhaps one day Vincent would take her to the opera. Perhaps. . . perhaps, one day, he would be her patron for the opera. A shiver ran down her spine.

He would take her away from the Moulin Rouge and give her back her rightful place in life. Carmine de Blanchett, the famous opera singer. And behind the scenes, the lover of Vincent Latour. Not his mistress, his lover. They would meet as equals away from the nightclub. He would pick the Spanish Rose and transplant her in new and better soil.

Carmine lips curved up in a contented smile and the turmoil she had felt before dissolved into peace. She pulled her shawl back around her shoulders and threw her head up. The squalor of the backstage of the Moulin Rouge didn't bother her this time. She threw open the door to their rooms and hit the disused electric switches. All four girls immediately sat up. Karita hit her head on the rod near her makeshift bed and let out a stream of very unladylike curses.

Bella snapped, vainly trying to cover her eyes. What the hell are you playing at?

What's going on? Ariella had luckily only been a little bit asleep, and was relived at the joyous expression on Carmine's face. Carmine threw her arms up and posed against the bright light. Sugar giggled and clapped her hands at the sight of Carmine madly dancing and throwing her sleek black tresses around.

Vincent. Latour. Is. Going. To. Fall. In. Love. With. Me, she announced proudly. The girls looked at each other for a long moment.

Karita said, snapping the light off. Now go to bed.

No, you don't underst-- Ariella dragged Carmine off to their room and shut the door. Suddenly and impulsively, she hugged the older girl.

We understand, Carmine. Now go get some sleep. You can't make a man fall in love with a dead girl. Not even you, the ultimate smoldering temptress. Now go to bed.

Carmine did go to bed, but it was doubtful whether she slept much. For the first time in nearly five years, she had a reason to live for. She was in love. And this-- this beautiful, dizzying feeling wasn't forbidden. It was all right to fall in love with a wealthy man that would bathe this rose in better sunlight.

Carmine didn't realize one thing. If you pick a rose, it will wither away.

Even in a crystal vase.