Spectacular, Spectacular (The Duke)
A/N: Part 2 in my Moulin-song-POV fics!
Well, I am quite the lucky one, sitting in on the so-called "emergency rehearsal" for the "truly Bohemian spectacle" that these odd people are putting on.
They are likely the strangest people I've met. The dark one, the one with the slurred voice and mustache, keeps clunking to the floor after a dramatic crossing of his eyes. When he awakens from his sudden slumber, a stream of curse words to the likes I've never heard fall from his Spanish lips.
The bald one at the piano with his bizarre voice gives me chills, and the befuddled looking man with the straggly beard (he should groom that; he looks like a street person!) looks at me with piercing eyes.
The little man with the loud lisp and short legs is so exuberant that I am frightened. Shouldn't he be in a home for those people, locked away where nobody can see his deformed body? But no, he stands in my presence, drinking glass after glass of that horrid absinthe.
And the writer (Christian, is it?), well, they haven't warped him yet. An innocent looking boy, handsome, but no contest to my looks. He's standing quite close to my Satine, looking at her strangely. The boy's probably infatuated with her, but everyone knows she is enamored of me.
Ah, Satine. How out of place she is with these "Bohemians." Why, she should be wearing wings and a halo, for truly she is an angel. Once I get her out of this horrid place, she will wear only the finest clothing, attend teas with only the finest people, live an upper class life with me at her side. I will be the envy of all France, all London. (So will she, having captured such a prize as myself!)
Oh, I'm trying to hide my distaste for this madcap performance they're putting forth. What is this disaster? Spectacular, Spectacular? Why, it's madcap cow dung! The courtesan and the penniless sitar player conducting their affair under the eyes of the maharajah? Preposterous, indeed! What woman wants love when she can have money, protection?
I shall smile and make them believe I'm actually enjoying this. Why, it's awful! And Harold? That plump jolly man with his pink cheeks and his hair that is definitely NOT a natural color is making me nauseous with his talk of investing. Me, invest in this?
Just as I think I will get up and leave the place, I notice Satine. She gives off blue sparks of her electric life light, far outshining anyone in the room, the Moulin Rouge, the city, the country, the continent, the world. How could one so beautiful be in a place like this, this gutter- trash filth hole? Her eyes are on me, and I smile, basking in the glory of my good looks.
But that writer . . .he looks at her with something starry, something like love in his eyes. No! She doesn't love him, surely he knows that. She loves me! The Duke of Monroth, with my fortune and fifteen horses and manservant and, of course, my handsomeness. There is not one man in all of England who captivates women as I do. I've captivated the infamous Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, so certainly I must be something!
What are they doing? Oh, yes, I see now. They're acting out the play. "The courtesan and sitar man are pulled apart by an evil plan . . ." sings the writer, pulling open the curtain to show Satine and that Argentinean in each other's arms.
"But in the end, she hears his song!" Rings out the angelic voice of Satine, looking at that writer boy and then quickly looking away.
"And their love is just too strong."
Moved by this display, I sing! "It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside." My voice is splendid! Why did I not participate in choirs?
"The sitar player's secret song helps deplete the evil one!" The writer informs me in song.
Oh, there's jolly Harold, trying to be menacing.
"And in the end, should someone die?" I ask. The Bohemians and Satine end their impromptu performance with an elaborate, quickly pulled together pose, all looking at me for my reaction.
I suppose I shall invest in this calamity, for the sake of my Satine. I'm sure it fall in ruins around my feet, but I will do so anyway.
"Generally, I like it."
They all cheer, and the writer hugs Satine like a lovesick puppy dog. Oh, you silly boy. Don't you realize? She is mine.
A/N: Part 2 in my Moulin-song-POV fics!
Well, I am quite the lucky one, sitting in on the so-called "emergency rehearsal" for the "truly Bohemian spectacle" that these odd people are putting on.
They are likely the strangest people I've met. The dark one, the one with the slurred voice and mustache, keeps clunking to the floor after a dramatic crossing of his eyes. When he awakens from his sudden slumber, a stream of curse words to the likes I've never heard fall from his Spanish lips.
The bald one at the piano with his bizarre voice gives me chills, and the befuddled looking man with the straggly beard (he should groom that; he looks like a street person!) looks at me with piercing eyes.
The little man with the loud lisp and short legs is so exuberant that I am frightened. Shouldn't he be in a home for those people, locked away where nobody can see his deformed body? But no, he stands in my presence, drinking glass after glass of that horrid absinthe.
And the writer (Christian, is it?), well, they haven't warped him yet. An innocent looking boy, handsome, but no contest to my looks. He's standing quite close to my Satine, looking at her strangely. The boy's probably infatuated with her, but everyone knows she is enamored of me.
Ah, Satine. How out of place she is with these "Bohemians." Why, she should be wearing wings and a halo, for truly she is an angel. Once I get her out of this horrid place, she will wear only the finest clothing, attend teas with only the finest people, live an upper class life with me at her side. I will be the envy of all France, all London. (So will she, having captured such a prize as myself!)
Oh, I'm trying to hide my distaste for this madcap performance they're putting forth. What is this disaster? Spectacular, Spectacular? Why, it's madcap cow dung! The courtesan and the penniless sitar player conducting their affair under the eyes of the maharajah? Preposterous, indeed! What woman wants love when she can have money, protection?
I shall smile and make them believe I'm actually enjoying this. Why, it's awful! And Harold? That plump jolly man with his pink cheeks and his hair that is definitely NOT a natural color is making me nauseous with his talk of investing. Me, invest in this?
Just as I think I will get up and leave the place, I notice Satine. She gives off blue sparks of her electric life light, far outshining anyone in the room, the Moulin Rouge, the city, the country, the continent, the world. How could one so beautiful be in a place like this, this gutter- trash filth hole? Her eyes are on me, and I smile, basking in the glory of my good looks.
But that writer . . .he looks at her with something starry, something like love in his eyes. No! She doesn't love him, surely he knows that. She loves me! The Duke of Monroth, with my fortune and fifteen horses and manservant and, of course, my handsomeness. There is not one man in all of England who captivates women as I do. I've captivated the infamous Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, so certainly I must be something!
What are they doing? Oh, yes, I see now. They're acting out the play. "The courtesan and sitar man are pulled apart by an evil plan . . ." sings the writer, pulling open the curtain to show Satine and that Argentinean in each other's arms.
"But in the end, she hears his song!" Rings out the angelic voice of Satine, looking at that writer boy and then quickly looking away.
"And their love is just too strong."
Moved by this display, I sing! "It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside." My voice is splendid! Why did I not participate in choirs?
"The sitar player's secret song helps deplete the evil one!" The writer informs me in song.
Oh, there's jolly Harold, trying to be menacing.
"And in the end, should someone die?" I ask. The Bohemians and Satine end their impromptu performance with an elaborate, quickly pulled together pose, all looking at me for my reaction.
I suppose I shall invest in this calamity, for the sake of my Satine. I'm sure it fall in ruins around my feet, but I will do so anyway.
"Generally, I like it."
They all cheer, and the writer hugs Satine like a lovesick puppy dog. Oh, you silly boy. Don't you realize? She is mine.
