*note: I decided against trying to write Toulouse's accent, for fear of mangling it completely. Hopefully anyone reading this can make it up in their heads.*

**********************************

Christian had been up the better part of the night, writing the play. Not re-writing, but completely starting over. It had been such a ridiculous mess that he'd never been able to finish reading ten pages. He'd stayed up too late, smoked too many cigarettes, and drank too much absinthe, but he'd pounded out two-thirds of a play. He hoped Zidler would be pleased enough with that for now. He'd fallen asleep at three-thirty, and had awoken abruptly at seven to clattering from Toulouse's place upstairs. Bleary eyed, he rose from bed, cleaned up, and changed his clothes. Typical writer garb--black trousers with suspenders, white shirt, and a vest. He threw a coat on, since Paris mornings were a little chilly at this hour, gathered up the pile of papers next to his typewriter, doffed his hat, and stepped out of the room.

As he headed for the stairs, he glanced at his new neighbor's door. He wondered if she would show up today, then he wondered why he cared. He didn't care, he reminded himself, and bounded down the stairs.

He stepped into a bright, sunny world, bustling with activity. A normal day for all of these people. He moved across the street, stopped. The windmill turned above his head, mocking him. He hadn't been here in seven years. Not since…

I believe you were expecting me.

Yes…yes.

You're going to be bad for business, I can tell…

Tell our story, Christian…I'll always be with you…

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out her voice. He summoned courage from somewhere, opened his eyes, and strode toward the doors.

It never ceased to amaze him how lucky Harold Zidler had been to get back the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, after the fiasco with the Duke. But who could have predicted the Duke would have fallen madly in love with a young woman, whose parents didn't approve of him essentially owning the nightclub? As Toulouse had told the story to Christian, the girl's parents had been so distraught that the Duke had been involved with such a place that they insisted he give back the deeds--"There is no reason whatsoever to make money off of such a place!"--and the Duke, desperate to marry his lady love, and her money, had handed the club back over to Zidler, no questions asked. In the year the Moulin Rouge had been closed, it had fallen into disrepair. But Zidler was crafty, and had sought out new investors who had helped turn the Moulin Rouge around. Now it was the theater he'd always dreamed of--only without his Sparrow.

Christian pushed open the doors and walked into the theater. It looked basically the same as it had last he'd seen it--seats up and down the sides, the aisle up the middle, the stage straight ahead. It was more finished looking now. He started up the aisle, trying not to remember the last time he'd walked towards the stage.

"Christian, my boy!" Zidler shouted from the orchestra pit. Christian suppressed a sigh as the boisterous man climbed out and motioned him over. "What's that you have there, hmm?"

Christian handed over the script. "It's not finished yet, but it's the best I could do last night."

Zidler grinned at him. "If it's anything like any of your other works of art, it will be magnificent, stupendous!"

"Yes, well…" Christian repressed the urge to roll his eyes. After all these years, the man hadn't changed a bit. Overdramatic, a flair for the bold. He supposed that was what made him so good at what he did.

A shout from the stage turned Christian's head. He smiled. "Hello, Toulouse."

Toulouse ran down the steps to Christian and Zidler, his ever-present bottle of absinthe clutched tightly in his hands. "You're here! You're really here! Zidler said you would be, but I told him, I said, Christian won't be showing up here! But here you are!"

Christian laughed. "Yes, here I am."

"You said you'd never come back!"

"Well…things change," Christian said uncomfortably, taking off his hat and resting it on one of the seats.

"So, my boy," Zidler said, sitting down. "Why don't you tell us about this marvelous play you've written?"

Christian nodded. "Yes. Well. It's about love."

Zidler smiled. "Could it possibly be about anything else?" He winked.

Toulouse gave a laugh, and a few others gathered around to hear the writer tell about his play.

"There's a young woman, a beautiful young woman. She has dreams of being a star, a famous actress, a singer, a dancer. She comes to the city to follow her dreams, as she's heard of a major dance company that is putting on a play, singing, acting, everything she's terribly good at. Meanwhile, she's found herself madly in love from afar with a man, a musician, who has written songs that she's loved. She doesn't even know him, but she knows he's the one for her. She knows he's from that same city, and sets out to find him, as well as her dreams." Christian paused for a breath, and to gather his thoughts. As he'd sat at his typewriter last night, a pleasant haze from the absinthe surrounding him, he'd thought of that girl from the cafe--Alyse--and the ideas had flowed from his brain to his fingertips to the paper. "The man she's in love with, he's been burnt by love before, and he refuses to allow himself to feel anything again. They continually cross paths--walk past each other on the street, eat in the same cafes. He sees her, but she never sees him. He falls in love with the woman, too, but won't allow himself confess his feelings for fear of another loss." He began to pace in front of the others, pulling out his cigarettes and absently lighting one as he spoke.

"Meanwhile, there is another man. A good man, a loving man, a wealthy man. He has fallen in love with the girl as well, and while she is fond of him, her feelings are nothing like the ones she feels for the musician. She tries to love him, but is unable to feel anything more for him than friendship. However, she agrees to marry him, because she knows she'll never find her musician, and doesn't want to live her life alone, without family, without children." He stopped and looked at Zidler. "That's as much as I've written so far. I've yet to work out the ending…"

"Bravo, bravo!" shouted Toulouse, and the Argentinean next to him nodded. "The boy still has talent!"

"Splendid, fantastic!" exclaimed Zidler, jumping up and pounding Christian on the back. "You've still got the knack, my boy!"

Christian coughed and took a last drag from his cigarette. "Thank you," he managed, short of breath from the beating from Zidler.

The man smiled, and his voice boomed throughout the room. "We've got our play! We've got our writer back! And now, it's time to find the actors!" With a wave of his arm, he skipped off down the aisle, where Christian could see a group of people, presumably there to audition, beyond the open doors, waiting admittance to the Moulin Rouge.

"Christian, Christian…" called Toulouse. "Zidler's brought the typewriter down, in case you wanted to work on the play some more…"

"Thanks, Toulouse," Christian replied, moving over to the little table off to the side of the stage. A typewriter, a stack of paper, and a few pencils sat on the table, with a chair scooted up to it. He laid his coat across the back of his chair and sat down. He rolled a sheet of paper into the machine, and then sat, staring at it. The hairs on the back of his neck had suddenly started to prickle. Must be a chill in here, he thought, and ignored it. Words came into his mind, and he quickly got to work, pecking at the keys as Zidler pranced about the stage, calling out to the crowd of people lined up to audition. Christian finished a sentence and looked up, amused, as Zidler made some outlandish statement about the Moulin Rouge, and the play, and whoever won the roles would be fabulously famous and spectacularly well known once they starred in the play. His eyes swept over the crowd briefly, noting all types of people--old women, young men, and everything in between.

Then his eyes landed on pale blonde hair, and the prickles came up again on his neck.

She'd come. She was here to audition.