How to Win the Heart of a Poet

Prologue: A Different Beginning

You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer! Chrisian's father's voice bellowed. Christian sighed deeply.

Father, I have to write, he said, desperately trying to keep his voice calm. I have to-- it's just in me to do so. His father exhaled deeply, taking all the rage out of his voice and leaving him looking like a very old man. His shoulders slumped as he looked at his son.

Christian, my boy, you're my only son. Is it asking too much for you to stay here where you belong? Christian only shook his head silently. He had to become a writer. The passion for words flowed alongside blood in his veins. He belonged to the divinely ordinated group of poets. His father leaned his head against the mantelpiece.

What if you stayed in England and wrote? he asked begrudgingly. Christian's head lifted up at that and he stared slack jawed at his father.

You don't mean--?

Stay here, his father said, every word coming out with considerable relucatance. And your mother and I will do everything in our power to assist you.

Christian paused. A negative affirmation danced on his lips, but he hesitated beofore voicing it. The lure of the Bohemian promises were strong, but. . . something in his father's countenance spoke of pleading. He was getting old, and Mother was a fragile creature. His only sister, Margaret, was shy and timid, preferring to help silently rather than speak. His family needed him. And Christian needed to write. After all, he asked himself reasonably, couldn't he be a child of the revolution in England a well as France?

All right, Father, Christian said, rising and extending his hand. Thank you. . . I know you don't like my writing. Christian's father gripped his hand tightly.

We need you here, Christian, he said simply. His face seemed grey and tired, and Christian wondered that he hadn't noticed it before.

Then I'll stay, Father. Then I'll stay. Christian's father pressed his son's hand tightly, and the tension in the room dissolved to a bare minimum.

In that coveted village in Paris, the famed courtesan of the Moulin Rouge slid over to a private box and smiled seductively at the occupant.

I believe you were expecting me? she asked breathily, taking comfort in his obvious interest in her charms. He wasn't horrible looking, either-- his face was too narrow, and his teeth-- but Satine had been through worse. And whatever he might be lacking in personal attributes, he more than made up for it in the financial department.

Yes . . . the Duke said, his nasal voice dripping with lust. I am.

~-~-~
Author's Note: All the characters of Moulin Rouge belong to their respective owners. However, should Christian ever become public domain, he is mine! :evil grin: Please review and let me know what you think! (This is just the prologue, so it's particularly short. The rest of the chapters should be longer)

On a side note, the sequel to The Price of Love is coming! I've written about half of the first chapter and I've blocked out most of the story. Exciting things are happening. :D