In the Planning Stages
"Should this plan succeed, sparrow," Harold stated from behind me, "we'll see both our dreams come true."
My dream, of course, was obvious, but while Harold shared my love of acting to an extent, I knew his dream included making a lot of money. The Moulin Rouge was incredibly profitable as a nightclub, and the fact he was willing to take such a risk on my aspirations was almost touching – until you realized he saw less the fulfillment of hopes and desires, and more the profitability in such an endeavor.
I stood at my dressing table backstage, in a small nook I had over the years claimed as 'mine.' Though none of us really had the privilege of individual dressing rooms, the little area was littered with my costumes, many which were unsuitable for the other girls without alteration in length. On a hook by the mirror hung a brass cage inside which a little bird chirped away happily. I'd adopted it as a pet a year or so before, as it reminded me of myself – and the day I finally made my dreams come true, I planned to set it free.
While Marie busied herself with the intricate fastenings of my costume for the opening number, I glanced toward Harold's reflection in the mirror, and saw he looked quite pleased with himself – and why should he not? If the plan did work, our vision of the Moulin Rouge as a theatre would become reality.
The only problem now was that everything was being left up to me – Harold had found the financier to back the production, but I had to win him over, however entertaining (if twisted) the thought of Harold in a corset and heels was for a brief moment.
"This Duke shouldn't be too difficult to convince, either," he went on with a note of boisterous confidence. "Just weave your web of magic, flatter him generously, and he'll be putty in your hands, duckling."
I turned around and gave him a skeptical look as I tugged on the first of the black, elbow-length satin gloves. It wasn't the first time I'd have to seduce an important client, certainly – I'd had nobility and politicians at the receiving end of my charms – but I didn't share his unfaltering confidence in my abilities.
The thought filtered into my mind that one of the other girls could do it – there were many who brought in nearly as much money as I did, and who had their own loyal followings. Arabia and China Doll were especially popular for their exoticism, men delighted over Nini's high kicks – feeling for certain she must be able to do quite a few other things with her legs – and even Môme Fromage kept up a good business in the Gothic Tower.
"Are you sure I should be the one to do this, Harold?" I asked after a moment. "Really, perhaps Nini –"
But he would have none of it. "Nonsense, cherub. You're the only one to do the job – besides, do you really want to leave this in the hands of someone else?"
"I suppose not," I responded reluctantly, and it was true. Though I still wasn't convinced that I was right for this, I was a perfectionist – I was the one who drove all the other performers in my routines crazy because I insisted upon going over them time and again until we got it just right.
Even still, I couldn't mask my trepidation – if I failed, all our dreams would be shattered. The Moulin Rouge would remain a nightclub, however profitable, and its employees just 'denizens of the underworld.' The Children of the Revolution wouldn't have their show, Harold would be missing out on a money-making opportunity, and I . . . I would be left as little more than a common courtesan, all my hopes of becoming an actress dashed.
Turning back to the mirror, I examined my reflection – the glittering costume, the heavy stage makeup, the elaborate hairstyle. I knew I was attractive; men called me beautiful, and they pandered over me, offered me money, jewels, favors – anything for my 'love.' Why was I to expect this one should be any different?
"I'll see you on the dance floor, cherub!" Harold exclaimed, grabbing up his top hat and running off to begin the opening number.
Soon I could hear the notes of his familiar routine with the Diamond Dogs sounding from outside – noting with some hint of nostalgia that I had once been part of that extravaganza.
Because you can can-can, I hummed to myself, reaching for a makeup pencil and touching up the lines of my eyebrows.
"Satine!"
The voice that sounded behind me was too high-pitched to be Harold, and I knew at once from the trademark lisp that it was none other than Toulouse-Lautrec, who had somehow managed to get backstage to me – somewhere guests at the club were rarely allowed, could the diminutive artist and his group of Bohemians really be considered guests. More often, they displeased by the bartender by bringing their own Absinthe, and if they made an order simply to pay for the space they were taking up, they ended up nursing whatever drink was offered.
I spun around to face him in surprise, though my expression was one of exasperation.
"Toulouse, what are you doing here?"
"I, ah – needed to talk to you," he lisped out, reaching up to remove his top hat and turning it around in his hands by its brim.
I quirked a carefully-penciled brow in response to this, and promptly turned back to the mirror in order to pin on my own hat.
He said nothing, perhaps silenced by this show of disinterest, and with a faint sigh of long-suffering I asked, "Well?"
"Audrey –" he stammered out, before exclaiming, "Audrey has left!"
Not having expected this, by any means, I gave a horrified gasp, watching my own eyes widen in the mirror.
I was already nervous, and this news did not lend a boost to my confidence. It meant, in short, that we were without a writer. And without a show to perform, how was that going to look in our presentation to the Duke? 'We'd like you to finance our show, only we don't have one yet'?
This wasn't going well at all, but as I opened my mouth to respond, I noticed Toulouse seemed unabashed by the whole ordeal.
He straightened, and exclaimed pleasantly, "But luckily, we have found a replacement!"
I frowned, unimpressed and doubtful that any last moment stand-in for Audrey would be able to capably handle writing Spectacular Spectacular.
"Another one of your protégés?" I asked flatly.
"Well, yes! But this one is quite different, very talented," he enthused, then – seemingly for good measure – added, "He is famous in England!"
I glanced over my shoulder at the much shorter man, who looked almost absurd in his evening finery, the sash of his cummerbund hanging nearly to his shins.
"If he's famous, why is he helping us?" I demanded, certain he was lying.
"Well, well . . ." For a moment, he seemed to be at a loss, before he spoke up again, "It doesn't matter that he isn't famous – yet! He is a true Bohemian Revolutionary – he believes in truth, beauty, freedom, and – above all things – love!"
Yes, love . . . love, that ideal all the Bohemians held sacred, and yet so few actually experienced. I sighed softly, turning to face him fully.
"At least give him a chance," Toulouse pleaded, "I just know you'll love him."
My distraction over the grand performance I was about to give was surely putting my nerves on end, and I had more important things to worry about than the Bohemian's latest discovery. Toulouse was trying a little too hard to push him off on me, but really, it didn't matter how good (or bad) this new writer was, as long as he got the job done. Once we had secured the Duke's promise of financial aid, we could always fire him and find a new one.
"All right," I finally answered reluctantly, putting away my skepticism for the moment.
The familiar music began to die down – cueing my opening -- and with one more hasty glance at the mirror, I turned and hurried away.
"When will you meet him?" Toulouse called out at my retreating back.
"I'll meet him after my number!" I returned, but I had more important things to worry about first.