How the Story Really Ends
Harold went off to see to the rest of the production, and I began to prepare. Tonight may have been opening night, but the premiere of Spectacular Spectacular would be nothing compared to the other performance I was going to give.
Marie helped me to dress in a somber suit of grey, and more than ever before I was conscious of my own difficulty breathing. I wondered how long I had been gradually wasting away, before I even knew it. It was a harsh blow to realize what was happening, but how could I not have noticed it before? My fainting spells, the hacking coughs – I was so blind to it all. Hadn't I seen it enough to realize I'd taken consumption?
I stared at my reflection in the mirror in consideration – strange, I didn't look like a woman who was dying.
On the outside, while not a glowing picture of health, I didn't look terribly different from usual. I had always been fair, and while it was now turning to a sort of pallor, I still wasn't noticeably ailing. It shared a complexity with so man things about life in Montmartre – on the outside, everything might look beautiful, but on the inside, it's crumbling apart.
I finished cleaning up the smeared remains of my makeup, then raised my hands to lower the veil on my hat.
"Inside my heart is breaking,
My makeup may be flaking,
But my smile still stays on . . ."
I sang quietly to myself, and glanced to Marie, before continuing.
"Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance –
Another heartache, another failed romance.
On and on, does anybody know
What we are living for?"
I emerged from my dressing room and began to take the walk through the backstage of the Moulin Rouge, where preparations were still busily commencing for the show – seamstresses sewing the curtains and doing last minute alterations of costumes, technicians painting and hammering and sawing – but I looked upon it all with a sort of detachment.
"I guess I'm learning, I must be warmer now,
I'll soon be turning 'round the corner now.
Outside the dawn is breaking,
But inside the dark I'm aching to be free!
The show must go on,
The show must go on . . ."
I came out onto the stage, and the spotlight fell across me.
"I'll top the bill, I'll earn the kill,
I have to find the will to carry
On with the, on with the –
On with the show . . ."
Harold was standing by the open doorway, through which the morning light was streaming, and his voice filled the air as I walked by.
"On with the show, on with the show!
The show . . . must . . . go . . . on!"
Yes, the show would go on, just as Harold had always instilled in me, but my mind swam as I walked the short distance to Christian's garret. I tried not to question the plan – there would be no other way I could force him to leave, to keep him safe. If I told him the truth, he would want to stay and fight for me, to get me away from the Duke. But he couldn't fight Death, and I couldn't allow him to sacrifice himself, not for me.
Keeping the thought of protecting him at the front of my mind, I steeled my resolve and opened the door of the garret.
Christian was standing at the window, leaning against the frame, and I knew he had been watching the sun rise over the windmill-graced horizon as we had done together countless times. He turned to face me as the door swung open, brows furrowing in concern.
"What's wrong?" he asked, and for a moment I thought my nerves would fail me.
But I drew in a breath, the words tumbling out faster than natural. "I'm staying with the Duke."
At his look of confusion, as if it were absolutely impossible that I should come in and say such a thing, I continued hastily, "After I left you, the Duke came to see me. He offered me everything – everything I've ever dreamed of. But he has one condition – I must never see you again."
I tried to make it seem as if I were happy about this, but I knew my words sounded hollow and untruthful – exactly what they were. "I'm sorry," I offered detachedly, though that was the most sincere thing I had said thus far.
"What are you talking about?" Christian asked incredulously, stepping toward me.
"You knew who I was –" I started, by way of explanation.
"What are you saying?" he interrupted. "What about last night – what we said?"
I straightened to my full height, setting my face in an impersonal, unreadable expression.
"I don't expect you to understand," I said coldly. "The difference between you and I is that you can leave any time you choose. But this is my home. The Moulin Rouge is my home."
"No, there must be something else," he insisted, obviously convinced of it. "This – this can't be real –"
I turned away from him, my breath coming shortly, and gasped for air. This had become infinitely harder than I had even imagined, but the reminder of my illness was a painful one. I couldn't leave with Christian, knowing what would inevitably happen to me. It was better this way.
But he followed me to the door, reaching out and clutching at my arm.
"There's something the matter," he said, and demanded, "Tell me what it is, tell me the truth."
I still pulled away, but he raved on, "Tell me the truth – tell me the truth!"
I slowly my breathing deliberately, and turned to face him.
"The truth?" I echoed coolly. "The truth is, I am the Hindu courtesan . . . and I choose the maharajah."
I paused, and added for emphasis, "That's how the story really ends."
I saw from his expression that the words had their intended effect, but I didn't feel any sense of accomplishment from what I'd done. Instead, staring into his eyes, I could see something die. Something inside him had broken, and I was responsible.
I turned quickly and hurried out, just as thunder boomed and a bolt of lightning crackled across the horizon – and the sky shed the tears I could not.