"Desmergers...Desmergers....where on earth have I heard that name before, Warner?" He asked. He read the sign again.
'See Sarah Desmergers perform as Elizabeth Montgomery in THE MONTGOMERY WIVES'
"Errrr....that was the whore's name, Your Grace." Warner answered, knowing what would come next and dreading it.
"Well, we shall have to have a look-see, hmm? She could very well have changed her name."
"I suppose she could have at that, Your Grace."
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
"Are you ready, darling?" Christian asked his daughter. He looked at her, in her pale blue Georgian frock, and she reminded him so much of her mother. Her light blonde hair fell to her shoulders in curls, and her light blue eyes stood out from her face like crystals.
"Yes, papa." As she stepped off the stool and kissed his cheek, he wondered how a seventeen-year-old girl could have so much of the grace and wisdom that her mother, savvy and cynical, had always had.
"Well, Christian, is everything ready?" Christian turned as his wife came in the room.
He grinned at her, loving her more now than ever. "Yes, it's perfect."
"I know you want everything perfect for her first performance, love, but remember- you can't protect her." She said quietly, into his ear, as Sarah left to have Violet do her makeup. "She'll have to make her own mistakes"
"I know she will." He murmured as she walked off to help. He remembered someone else who'd had to make her own mistakes.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
"I'm leaving, Christian, and that's that." She'd said to him. "The Duke can make me a star."
"But you don't love him!" He'd shouted. "How can you live a life without love again?"
"Because I have to. This dream is the one thing that's kept me going, and I /b abandon it. Goodbye, Christian."
"I can keep you going." He replied, just a moment too late. The door slammed. He wept, believing he'd never see her face again.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
"And I wonder . . . are you thinking of me, cause I'm thinkin' of you? And I wonder . . . are you ever comin' back in my life?" He sang quietly to himself. Two years had passed, and so much had happened, and yet he still didn't know how to let her go. He picked up the gun, and opened the chamber. One shiny, pale yellow bullet was in the chamber. Just one. Enough to kill himself . . . or the boy. He tucked the chamber back in, and spun it randomly. He put it to his head, and cocked the hammer. The trigger pull resulted only in a click. He tucked the gun into his pants, and left the house. He would find the boy.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
She grinned, but it wasn't a happy grin. The stage was big and bare and dark, the single spotlight glaring in her eyes as she sang her song. "You were the one I loved, the one thing that I dreamed to hold on to....." The doors burst open, and there he was. She loved him again the moment that she saw him. He went over to the director of the play. She stepped down from the stage. "Yes, Satine, come here, meet our writer. Christian James, our star, Satine Desmergers." Tom said, motioning toward them each in turn.
"Hello, Christian." She said warmly.
"Satine." He nodded, coldy, cruelly.
"You wrote 'The Montgomery Wives'?" She asked, now understanding why she'd taken the part in such a small performance peice. It really was beneath her stature as an actress and singer, but somehow it had attracted her and held her, and she'd taken the role as Elizabeth.
"Yes." He answered shortly, then turned to the door. "Tom, I'll get that scene done by tomorrow." He said over his shoulder, and left.
"You've met him." Tom said, more a statement than a question.
"Yes, I have. We knew each other in Paris." She said, quietly.
"He seemed . . . he didn't seem quite like himself." He answered, seemingly offering her the choice to give more information.
"He hates me, Tom. He hates me and he has every reason to."
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
The rapping at his apartment door was soft and tentative. He knew without answering who was at his door. It was her. It was the whore. He laughed at her timing. He looked at the revolver. Two months ago, when he had vowed to find the boy, the writer who had stolen his love, he had underestimated the boy's talents. He'd written a book. A book of lies - about a writer and a courtesan, and that part might have been true, but the courtesan had loved the writer, and Satine hadn't loved the boy. She had loved him, the duke. He who was offering a lifetime of warmth and security, a son who might be king if the right people died - and they would - and a house on the hill with horses and dogs. But the boy - the boy had enchanted her, bewitched her, hypnotized her with his good looks and his stunning words. He had made her believe she loved him. But the courtesan had died. Satine hadn't died. She'd left. First she left the boy, then she left the duke. Not he was alone, but not for long. He hadn't been able to get near the boy - the writer was engaged to a dutchess. A dutchess! He laughed as he reached for the revolver. Just one bullet. This time he spun the chamber purposfully, delibrately. He turned the gun, and pulled the trigger, and one thought struck him as the bullet went home - what if it wasn't her?
'See Sarah Desmergers perform as Elizabeth Montgomery in THE MONTGOMERY WIVES'
"Errrr....that was the whore's name, Your Grace." Warner answered, knowing what would come next and dreading it.
"Well, we shall have to have a look-see, hmm? She could very well have changed her name."
"I suppose she could have at that, Your Grace."
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
"Are you ready, darling?" Christian asked his daughter. He looked at her, in her pale blue Georgian frock, and she reminded him so much of her mother. Her light blonde hair fell to her shoulders in curls, and her light blue eyes stood out from her face like crystals.
"Yes, papa." As she stepped off the stool and kissed his cheek, he wondered how a seventeen-year-old girl could have so much of the grace and wisdom that her mother, savvy and cynical, had always had.
"Well, Christian, is everything ready?" Christian turned as his wife came in the room.
He grinned at her, loving her more now than ever. "Yes, it's perfect."
"I know you want everything perfect for her first performance, love, but remember- you can't protect her." She said quietly, into his ear, as Sarah left to have Violet do her makeup. "She'll have to make her own mistakes"
"I know she will." He murmured as she walked off to help. He remembered someone else who'd had to make her own mistakes.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
"I'm leaving, Christian, and that's that." She'd said to him. "The Duke can make me a star."
"But you don't love him!" He'd shouted. "How can you live a life without love again?"
"Because I have to. This dream is the one thing that's kept me going, and I /b abandon it. Goodbye, Christian."
"I can keep you going." He replied, just a moment too late. The door slammed. He wept, believing he'd never see her face again.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
"And I wonder . . . are you thinking of me, cause I'm thinkin' of you? And I wonder . . . are you ever comin' back in my life?" He sang quietly to himself. Two years had passed, and so much had happened, and yet he still didn't know how to let her go. He picked up the gun, and opened the chamber. One shiny, pale yellow bullet was in the chamber. Just one. Enough to kill himself . . . or the boy. He tucked the chamber back in, and spun it randomly. He put it to his head, and cocked the hammer. The trigger pull resulted only in a click. He tucked the gun into his pants, and left the house. He would find the boy.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
She grinned, but it wasn't a happy grin. The stage was big and bare and dark, the single spotlight glaring in her eyes as she sang her song. "You were the one I loved, the one thing that I dreamed to hold on to....." The doors burst open, and there he was. She loved him again the moment that she saw him. He went over to the director of the play. She stepped down from the stage. "Yes, Satine, come here, meet our writer. Christian James, our star, Satine Desmergers." Tom said, motioning toward them each in turn.
"Hello, Christian." She said warmly.
"Satine." He nodded, coldy, cruelly.
"You wrote 'The Montgomery Wives'?" She asked, now understanding why she'd taken the part in such a small performance peice. It really was beneath her stature as an actress and singer, but somehow it had attracted her and held her, and she'd taken the role as Elizabeth.
"Yes." He answered shortly, then turned to the door. "Tom, I'll get that scene done by tomorrow." He said over his shoulder, and left.
"You've met him." Tom said, more a statement than a question.
"Yes, I have. We knew each other in Paris." She said, quietly.
"He seemed . . . he didn't seem quite like himself." He answered, seemingly offering her the choice to give more information.
"He hates me, Tom. He hates me and he has every reason to."
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
The rapping at his apartment door was soft and tentative. He knew without answering who was at his door. It was her. It was the whore. He laughed at her timing. He looked at the revolver. Two months ago, when he had vowed to find the boy, the writer who had stolen his love, he had underestimated the boy's talents. He'd written a book. A book of lies - about a writer and a courtesan, and that part might have been true, but the courtesan had loved the writer, and Satine hadn't loved the boy. She had loved him, the duke. He who was offering a lifetime of warmth and security, a son who might be king if the right people died - and they would - and a house on the hill with horses and dogs. But the boy - the boy had enchanted her, bewitched her, hypnotized her with his good looks and his stunning words. He had made her believe she loved him. But the courtesan had died. Satine hadn't died. She'd left. First she left the boy, then she left the duke. Not he was alone, but not for long. He hadn't been able to get near the boy - the writer was engaged to a dutchess. A dutchess! He laughed as he reached for the revolver. Just one bullet. This time he spun the chamber purposfully, delibrately. He turned the gun, and pulled the trigger, and one thought struck him as the bullet went home - what if it wasn't her?