~*~
Six
--
He'd been swallowed whole by greed.
Beauty was his mother's religion. The debauched, the crazy, the sick - they were all acceptable if they were beautiful. Her son was considered a sinner, for his face was one that even the lady who bore him could not cherish. He clung to his gold rings and velvet jackets in hopes to compensate for what he didn't have. This melted any chance for him to find love: he didn't love himself, nor was he loved by others, for all he cared about was his possessions.
He'd never worked a day in his life, handed everything on a silver platter. His stomach was always full; there was plenty to drink. Music played through the night. The summer heat was chased away in a large stone swimming basin on the mansion grounds; the winter cold was banished with roaring fires and thick woollen blankets.
Over time, his demands made the silver become gold. He was given a servant of his own, and piles of glittering gems were heaped alongside stacks of coins and bills. His family name and business had expanded, and he reaped the benefits wholly.
When he found a home of his own in the English countryside, he met a woman named Edith, who had seen the Nile in Egypt and the lush fields of Malaysia. She spoke rapturously of France and Italy while the both of them drank tea from fluted cups and ate buttered crumpets.
The Duke knew that Edith didn't love him; a wedding band glistened on her finger and her husband was often a topic of conversation, for she'd seen every foreign place while accompanying him. The talk of new cities did intrigue him, for he had the means to travel anywhere he wanted. Five years later, after seeing Athens and Romania, the hopes of finding love sent him to Paris.
The Village of Sin was filled with the people his mother had so often spoke of. Their speech was slurred by drink, but their eyes sparkled and their lank hair was twisted into coils. Their clothes were smeared in paint and they carried dripping brushes. Their fingers were yellowed by nicotine and callused from playing instruments. Their throats were raw from song; their breath permeated with absinthe. Their feet were rough and blackened and in their hands they clutched ballet shoes. These were the beautiful people.
The Moulin Rouge was a swirling vortex that captivated him. Women seemed to occupy every space. They whirled through the garden and swarmed the dance floor. Song replaced their speech. Each of them was bright-eyed, full-lipped and limber. Surely one of them would glide into his lap, drape her arms around his neck and offer to show him a wonderful time. He tried to push away thoughts of his shirt buttons patterning the floor and his mouth stained with a young woman's ruby lipstick, but it was no use. He succumbed to the splendour and the sexuality. He'd be satisfied here.
He struck a deal with Harold Zidler that left the Underworld's fate balanced precariously in his hands, and the actions of the woman that rightfully belonged to him once Harold's pen touched parchment. He had no way of knowing how trapped she felt, for she was forever beneath a façade. He wooed her with fine drink she'd so often sipped, though he never quenched her insatiable thirst for freedom.
He'd made it perfectly clear to Harold that he didn't think himself a jealous man. His actions proved otherwise, and in slaking the poet's chances at being with the Sparkling Diamond, he found his greatest pleasure. He covered her throat in kisses and her sanguine hair with gems.
Harold's brilliant lies had averted the disaster of shutting down the Rouge; they fed the disaster that was the investor's belief that Satine truly loved him, and was his until the end of time.
The greed extended beyond a hunger to feel the warmth of her flesh. His mother had never held him when tears dripped down his face, or when his mouth was upturned in a smile. Satine nearly sated his need for physical attention, but not entirely. Opening Night was to seal everything, to prove that she was truly his property, like the necklace he clasped around her throat, or the furniture he purchased for her new dressing room.
The whore with garish makeup and a Cockney accent had sent a venomous spear of truth through his psyche, and completely shattered the fantasy Satine had woven around him. She was gorgeous on the dance floor, but cruelty ran parallel to her beauty. She had a look of sheer victory in her eyes following revealing the love affair that, to everyone else, was no secret.
In the Gothic Tower, he heard her song for the writer, even when she wore the heavy diamond necklace. When he broke the jewels, he left her bare and without hope. In his eyes, and upon the contract, she was rightfully his. Her song had further proved what Nini had told him. The one woman he thought to have loved him was an actress, like he'd so desired to make her become.
So intense was his thirst for power that he barely contained himself from strangling the young poet with his bare hands. He had peeled a dress from Satine's skin once and had suffered greatly for it. He vowed he would not fail again, for she had deceived him. She was beautiful, though not as flawless as he had first assumed.
She had not fulfilled what he had paid for.
Her price to pay was the loss of her poet.
Or so he intended.
As the curtain fell on Opening Night, He saw the love that the young couple had embraced and shared throughout his stay at the Rouge. While their love song still echoed throughout the entirety of the place, Warner's gun escaped the theatre through a broken windowpane. As he recovered from a blow Zidler had delivered to his face, he was comforted by one thought: he was in possession of the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, which allowed him to close it down once Satine had breathed her last raw, red breath.
Regret was not in his heart when he left Spectacular Spectacular, though Satine haunted his dreams for years following Opening Night. He came to realize that the writer had given her real love. It was impossible for the Duke to know the real truth of such a thing, for it was the one thing that he would never be able to purchase.
--
Six
--
He'd been swallowed whole by greed.
Beauty was his mother's religion. The debauched, the crazy, the sick - they were all acceptable if they were beautiful. Her son was considered a sinner, for his face was one that even the lady who bore him could not cherish. He clung to his gold rings and velvet jackets in hopes to compensate for what he didn't have. This melted any chance for him to find love: he didn't love himself, nor was he loved by others, for all he cared about was his possessions.
He'd never worked a day in his life, handed everything on a silver platter. His stomach was always full; there was plenty to drink. Music played through the night. The summer heat was chased away in a large stone swimming basin on the mansion grounds; the winter cold was banished with roaring fires and thick woollen blankets.
Over time, his demands made the silver become gold. He was given a servant of his own, and piles of glittering gems were heaped alongside stacks of coins and bills. His family name and business had expanded, and he reaped the benefits wholly.
When he found a home of his own in the English countryside, he met a woman named Edith, who had seen the Nile in Egypt and the lush fields of Malaysia. She spoke rapturously of France and Italy while the both of them drank tea from fluted cups and ate buttered crumpets.
The Duke knew that Edith didn't love him; a wedding band glistened on her finger and her husband was often a topic of conversation, for she'd seen every foreign place while accompanying him. The talk of new cities did intrigue him, for he had the means to travel anywhere he wanted. Five years later, after seeing Athens and Romania, the hopes of finding love sent him to Paris.
The Village of Sin was filled with the people his mother had so often spoke of. Their speech was slurred by drink, but their eyes sparkled and their lank hair was twisted into coils. Their clothes were smeared in paint and they carried dripping brushes. Their fingers were yellowed by nicotine and callused from playing instruments. Their throats were raw from song; their breath permeated with absinthe. Their feet were rough and blackened and in their hands they clutched ballet shoes. These were the beautiful people.
The Moulin Rouge was a swirling vortex that captivated him. Women seemed to occupy every space. They whirled through the garden and swarmed the dance floor. Song replaced their speech. Each of them was bright-eyed, full-lipped and limber. Surely one of them would glide into his lap, drape her arms around his neck and offer to show him a wonderful time. He tried to push away thoughts of his shirt buttons patterning the floor and his mouth stained with a young woman's ruby lipstick, but it was no use. He succumbed to the splendour and the sexuality. He'd be satisfied here.
He struck a deal with Harold Zidler that left the Underworld's fate balanced precariously in his hands, and the actions of the woman that rightfully belonged to him once Harold's pen touched parchment. He had no way of knowing how trapped she felt, for she was forever beneath a façade. He wooed her with fine drink she'd so often sipped, though he never quenched her insatiable thirst for freedom.
He'd made it perfectly clear to Harold that he didn't think himself a jealous man. His actions proved otherwise, and in slaking the poet's chances at being with the Sparkling Diamond, he found his greatest pleasure. He covered her throat in kisses and her sanguine hair with gems.
Harold's brilliant lies had averted the disaster of shutting down the Rouge; they fed the disaster that was the investor's belief that Satine truly loved him, and was his until the end of time.
The greed extended beyond a hunger to feel the warmth of her flesh. His mother had never held him when tears dripped down his face, or when his mouth was upturned in a smile. Satine nearly sated his need for physical attention, but not entirely. Opening Night was to seal everything, to prove that she was truly his property, like the necklace he clasped around her throat, or the furniture he purchased for her new dressing room.
The whore with garish makeup and a Cockney accent had sent a venomous spear of truth through his psyche, and completely shattered the fantasy Satine had woven around him. She was gorgeous on the dance floor, but cruelty ran parallel to her beauty. She had a look of sheer victory in her eyes following revealing the love affair that, to everyone else, was no secret.
In the Gothic Tower, he heard her song for the writer, even when she wore the heavy diamond necklace. When he broke the jewels, he left her bare and without hope. In his eyes, and upon the contract, she was rightfully his. Her song had further proved what Nini had told him. The one woman he thought to have loved him was an actress, like he'd so desired to make her become.
So intense was his thirst for power that he barely contained himself from strangling the young poet with his bare hands. He had peeled a dress from Satine's skin once and had suffered greatly for it. He vowed he would not fail again, for she had deceived him. She was beautiful, though not as flawless as he had first assumed.
She had not fulfilled what he had paid for.
Her price to pay was the loss of her poet.
Or so he intended.
As the curtain fell on Opening Night, He saw the love that the young couple had embraced and shared throughout his stay at the Rouge. While their love song still echoed throughout the entirety of the place, Warner's gun escaped the theatre through a broken windowpane. As he recovered from a blow Zidler had delivered to his face, he was comforted by one thought: he was in possession of the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, which allowed him to close it down once Satine had breathed her last raw, red breath.
Regret was not in his heart when he left Spectacular Spectacular, though Satine haunted his dreams for years following Opening Night. He came to realize that the writer had given her real love. It was impossible for the Duke to know the real truth of such a thing, for it was the one thing that he would never be able to purchase.
--