Christian stooped in the station to pick up his luggage. He stood up and just stared at the city as the train began to pull away. So much time has gone by, he thought, but almost nothing has changed. But Paris, to Christian, had lost its charm. Ever since Satine had died, it had carried more haunting memories for him.
He had gone home to London after the death of the Sparkling Diamond. There he had stayed and published his story of the Moulin Rouge, A Story About Love. It had become an instant hit, giving Christian much deserved fame and much needed money. Afterwards, he had written a few plays and another novel, though none of then quite reaching the popularity of his first work.
He understood why, too. Christian had written A Story About Love with his heart, because it had meant so much for him to tell what had happened. All his other works were just stories, not near as heartfelt.
He had gone to London for two reasons: he couldn't stand being in Paris without Satine anymore, and he feared that the Duke would extract his revenge on him. He had finally come back, intending to stay for a while and write another story. But he would always be looking over his shoulder. He had no idea if the Duke was still in Paris, or if he would still be out to get him, but he wouldn't take any chances.
Christian walked from the train station to the Montemarte, where he stood for a moment, living in his memories. He shook his head out and continued to walk toward the hotel he would be staying at, ironically, the same hotel he had lived at nine years ago. He paid the landlady and accepted the key. She stared at him for a moment.
"Have you been here before?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.
Christian hesitated. "Yes. I was here a long time ago."
"No," she said. "Not that long ago."
"About nine years."
"Oh! I remember you know. You stayed for quite awhile then. You were the one who wrote that play the Moulin Rouge put on before it closed. Spectacular Spectacular, wasn't it?"
"It was."
"That was quite a hit. People were upset when the theatre closed."
Christian shrugged. "Not my fault. All I did was write the play."
The woman also shrugged. "Oh well. I'll leave you in peace now." And she did, closing the door behind her.
Christian sighed and set his luggage on the floor. He walked over to the balcony doors and opened them, stepping onto the balcony. He could still see the giant windmill of the Moulin Rouge, now missing a few planks. The building itself, however, didn't seem to have changed at all. And the elephant was still there as well, though a little discolored and decaying.
Christian's eyes rested on the elephant for a moment. Some movement inside it caught his attention, and he could have sworn he saw a woman with red hair moving about. He clenched his eyes shut and then opened them again. He saw nothing. His mind playing tricks on him, he decided before stepping back into his room and closing the balcony doors.
He had gone home to London after the death of the Sparkling Diamond. There he had stayed and published his story of the Moulin Rouge, A Story About Love. It had become an instant hit, giving Christian much deserved fame and much needed money. Afterwards, he had written a few plays and another novel, though none of then quite reaching the popularity of his first work.
He understood why, too. Christian had written A Story About Love with his heart, because it had meant so much for him to tell what had happened. All his other works were just stories, not near as heartfelt.
He had gone to London for two reasons: he couldn't stand being in Paris without Satine anymore, and he feared that the Duke would extract his revenge on him. He had finally come back, intending to stay for a while and write another story. But he would always be looking over his shoulder. He had no idea if the Duke was still in Paris, or if he would still be out to get him, but he wouldn't take any chances.
Christian walked from the train station to the Montemarte, where he stood for a moment, living in his memories. He shook his head out and continued to walk toward the hotel he would be staying at, ironically, the same hotel he had lived at nine years ago. He paid the landlady and accepted the key. She stared at him for a moment.
"Have you been here before?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.
Christian hesitated. "Yes. I was here a long time ago."
"No," she said. "Not that long ago."
"About nine years."
"Oh! I remember you know. You stayed for quite awhile then. You were the one who wrote that play the Moulin Rouge put on before it closed. Spectacular Spectacular, wasn't it?"
"It was."
"That was quite a hit. People were upset when the theatre closed."
Christian shrugged. "Not my fault. All I did was write the play."
The woman also shrugged. "Oh well. I'll leave you in peace now." And she did, closing the door behind her.
Christian sighed and set his luggage on the floor. He walked over to the balcony doors and opened them, stepping onto the balcony. He could still see the giant windmill of the Moulin Rouge, now missing a few planks. The building itself, however, didn't seem to have changed at all. And the elephant was still there as well, though a little discolored and decaying.
Christian's eyes rested on the elephant for a moment. Some movement inside it caught his attention, and he could have sworn he saw a woman with red hair moving about. He clenched his eyes shut and then opened them again. He saw nothing. His mind playing tricks on him, he decided before stepping back into his room and closing the balcony doors.