Chapter 2
Jocelyn
Jocelyn walked inside her father's office. "Father? Who was that?"
Henry looked up, smiling a bit even though he felt like spitting nails after being told he didn't know what he was doing by a lower-class creep. But his daughter was his joy, so he made the effort to hide his anger. "Oh, hello, dear. Who was who?"
Jocelyn walked into the room, the small heels of her booties sinking into the rugs that hid the wooden floors. "That man that just came out of your office."
"Oh. He's nobody. A writer."
"Oh? Are you going to publish his work?"
"No, dear, I'm not. He's a rude little-," he caught himself. "Never mind, lovie, but no I'm not." He smiled at her over his glasses. "Why?"
"Oh, I accidentally ran into him on his way out." She explained. "He seemed rather nice."
Henry didn't say anything to that, just smiled and nodded as if saying 'Sure, dear'. "What are you holding?"
Jocelyn looked down at the draft. Her writing. "Um... I was wondering..."
In her hands was a story in the making called The Journal, about an artist with no past, and basically no future, who fell in love with a rich Irishwoman, but he knew he had no chance of staying with her because they were so different. He wrote down all of their experiences in his journal, until one day he burnt it because he thought it was bad luck. He would write down what he wished for, and it would sometimes happen, but the Irish girl never told him she loved him, and ended up going back to Ireland.
It didn't have an ending yet. But she wondered what her father would think of it... of course, he wouldn't know it was by her, because no matter how much he loved and adored her, the thought of reading something by a woman caused him to become extremely flabbergasted and then sarcastic. Always something about how women couldn't write and such.
Thinking about it, she lost her confidence and tucked it back into her arm. "It's nothing. I just came in to say hello."
Henry gave his daughter an odd look before nodding. "Hello to you, too, then." He smiled.
Jocelyn excused herself then rushed upstairs to her bedroom. Once in the small space, which was decorated in blues and whites and silver, she went to the desk underneath the wide window that overlooked the park across the street. She was disappointed in herself, why had she lost confidence?
Maybe because, although she loved her father, she knew he would probably laugh at the writing, knowing whether it was written by a man or herself. He would tell her about the public, and what they wanted to read, and what was true realism...
She let out an unladylike snort before opening the window to let the spring air in, then sat down. She looked down at the top page, wishing she, herself, was a publisher. She flipped the top page off, and scanned the page, realizing the writing wasn't her own. Panic crept into her chest, but she went back to the beginning and began to read.
It was about the Moulin Rouge. About a man who had moved away from his cynical father in England to live a penniless existence, otherwise known as the Bohemian lifestyle. It was about how when he came to Paris, he met Toulouse; she smiled at that, everyone knew Toulouse-Lautrec, or at least who he was, just because of his rather energetic and erratic personality; and a group of actors. The writer of the play Spectacular, Spectacular, the play Toulouse and his actors are trying to make up a plot for, quits, and so they try to pass Christian off for the writer to Zidler, the man who owned the Moulin, and Satine, a beautiful prostitute whose only dream was to be a real actress. Satine then mistakes him for the duke who she was supposed to be 'spending the night' with the evening they met.
The pages turned and turned, and Jocelyn read until it was so dark she had to have her maid come in and light a fire. As soon as it was lit, she went back to the story.
Panic had left her, and was now replaced by a strong interest and curiosity, along with love for the strange style of writing, a style that made you feel as if you were there instead of just reading along.
The writer explained how the real duke had swept down upon them, interrupting their lives, they being a man named Christian who was in love with Satine, and she in love with him; after being promised one night with Satine, and because he was a very high-paying costumer, it was almost set in stone that Satine would have to be with this slimy man who called himself a duke.
The group that consisted of Christian, Satine, Toulouse, and the actors and musicians, came up with the idea for a plot for Spectacular, Spectacular, to keep Christian and Satine together. The play was based on the lives of Satine and Christian, only they changed the rolls, making the roll of Christian a penniless guitar player, Zidler the evil Maharaja, as the duke, and so on. Satine then promised the duke she'd sleep with him if he funded and helped produce the play, and Zidler even signed the Moulin Rouge over to him.
Jocelyn was astounded at the way the story expanded, sweeping her in and rushing her along the days that were so filled with love between Christian and Satine, who were desperately trying to keep their love a secret. And also about how Satine had secrets of her own, that wouldn't be known to Christian until it was too late.
It went on about the lovemaking, just the love in general, and what happened every day at the Moulin, the play practices, the secret meetings between two lovers. Until one day, Zidler saw them, and frightened for all of their lives, or at least, becoming homeless because the duke now owned everything, and made Satine go to Christian and tell him she didn't love him, how she didn't want to go away with him, how their affair should end.
Christian was heartbroken, but refused to believe anything she said. She was an actress, a brilliant one at that, there had to be something beneath that cool and calm façade when she lied and told him all her feelings where gone. So he went after her. But in the end, he was thrown out of the theatre, without getting to see her, sobbing, crying and screaming out her name, begging just to see her, to get to talk to her. But all he got in return for his pleading was a hit in the face from a guard.
But Christian didn't give up. Heartsick, weary, angry, he sold the only other thing in the world he loved: his typewriter. He traded it in for money, so he could pay Satine for the sex. In the eyes of Christian, she had been nothing but a prostitute in his arms if her love hadn't been real.
The night of the production Christian snuck in and went backstage, and when an actor who had narcolepsy, a disease where he fell asleep at random times, collapsed, Christian took his coat. He went in search of Satine, and when he found her in her dressing room, he pulled out all the money he had collected. He asked if he could pay her, and when she said no, he asked why not. Her stage call came and she rushed out, looking beautiful wrapped in white satin, a gorgeous glittering tiara in her radiant red hair. She backed away from Christian, desperate to get on stage, but Christian was relentless, even as the tears began to streak Satine's face and she sobbed for him to not do this now, he pushed his money on her, he asked her why.
Jocelyn had tears streaming out of her own eyes as she read. She couldn't get enough. She flipped the page, nearing the end.
They collapsed onto the stage. For one completely awkward moment, the theatre was absolutely silent. The audience stared as Satine, who had tripped as she made her way onto the stage and was now lying underneath a towering Christian, who was staring at the audience with tear-filled eyes, stared back.
The act was on.
Christian backed away from Satine, pulling the money back out. In one thrust of his arm, he threw all of his money at Satine and said as though it were his line, "I have paid my whore." His voice sounded as if it were wrenched out of his chest, drenched in misery. Satine sobbed, trying to get up, but the cries that wracked her body stopped her. She was on her knees as Christian walked away.
Zidler, who was playing the evil Maharaja, stood on the stage absolutely flabbergasted. He knew it wasn't an act that was going on, but he went along to trick the public. He became loud and boisterous, trying to sway the audiences' attention to himself. Christian walked off the stage, shoulders slumped, absolutely defeated, believing he and Satine were over. This was the way it would end. But in the midst of silence that followed Zidler's act, a voice began to sing to him.
Their song.
It was a song that Satine and Christian had created for each other. Saying that no matter what happened, they would always love each other. They were meant. The writer spoke of the hope and happiness that sprung into Christian's chest, and as he turned and saw Satine standing, singing the song to him, he realized it was the truth. Christian sang back to her, rushing back to the stage, and they finished the play the way they imagined.
When it ended, the curtains fell. The raptured audience was on their feet, with the duke still sitting in his seat, seething because he too knew the truth of what was going on between Satine and Christian. That they had been playing a game with him. That they had lied. And he was beyond outraged.
But Christian and Satine were backstage, still holding each other, oblivious to everything but each other. They spoke their love with rose petals falling gracefully around them. But then, as she had done before when she had been wearing a corset, or had been panicked or excited, Satine lost her breath.
She began to gasp, clutching at Christian, coughing, as he lowered to his knees, trying to figure out what was wrong, why she was gasping so much. She began to cough, and as he looked, he saw the blood on the kerchief. Had she not told him something?
He looked down at her. He had seen that look before. He has seen the look when he had been in hospitals visiting someone, when he had to walk by the patients... the patients that were... that were dying. But certainly not his Satine. But she coughed again, and as the crowd of glittering and glitzy actors and dancers gathered around, suddenly solemn from their cheerful state, he saw the blood flow out of her mouth.
"Christian," she was crying, sobbing, trying to clutch at him. "Christian..."
Jocelyn began to sob herself as she read. Satine told Christian that she was sorry, that he had to go on, that she would always love him, and that he should tell their story. And when she said all she had to say, she died in his arms.
It ended with Christian going back to his apartment and locking himself up, writing their story as he had promised Satine he would. It ended with him writing how worthless he felt knowing he could do nothing about her disease of consumption, and how worthless he still felt that he no longer had anything to live for. His love, along with his life, had died. But he went on. And that was the story of the Moulin Rouge.
Jocelyn placed the last page on the stack, trying to dry her eyes with the back of her hand. Who had written this? Who had written this story that must be shared? Where had it... her mind flashed back to earlier in the day when she had run into that gentleman in the hall way. Back to his handsome face and big eyes that spoke novels. Had he... they had switched drafts! He had her story, and she had his.
Who was he?
She got up and went to the wash basin across the room and splashed cold water onto her face and dried it with the terry cloth before deciding to go down to see her father about it, when she looked at the clock. It was almost two in the morning, and she wondered if she had been so raptured in the story that she hadn't heard her father or her maid when they'd come in, if they had, earlier.
Shrugging, she rang for her maid, feeling terrible about the hour but knowing she'd never be able to get out of this extremely uncomfortable dress otherwise.
Lacy came in two minutes later, and Jocelyn knew she had waken her. "I'm so sorry, Lacy," she said. "I didn't realize the hour, I had been reading. But could you please help me get out of this dress?"
Lacy, who was about the same age as Jocelyn, nodded, giving Jocelyn a small, tired smile. She nodded and apologized as she yawned, and turned Jocelyn around, and began to undo the long row of buttons that held Jocelyn's peach coloured dress together.
A couple years ago, Lacy had once worked in a household where she was not treated nicely. She had been serving as a maid since she was fifteen, when her father died, and in this household where she had been working for girls older than she was then, who had been rather cruel to her when their parents weren't around, Lacy was absolutely miserable. When she had transferred to the William's house to serve Jocelyn, she was absolutely grateful when she realized the Jocelyn was gentle by nature, and overly kind. So in gratitude, she would do anything for Jocelyn.
Once she got Jocelyn out of the dress, she moved to hang it up, and grabbed her negligee. Jocelyn was holding a hand to her stomach, gasping in breath. "I hadn't realized I'd been sitting so long in this thing," she told Lacy. The corset was cutting off her air supply because her ribs still seemed to be formed in a sitting position. Lacy gave her a sad look and came back quickly, unlacing the corset.
"What were you reading?" Lacy asked as she pulled the laces. "If you don't mind my asking."
Jocelyn shook her head, the ringlets that hung from the back of her hair tickling her neck. "I was reading a draft of a story actually. A man came here earlier..." she gasped as her chest was released. "And I ran into him. I was holding my own story to show my father," Lacy knew about Jocelyn's writing. She was, in fact, the only person who knew about it, other than Amanda, Jocelyn's best friend. "And our papers went flying. I accidentally ended up with his, and he with mine."
The corset came off, and Jocelyn turned around, giving Lacy a look of complete appreciation. "Thank you so much." She drew in a full breath. "I can breathe!" She laughed a bit. "Come and help me take the pins out of my hair and I'll tell you about the story."
Lacy complied happily, following Jocelyn to her vanity, glad she had been woken from her sleep to talk with her mistress. She always enjoyed these times. At the vanity, they began to pull pins out of her hair, and Jocelyn explained the story she had just read. Near the end of her tale, Jocelyn's hair was brushed out, and Lacy was sitting next to her on the vanity stool, hanging on Jocelyn's every word.
When it was over, Lacy placed a hand against her chest. "Oh my Lord!" She said in her thick French accent. "That is so sad! But so romantic..."
Jocelyn shook her head, looking in the mirror at her wavy hair as it flowed over her shoulders. "It's very romantic. But it's so depressing, isn't it?" She smiled over at Lacy, then yawned, looking over at the clock. "Oh, dear. It's almost three thirty. I'm sorry for keeping you."
"No need to worry, miss."
Jocelyn smiled. "I won't wake you early. Believe me."
Lacy smiled back and went to the huge four-poster canopy bed and pulled the thick white duvet back. "Good night." She said to Jocelyn, and was on her way.
Jocelyn crawled into bed, fingering her amulet that she had gotten in Ireland as a child that she continuously wore around her neck. She stared into the fire across the room, at the painting that sat on the mantle surrounded by vases filled with lilies. She couldn't get the story out of her mind, nor the man in the hallway, who had written it.
I wonder what it would be like at the Moulin Rouge, she wondered, for she had never been anywhere that sounded as what was described by the mysterious man.
She drifted off to sleep wondering what it would be like to be in Satine's place.
Jocelyn
Jocelyn walked inside her father's office. "Father? Who was that?"
Henry looked up, smiling a bit even though he felt like spitting nails after being told he didn't know what he was doing by a lower-class creep. But his daughter was his joy, so he made the effort to hide his anger. "Oh, hello, dear. Who was who?"
Jocelyn walked into the room, the small heels of her booties sinking into the rugs that hid the wooden floors. "That man that just came out of your office."
"Oh. He's nobody. A writer."
"Oh? Are you going to publish his work?"
"No, dear, I'm not. He's a rude little-," he caught himself. "Never mind, lovie, but no I'm not." He smiled at her over his glasses. "Why?"
"Oh, I accidentally ran into him on his way out." She explained. "He seemed rather nice."
Henry didn't say anything to that, just smiled and nodded as if saying 'Sure, dear'. "What are you holding?"
Jocelyn looked down at the draft. Her writing. "Um... I was wondering..."
In her hands was a story in the making called The Journal, about an artist with no past, and basically no future, who fell in love with a rich Irishwoman, but he knew he had no chance of staying with her because they were so different. He wrote down all of their experiences in his journal, until one day he burnt it because he thought it was bad luck. He would write down what he wished for, and it would sometimes happen, but the Irish girl never told him she loved him, and ended up going back to Ireland.
It didn't have an ending yet. But she wondered what her father would think of it... of course, he wouldn't know it was by her, because no matter how much he loved and adored her, the thought of reading something by a woman caused him to become extremely flabbergasted and then sarcastic. Always something about how women couldn't write and such.
Thinking about it, she lost her confidence and tucked it back into her arm. "It's nothing. I just came in to say hello."
Henry gave his daughter an odd look before nodding. "Hello to you, too, then." He smiled.
Jocelyn excused herself then rushed upstairs to her bedroom. Once in the small space, which was decorated in blues and whites and silver, she went to the desk underneath the wide window that overlooked the park across the street. She was disappointed in herself, why had she lost confidence?
Maybe because, although she loved her father, she knew he would probably laugh at the writing, knowing whether it was written by a man or herself. He would tell her about the public, and what they wanted to read, and what was true realism...
She let out an unladylike snort before opening the window to let the spring air in, then sat down. She looked down at the top page, wishing she, herself, was a publisher. She flipped the top page off, and scanned the page, realizing the writing wasn't her own. Panic crept into her chest, but she went back to the beginning and began to read.
It was about the Moulin Rouge. About a man who had moved away from his cynical father in England to live a penniless existence, otherwise known as the Bohemian lifestyle. It was about how when he came to Paris, he met Toulouse; she smiled at that, everyone knew Toulouse-Lautrec, or at least who he was, just because of his rather energetic and erratic personality; and a group of actors. The writer of the play Spectacular, Spectacular, the play Toulouse and his actors are trying to make up a plot for, quits, and so they try to pass Christian off for the writer to Zidler, the man who owned the Moulin, and Satine, a beautiful prostitute whose only dream was to be a real actress. Satine then mistakes him for the duke who she was supposed to be 'spending the night' with the evening they met.
The pages turned and turned, and Jocelyn read until it was so dark she had to have her maid come in and light a fire. As soon as it was lit, she went back to the story.
Panic had left her, and was now replaced by a strong interest and curiosity, along with love for the strange style of writing, a style that made you feel as if you were there instead of just reading along.
The writer explained how the real duke had swept down upon them, interrupting their lives, they being a man named Christian who was in love with Satine, and she in love with him; after being promised one night with Satine, and because he was a very high-paying costumer, it was almost set in stone that Satine would have to be with this slimy man who called himself a duke.
The group that consisted of Christian, Satine, Toulouse, and the actors and musicians, came up with the idea for a plot for Spectacular, Spectacular, to keep Christian and Satine together. The play was based on the lives of Satine and Christian, only they changed the rolls, making the roll of Christian a penniless guitar player, Zidler the evil Maharaja, as the duke, and so on. Satine then promised the duke she'd sleep with him if he funded and helped produce the play, and Zidler even signed the Moulin Rouge over to him.
Jocelyn was astounded at the way the story expanded, sweeping her in and rushing her along the days that were so filled with love between Christian and Satine, who were desperately trying to keep their love a secret. And also about how Satine had secrets of her own, that wouldn't be known to Christian until it was too late.
It went on about the lovemaking, just the love in general, and what happened every day at the Moulin, the play practices, the secret meetings between two lovers. Until one day, Zidler saw them, and frightened for all of their lives, or at least, becoming homeless because the duke now owned everything, and made Satine go to Christian and tell him she didn't love him, how she didn't want to go away with him, how their affair should end.
Christian was heartbroken, but refused to believe anything she said. She was an actress, a brilliant one at that, there had to be something beneath that cool and calm façade when she lied and told him all her feelings where gone. So he went after her. But in the end, he was thrown out of the theatre, without getting to see her, sobbing, crying and screaming out her name, begging just to see her, to get to talk to her. But all he got in return for his pleading was a hit in the face from a guard.
But Christian didn't give up. Heartsick, weary, angry, he sold the only other thing in the world he loved: his typewriter. He traded it in for money, so he could pay Satine for the sex. In the eyes of Christian, she had been nothing but a prostitute in his arms if her love hadn't been real.
The night of the production Christian snuck in and went backstage, and when an actor who had narcolepsy, a disease where he fell asleep at random times, collapsed, Christian took his coat. He went in search of Satine, and when he found her in her dressing room, he pulled out all the money he had collected. He asked if he could pay her, and when she said no, he asked why not. Her stage call came and she rushed out, looking beautiful wrapped in white satin, a gorgeous glittering tiara in her radiant red hair. She backed away from Christian, desperate to get on stage, but Christian was relentless, even as the tears began to streak Satine's face and she sobbed for him to not do this now, he pushed his money on her, he asked her why.
Jocelyn had tears streaming out of her own eyes as she read. She couldn't get enough. She flipped the page, nearing the end.
They collapsed onto the stage. For one completely awkward moment, the theatre was absolutely silent. The audience stared as Satine, who had tripped as she made her way onto the stage and was now lying underneath a towering Christian, who was staring at the audience with tear-filled eyes, stared back.
The act was on.
Christian backed away from Satine, pulling the money back out. In one thrust of his arm, he threw all of his money at Satine and said as though it were his line, "I have paid my whore." His voice sounded as if it were wrenched out of his chest, drenched in misery. Satine sobbed, trying to get up, but the cries that wracked her body stopped her. She was on her knees as Christian walked away.
Zidler, who was playing the evil Maharaja, stood on the stage absolutely flabbergasted. He knew it wasn't an act that was going on, but he went along to trick the public. He became loud and boisterous, trying to sway the audiences' attention to himself. Christian walked off the stage, shoulders slumped, absolutely defeated, believing he and Satine were over. This was the way it would end. But in the midst of silence that followed Zidler's act, a voice began to sing to him.
Their song.
It was a song that Satine and Christian had created for each other. Saying that no matter what happened, they would always love each other. They were meant. The writer spoke of the hope and happiness that sprung into Christian's chest, and as he turned and saw Satine standing, singing the song to him, he realized it was the truth. Christian sang back to her, rushing back to the stage, and they finished the play the way they imagined.
When it ended, the curtains fell. The raptured audience was on their feet, with the duke still sitting in his seat, seething because he too knew the truth of what was going on between Satine and Christian. That they had been playing a game with him. That they had lied. And he was beyond outraged.
But Christian and Satine were backstage, still holding each other, oblivious to everything but each other. They spoke their love with rose petals falling gracefully around them. But then, as she had done before when she had been wearing a corset, or had been panicked or excited, Satine lost her breath.
She began to gasp, clutching at Christian, coughing, as he lowered to his knees, trying to figure out what was wrong, why she was gasping so much. She began to cough, and as he looked, he saw the blood on the kerchief. Had she not told him something?
He looked down at her. He had seen that look before. He has seen the look when he had been in hospitals visiting someone, when he had to walk by the patients... the patients that were... that were dying. But certainly not his Satine. But she coughed again, and as the crowd of glittering and glitzy actors and dancers gathered around, suddenly solemn from their cheerful state, he saw the blood flow out of her mouth.
"Christian," she was crying, sobbing, trying to clutch at him. "Christian..."
Jocelyn began to sob herself as she read. Satine told Christian that she was sorry, that he had to go on, that she would always love him, and that he should tell their story. And when she said all she had to say, she died in his arms.
It ended with Christian going back to his apartment and locking himself up, writing their story as he had promised Satine he would. It ended with him writing how worthless he felt knowing he could do nothing about her disease of consumption, and how worthless he still felt that he no longer had anything to live for. His love, along with his life, had died. But he went on. And that was the story of the Moulin Rouge.
Jocelyn placed the last page on the stack, trying to dry her eyes with the back of her hand. Who had written this? Who had written this story that must be shared? Where had it... her mind flashed back to earlier in the day when she had run into that gentleman in the hall way. Back to his handsome face and big eyes that spoke novels. Had he... they had switched drafts! He had her story, and she had his.
Who was he?
She got up and went to the wash basin across the room and splashed cold water onto her face and dried it with the terry cloth before deciding to go down to see her father about it, when she looked at the clock. It was almost two in the morning, and she wondered if she had been so raptured in the story that she hadn't heard her father or her maid when they'd come in, if they had, earlier.
Shrugging, she rang for her maid, feeling terrible about the hour but knowing she'd never be able to get out of this extremely uncomfortable dress otherwise.
Lacy came in two minutes later, and Jocelyn knew she had waken her. "I'm so sorry, Lacy," she said. "I didn't realize the hour, I had been reading. But could you please help me get out of this dress?"
Lacy, who was about the same age as Jocelyn, nodded, giving Jocelyn a small, tired smile. She nodded and apologized as she yawned, and turned Jocelyn around, and began to undo the long row of buttons that held Jocelyn's peach coloured dress together.
A couple years ago, Lacy had once worked in a household where she was not treated nicely. She had been serving as a maid since she was fifteen, when her father died, and in this household where she had been working for girls older than she was then, who had been rather cruel to her when their parents weren't around, Lacy was absolutely miserable. When she had transferred to the William's house to serve Jocelyn, she was absolutely grateful when she realized the Jocelyn was gentle by nature, and overly kind. So in gratitude, she would do anything for Jocelyn.
Once she got Jocelyn out of the dress, she moved to hang it up, and grabbed her negligee. Jocelyn was holding a hand to her stomach, gasping in breath. "I hadn't realized I'd been sitting so long in this thing," she told Lacy. The corset was cutting off her air supply because her ribs still seemed to be formed in a sitting position. Lacy gave her a sad look and came back quickly, unlacing the corset.
"What were you reading?" Lacy asked as she pulled the laces. "If you don't mind my asking."
Jocelyn shook her head, the ringlets that hung from the back of her hair tickling her neck. "I was reading a draft of a story actually. A man came here earlier..." she gasped as her chest was released. "And I ran into him. I was holding my own story to show my father," Lacy knew about Jocelyn's writing. She was, in fact, the only person who knew about it, other than Amanda, Jocelyn's best friend. "And our papers went flying. I accidentally ended up with his, and he with mine."
The corset came off, and Jocelyn turned around, giving Lacy a look of complete appreciation. "Thank you so much." She drew in a full breath. "I can breathe!" She laughed a bit. "Come and help me take the pins out of my hair and I'll tell you about the story."
Lacy complied happily, following Jocelyn to her vanity, glad she had been woken from her sleep to talk with her mistress. She always enjoyed these times. At the vanity, they began to pull pins out of her hair, and Jocelyn explained the story she had just read. Near the end of her tale, Jocelyn's hair was brushed out, and Lacy was sitting next to her on the vanity stool, hanging on Jocelyn's every word.
When it was over, Lacy placed a hand against her chest. "Oh my Lord!" She said in her thick French accent. "That is so sad! But so romantic..."
Jocelyn shook her head, looking in the mirror at her wavy hair as it flowed over her shoulders. "It's very romantic. But it's so depressing, isn't it?" She smiled over at Lacy, then yawned, looking over at the clock. "Oh, dear. It's almost three thirty. I'm sorry for keeping you."
"No need to worry, miss."
Jocelyn smiled. "I won't wake you early. Believe me."
Lacy smiled back and went to the huge four-poster canopy bed and pulled the thick white duvet back. "Good night." She said to Jocelyn, and was on her way.
Jocelyn crawled into bed, fingering her amulet that she had gotten in Ireland as a child that she continuously wore around her neck. She stared into the fire across the room, at the painting that sat on the mantle surrounded by vases filled with lilies. She couldn't get the story out of her mind, nor the man in the hallway, who had written it.
I wonder what it would be like at the Moulin Rouge, she wondered, for she had never been anywhere that sounded as what was described by the mysterious man.
She drifted off to sleep wondering what it would be like to be in Satine's place.