He could hear their applause, their raucous, stinging applause. He
was in the courtyard, snow falling around him, unable to move or to
breathe. And they had the nerve... the NERVE! ... to clap, to be happy, to
live. To live... he buried his face in his hands, trying to push the tears
back into himself, to hide them.
She was gone. No amount of his persuasion, of his offers, of his eternal love for her had swayed her. She had chosen, and he was left to the dogs.
His heart cried out, for her, for them, for love. Love, the eternal bohemian ideal –he hadn't understood it until then. Love, something he had deemed an unnecessary hassle before this, but now... Now he knew that he could not live another day without her love.
He promised to himself, through the first tears that touched his face for many years, that he would get her back. He would win her love. He would live again.
And so he waited. He waited for her beauty to shine once more upon him. He waited, watching the doors of the Moulin Rouge, now a fully-fledged theatre (because of him! a frustrated voice exclaimed), waiting to glimpse his Sparkling Diamond exit those doors. He waited as the crowd of top- hatted men, who were satisfied with their empty existence as spectators, piled out of the theatre into the snowy night, waited as their ranks thinned, then finally stopped. He watched the idle doors, not noticing the numbness taking over his feet, not noticing when Warner tried to pull him away from the theatre, out from the cold. He was immobile.
He jerked up, out of his reverie. The doors had opened again.
But there was no laughter, no joy in the figures emerging from the darkened theatre. The players of the Moulin Rouge, these creatures of the underworld, were not celebrating. There was a pale look about all of them.
And once he saw this, he saw that Satine was not among them. He saw that his Sparkling Diamond, his love, his life, was not there. Instead, the players carried something between them that once was her. They carried a body, a corpse, but not his Satine. She was not there. She was not anywhere anymore.
The duke saw this, immediately. He doubled over in agony, himself only a shell then, no more joy, and no more life in his tuxedoed body. He gasped, unable to breathe, unable to stand, and collapsed onto the snow-covered courtyard of the Moulin Rouge.
She was gone. He was only a wisp of consciousness, tumbling through the turmoil of a tempest, ripping through his fragile body. The pain would never subside.
Even though he could never express it, he loved her with every fiber of his being. He loved her to the depths of infinity. He was nothing without her, nothing but a blundering, inept fool.
But with her, there was love, poetry, and freedom. She was his muse, his joy, his life.
He lay curled up on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest for comfort, alone in the world. His entire body had become numb from the cold. Satine's body had passed by him ages ago, and he still lay there, lost in his own agony.
His eyes opened, of their own accord.
It was wrong to leave here – but he must.
It was wrong to go on – but he must.
It was wrong to continue living in a world so devoid of beauty, wrong living without Satine, wrong thinking that he could ever see joy again – but he must.
He must get up.
He must pick himself up, yes, like so.
He must take his leg, put it in front of him, yes, then the other one, good.
He must keep going, in this fashion, just keep going.
And, above all else, he must never forget her.
He must never forget what it was to love.
She was gone. No amount of his persuasion, of his offers, of his eternal love for her had swayed her. She had chosen, and he was left to the dogs.
His heart cried out, for her, for them, for love. Love, the eternal bohemian ideal –he hadn't understood it until then. Love, something he had deemed an unnecessary hassle before this, but now... Now he knew that he could not live another day without her love.
He promised to himself, through the first tears that touched his face for many years, that he would get her back. He would win her love. He would live again.
And so he waited. He waited for her beauty to shine once more upon him. He waited, watching the doors of the Moulin Rouge, now a fully-fledged theatre (because of him! a frustrated voice exclaimed), waiting to glimpse his Sparkling Diamond exit those doors. He waited as the crowd of top- hatted men, who were satisfied with their empty existence as spectators, piled out of the theatre into the snowy night, waited as their ranks thinned, then finally stopped. He watched the idle doors, not noticing the numbness taking over his feet, not noticing when Warner tried to pull him away from the theatre, out from the cold. He was immobile.
He jerked up, out of his reverie. The doors had opened again.
But there was no laughter, no joy in the figures emerging from the darkened theatre. The players of the Moulin Rouge, these creatures of the underworld, were not celebrating. There was a pale look about all of them.
And once he saw this, he saw that Satine was not among them. He saw that his Sparkling Diamond, his love, his life, was not there. Instead, the players carried something between them that once was her. They carried a body, a corpse, but not his Satine. She was not there. She was not anywhere anymore.
The duke saw this, immediately. He doubled over in agony, himself only a shell then, no more joy, and no more life in his tuxedoed body. He gasped, unable to breathe, unable to stand, and collapsed onto the snow-covered courtyard of the Moulin Rouge.
She was gone. He was only a wisp of consciousness, tumbling through the turmoil of a tempest, ripping through his fragile body. The pain would never subside.
Even though he could never express it, he loved her with every fiber of his being. He loved her to the depths of infinity. He was nothing without her, nothing but a blundering, inept fool.
But with her, there was love, poetry, and freedom. She was his muse, his joy, his life.
He lay curled up on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest for comfort, alone in the world. His entire body had become numb from the cold. Satine's body had passed by him ages ago, and he still lay there, lost in his own agony.
His eyes opened, of their own accord.
It was wrong to leave here – but he must.
It was wrong to go on – but he must.
It was wrong to continue living in a world so devoid of beauty, wrong living without Satine, wrong thinking that he could ever see joy again – but he must.
He must get up.
He must pick himself up, yes, like so.
He must take his leg, put it in front of him, yes, then the other one, good.
He must keep going, in this fashion, just keep going.
And, above all else, he must never forget her.
He must never forget what it was to love.