Fairy Tale No Longer

Chapter 2 (**Revised**--next time I'll proofread and edit BEFORE uploading!)

Disclaimer: The usual. (Thank you, Baz and Craig Pierce. Moulin Rouge is now in embedded in my DNA. Procreation would therefore be risky on my part!)

A/N: Thank you very very much, Yvi, for being my muse AND my beta. (I can't stand that term, actually-how about, "Angel who inspires me and holds my feet to the fire"? Too long to fit on a marquee?) And thank you She's a Star, Tani, and Black Tangled Heart for your kind reviews (wow!). As I've mentioned, this is a "follow-up" to Yvi's "Palingenesis", but I'm also going off on my own path, hopefully (*gulp*). I'll be experimenting with shifts in POV, so please let me know if it works. I'm bringing Toulouse into this chapter, and I will NOT be writing in the lisp-I would like to avoid reducing a very fascinating man to a stereotypical clown. (Warning, gentle reader: short rant. My one complaint with Baz's film, if I have any, is that Toulouse's character is WAAAYYYY underwritten; fortunately, John Leguizamo can do more with 30 seconds of screen time than most actors can manage in their entire careers. End of rant.)

Do I need to repeat that this and all subsequent chapters are dedicated to Yvi? I thought not. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How are you doing, my Queen?"
"Better and better, thank you."
Toulouse was a frequent, almost daily, visitor to Christian's garret after Satine's near-death at the Moulin Rouge. At first she was but dimly aware of him through a fog of sickness and painkillers. He often brought meticulously prepared meals; his skill as a chef was second only to his skill as an artist, he said with pride, and more than a little justification. There were platters of crisply roasted duckling a l'orange, tender boeuf Bourguignonne, or escargot floating in a pool of champagne sauce. All of which, unfortunately, was too rich for Satine, who could barely hold down simple broths. But Christian could hardly refuse the kindness, accompanied always by the little man's hearty laughter and twinkling eyes.
"Still hard at work, my friend? Excellent, excellent-the name of such a genius will soon be on everyone's lips!" He slapped Christian on the back, before kissing the hand of the pale lady buried in blood-soiled bedclothes and grey blankets. Always he asked the same question: "How are you doing, my Queen?"
And always he received the same reply: "Better and better," accompanied by a forced smile, when she was lucid enough to speak. When she wasn't, Christian provided the answer.
"Ah, yes, of course; I can see that our young poet is taking excellent care of you! You shall be up and dancing again in no time at all!" Toulouse threw his arms into the air like an excited child, and then leaned closer to the edge of the mattress. "And then you will, I hope, permit me the honor of a dance?"
"Oui, monsieur." She had never danced with him in all her time at the Moulin, not that he'd ever had the courage to ask her.
His inquiries regarding her health were a mere formality. He could have peeked down through the hole in his floor to the garret below at any hour, and seen exactly how she was faring. Which, in fact, he frequently did do. But the visits were as much to comfort himself as his friends, reassuring him that Satine was still alive and that she might, in fact, make a full recovery. No matter that the possibility seemed dim when blood and phlegm rattled in her lungs, and now-exposed veins colored her skin ghostly blue.
Over weeks and months into the early spring she seemed to recover some of her strength and was able to sit up in bed more often, propped up by borrowed pillows. Toulouse would be offered the room's lone chair next to the writing desk; settling in, he regaled Christian and Satine with fanciful tales that any poet would have been proud to claim. He spoke of the exploits of d'Toulouse ancestors stretching 1000 years back, elaborating and inventing whenever fact or memory was found wanting. Of his childhood, growing up in the family chateau of Malrome, with its endless gardens, cascading fountains, and cavernous rooms lined with marble and gilded mirrors. Of how he used to hunt, shoot, and ride alongside his father, the fourteenth Comte d'Toulouse. Omitted, of course, were the painful details of the accidents that broke his legs, and how his father could barely stand to look at him ever afterwards. He also brought news of Satie in Vienna, working on a commission for an avant-garde opera; that the composer had not bothered to write since his departure mattered very little. And he conveyed the blessings and well- wishes of everyone at the Moulin, especially Harold. "Every time I see him he tells me how much he misses his little sparrow, but when I remind him that you are in the loving care of our young poet friend, he smiles. " 'Ah, then she is certain the make a speedy recovery, Toulouse, and everything is sure to go well!' "
The Red Windmill still turned outside the garret windows, as brightly- lit as ever, and Satine had no reason the suspect the little truths Christian and Toulouse had agreed to keep from her. That the Duke had taken over the deed to the Moulin Rouge and sold it to the highest bidder. That the new manager, one Monsieur Fleurs, had shut down Christian's play and let go of all the Diamond Dogs, scattered them back to the streets in an effort to ensure the respectability of the newly-converted theater. Or that Zidler, bankrupt and dejected, had quietly left Paris for parts unknown without having the heart to say good-bye to anyone. Even his little sparrow.

"You simply must pose for me."
He had begun making the request in late spring. Satine's health had slowly continued to improve, to the point that she was able to dress and receive visitors properly. She received him by herself that morning, apologizing for Christian's absence: "He has a meeting with an editor today at a very large publishing house. It looks quite promising." Toulouse nodded thoughtfully and noted her progress with approval, sure that it was due in no little part to the nourishing meals he'd sent all those months. Yes, her figure was still painfully thin under plain, dark dresses. Her hair had faded to a lackluster copper color, as she had ceased to apply henna to it during her illness. And the rouge she meticulously painted on cheeks and lips failed to impart a convincing blush of vitality. All these and more Toulouse noted with his incisive eye, and then chose to ignore.
For her part, Satine was now alert enough to notice that her friend's health had greatly deteriorated. The primary culprit was alcohol-wine, absinthe, or brandy, it mattered not. He drank in order to revive his flagging moods, to numb the constant ache in his body and to forget his deformity for a little while. His skin was becoming a bilious shade of yellow, while his eyes reddened and watered ceaselessly and his mouth twitched for no apparent reason. His laughter, when it did come, was subdued; he no longer gesticulated wildly as he used to do when he was amused or excited. There was nothing left anymore to conceal the fact that he was a young man who had grown old and exhausted before his time. It all seemed very sudden to her, this falling apart of body and spirits. But when had I ever really paid attention to him before? He always just- Toulouse.
And so they saw each other plainly, in cruel daylight, and lied to one another.
"How are you doing, my Queen?"
"Better and better, thank you. And yourself, Toulouse?"
"I am simply intoxicated by the beauty of life. "
She settled herself on the edge of her mattress after offering him the chair of honor. Then he resumed his request that she pose for him, having brought with him a small leather-bound sketchpad and several pencils. She had done so three years earlier for a poster Harold commissioned, wishing to spread the name of his Sparkling Diamond throughout Paris. Thankfully it had the desired effect, although Harold nonetheless grumbled that he was being overcharged by the little dwarf. For her part, Satine wore a sleeveless black satin gown that showed her tiny waist to its' best advantage, as well as long black gloves and a man's top hat titled at a rakish angle. What she remembered primarily was that posing for one's portrait was not as easy or romantic as she had imagined it to be. She shivered in the cold studio, wishing Marie had chosen a more sensible dress for her. She found standing for long hours tiresome, even with the rest breaks Toulouse thoughtfully provided. And she was told constantly, it seemed, not to move or even twitch a muscle--an impossibility for one who had been in motion her entire life. And as for the romance-sadly, Toulouse was simply no Rodin. Whenever he tried to sketch her afterwards, when he came to the nightclub and asked if she might sit, "please, just a moment, so I can capture your beauty," she tossed her bright hair and twirled out of reach. "You must catch me first!" He still half-expected her to twirl away from him now, poised as she was on the mattress somewhere between standing and sitting, as if unable to decide whether to stay or to go.
"No, Toulouse, I couldn't pose for you." She did not want to be memorialized as she was now, even in the artist's private book. Two months earlier he had given her a quick sketch of her that he'd done while she was sleeping peacefully, a slumber certainly induced by laudanum. She burned it in the stove. "You should find another muse-there are so many pretty girls out there to pick from."
"But you are beautiful." He said it simply, without his usual flourishes, and so quietly that Satine strained to hear it.
"Not anymore, Toulouse." Before he could protest she tossed her head in the old way that he loved, and asked after Satie. "Has anyone heard from him since he took that commission in Vienna?"
He closed his sketchbook and made up a story of the composer's latest adventures to entertain her. But he continued to study her intently-she thought it nearsightedness-and in his room that evening he pulled out his pencils and drew her from memory. The memory of how she looked that afternoon, framed by hazy light and so still she hardly seemed to breathe. Memories of endless nights at the Moulin, his heart ceasing every time she descended on her velvet trapeze. Of catching a glimpse of her running backstage after a performance, laughing with Mome Fromage, pausing only to adjust an unruly black garter. Watching her on the dance floor as she whirled in the arms of her client for the evening and longing to ask her to dance. Longing, just once, to be lady's choice.
Of course he was in love with her, had always been in love with her. She had been too absorbed in the whirl of life at the Moulin to ever notice a dwarf of a man who drank too much and laughed too loudly, even if he was the fourteenth Comte d'Toulouse. But titles had never interested her. "Once you strip men of their titles, their clothes and their money," he once overheard her tell Nini, "they all look alike." Except for himself, he reflected with more sadness than bitterness. Clothed or unclothed, he was nothing a beautiful woman would look at. Especially once a young poet with green eyes and a silver voice-his own protégé--had stolen her heart. We are alike in our longings, my Queen, far more than you know.
Cursing the unsteadiness of his hand, taking draughts of absinthe, he captured her face and her spirit in flowing lines and restless arabesques that danced across the smooth, cream-colored paper. With his pencil, he danced with her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~A/N: I'm still having a little trouble with the format changing when I upload this-indents, spacing, italics, etc. don't want to behave. If anything lacks clarity, just let me know.