Author: Elizabeth Bennet
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge does not belong to me but it does belong to directing god, Baz Luhrmann and his buddy Craig Pearce, as well as 20th Century Fox Film Corporation and all involved in creation of this film. But this fic and original characters are mine, so please ask if you would like to use it please.
Dedication: To the Princess Circle (which of course includes Serifina/Girlfried/Persephone, Saya, Poca, Sunny, Delphina, Luna, Macai, Kuzco, and Fred & George). And Delphina deserves my undying gratitude for betaing.
A/N: Satine had to start somewhere. All that she is came from somewhere. I thought it would be interesting to see where it all came from. I depict her life through her eyes and her mother, Celestine's, eyes. They are both filled with strength.
Please note that the significance of the title is: To Be a Strong Woman in French.
Pour Etre une Femme Forte
Chapter 1: Clouds So Sombre
Paris, 1878
The roof was leaking again. Freezing drops of rain made splashing noises in the half-filled pans and buckets set up in various places on the apartment's floors.
"We need to get out of here," Celestine said.
"What are you talking of?" her husband asked gruffly, "We have no where to go. We haven't the money to rent out a new place. We haven't been able to afford anything since you brought that brat into the world."
"Satine is your daughter as well, Léonce," Celestine said unfailingly, defiantly. He slapped her for it. She swiftly recovered, her eyes smoldering.
"You could have slept with anyone and given birth to the little rat," Léonce said, "That girl has no father."
"You're right about her not having a father. You are always gone! Out drinking, gambling, fighting, sleeping with countless women as if they were objects…toys!" she yelled, "But you're wrong about me. I loved you. I would never have gone to another. For the last time, Satine is yours."
Léonce just glared at her while taking a drink of ale so quickly it burned.
"I don't know who you are anymore," she whispered.
Eight year-old Satine could hear her mother's whisper in the next room. She sat on her mattress, knees drawn up to her chest. She had been hurt and terrified while her father threw his drunken fit. Only after hearing her mother's calming whisper did she begin to calm herself. Instead of listening to her father's hurtful words she decided to pretend.
It was the most wonderful things Satine had discovered. After listening to her mother read her stories, every night Satine would lay awake thinking about what it would be like to be the heroine of each story. What it would be like to be Hamlet's Ophelia. She would imagine herself insanely plucking at flowers and crying out her beloved's name. Somehow Ophelia's misery made Satine's less persistent for a short time.
That night, she was the heroine from the book Celestine had started reading to Satine earlier that week. It was from England: Jane Eyre.
Satine closed her eyes and imagined herself as the orphaned Jane, and then growing into a plain young woman working as a governess at Thornefield Hall. She pictured what she might wear; a simple gray frock with a dainty white collar perhaps. Her hair pulled tightly back into a chignon. Then she pictured Mr. Rochester. He was handsome, strong and kind. His eyes twinkled. He would have a charming English accent. He would be understanding.
Satine could almost drown out the shouts of her parents.
The cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating…
He had stormed out yet again. Celestine sighed, half out of defeat and half out of relief.
Léonce…
He had been an enticing man when she met him at the age of seventeen. He had been twenty-three, handsome. She had been so young. They were married right away to avoid scandal. Precisely eight months after they were wed, Satine came. Everyone knew, but pretended they could not count for Celestine's sake. Until then she had been regarded at "one of those very charming, sweet and amiable young girls."
Léonce and Celestine both came from middle-class families. Only two months earlier, Léonce had supported his small family by working in a poultry market in town. Then he started drinking and working intoxicated. He was promptly dismissed. Celestine had to say goodbye to the small, yet cozy living arrangements then. Now they lived in a crumbling, filthy apartment right outside of Monmatre. Léonce didn't work anymore. He came and left as he pleased. Celestine didn't have to follow him to figure out what he did and where he went. He always came home smelling of liquor, cigar smoke, and cheap perfume belonging to various ladies of the night.
She put on a bright face for her daughter, Satine. She was yet eight; too young to worry over such things. Celestine read stories to her. She borrowed books from her brother, Tómas, who gave what money he could to Celestine and Satine for food and clothing. But it wasn't much.
This is where I am, Celestine thought to herself.
She glances around the apartment. Paint peeled off the walls, it smelled of everything rotten, it was cold, damp and she could never seem to get it clean enough. She was surprised that they were not all sick from the massive filth.
The bed where she slept stood to the left corner. The kitchen was to the right and the door to an oversized closet that served as Satine's bedroom. The had one small, oak table, little cooking supplies and no running water. The small collections of books stood outside Satine's room in a wooden crate. The lavatory was outside in the ally, next to a water trough.
We need to get out of here…