Christian had finished Toulouse's soup, and was sitting in front of the typewriter. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine and drank some. His eyes began to turn blurry and teary-eyed. He shut his eyes hard and opened them again, and they were clear.
Christian put his head in his hands. He sighed. He placed one finger on the typewriter; pressing a lonely S. Christian continued typing. S. A. T. I. N. E.
He sighed and hanged his head heavily. He looked up and stared out the window. It was still daytime, but his room was so dark, you couldn't tell the difference.
Christian stared into an empty glass next to him. Suddenly, the room became cold again. He gasped, as he thought he saw a faint image of a face in the glass.
The face was a woman. But you could barely see her.
"Christian..."
Christian let out a small cry, jumping up from the table. He shut his eyes tightly, rubbing them with his hand. He opened them again. Nothing was there. Christian groped his hand for his chair and put the blankets around him. He ran into the bathroom. He felt for sure he was going mad. Maybe mad with grief?
Christian jumped to the mirror, hanging his head, his hands clutching the side of the almost broken sink. Christian looked up into the mirror, but the woman was there. She looked frightened, and unreal. But he had no time to look; he screamed and jumped back in fright.
"You must save her. Save her!"
Christian closed his eyes tight, but tripped on an empty bottle and pile of clothes. He fell back, but supported himself with his arms. He opened his eyes and stared at the mirror in horror.
The woman's face was fading. She whispered something else…some kind of name. Then, she slowly faded.
There was a knock on Toulouse's door. Toulouse tried to get through the mess of year-old stage scenery from last year's "Spectacular, Spectacular" Toulouse hurried towards the door, and swung it open.
It was a man, a smarmy bit of a fellow. He had ragged clothing and smelled horrible. His hair was greasy and messy. He carried a note in one hand.
"Message from Harold Zidler."
Toulouse cocked his head, and took the letter from the man's grubby hands. He hadn't spoken to Harold Zidler in years. Toulouse opened the note.
The Duke is back. Don't tell Christian.
Toulouse looked up at the man, and slowly folded the letter.
"Thank you." He said.
December 31, 1901. Christian slowly typed the date. It was the anniversary of Satine's death. Christian had tried not to think about it all day, but after his breakfast (cold porridge provided by Toulouse) it was all he could think of. Christian didn't know how to handle himself. Should he sit at home, wallowing about, drinking . . . or should he go out? Maybe visit her grave.
Christian's head came back up, out of his hands. Maybe that's what he should do. It's what she would have wanted. Satine would not want to see him like this. But still, he hadn't truly gone out in many months. There was the very rarity of visiting a bookstore or so, but otherwise, Christian was in bed at home.
Christian stood up, and looked out the window. He was only wearing an undershirt and his usual black pants. How could he go out in these? Did he even have his old clothes anymore? Christian had sold his tuxedo and top hat to a pawn shop. He had no use for glamorous things anymore.
Christian's eyes wandered to the Moulin Rouge. It was hard not to miss it, being directly in front of his home. After the Duke had learned to Satine's death, he immediately shut down the Moulin Rouge, leaving it in ruins. What was once the hottest spot in town…was now desolate and as quiet as a graveyard. The sign was rusting and the letters were falling. The windmill stopped turning, parts of it on the edge of falling off. Everyone was effected by the end of the Moulin Rouge. Christian was never truly sure what had happened, but he was sure then women were selling themselves.
Zidler had been left completely broke. Rumor was he fled to the slums of Paris, but Christian thought it was unlikely. Besides electricity, Zidler loved money. Zidler had to be out making money somehow.