After Ziegler left, Nicolette spent a few more moments, soaking in what had happened. She sank down to the dusty bloodstained comforter that her mother had used during the last stage of her illness, while she pondered the consequences of her decision. She wanted desperately to meet the man that had caused her mother so much happiness, but she wondered what price Harold would place on the meeting he would arrange for her and Christian.

'Would it be worth it to fulfill her mother's legacy as the star of the Moulin Rouge?'

She had no desire to become some drunken aristocrat's toy that he could do with as he pleased. Men who had to have complete control of a woman disgusted her. Just like the rich sleaze ball, the Duke. What right did he have to control her mother just because she was pretty and he was insanely rich? That was just the life she had been avoiding. After all, look what had happened to her mother? She willingly accepted her fate, and the Moulin Rouge had sent her to an early death.

With a sigh, she rose off the bed and looked out the heart-shaped window on the elephant's head. The disaster of her mother's untimely death had already started to take its toll on the nightclub. The letters that spelled out Moulin Rouge were dull with age and falling off the night club's entrance, crudely hanging by bent nails consumed with rust. The trash from the street outside had begun to make its way within the night club's walls, littering the courtyard with old newspapers, broken Absinthe bottles, cigarette butts, and more. The place was obviously not acceptable for customers, but the constant thirst for domination and power over a seductive, sensual creature that would submit to their every desire for a price outweighed their concern for the appearance of the once attractive nightclub.

Why would she want to help save a place that killed her mother's independent spirit and attempt to do the same to her?

However, would she really suffer the same fate as her poor mother? After all, Ziegler promised to make her the star of "Spectacular Spectacular", not the Moulin Rouge, the nightclub that the courtesans ruled after the sun disappeared from the sky. It wasn't like she had a life to go back to, now that she had discovered someone who could tell her more about her mother. Her weakness had always been her sense of curiosity which always overwhelmed her normally reasonable thoughts. Part of her said that she was being silly, but part of her wished for the fame and status that Satine had achieved. She wanted to explore the life of a star, the life her mother had strived for. It must be nice to hear everyone chanting your name as you relish your moment in the spotlight. It would be a welcome change from her caretaker, who Nicolette always felt she was a burden to.

But there was no need to make a decision right now; she could always meet with Christian first and then figure out if making his acquaintance was worth the freedom she would undoubtedly be surrendering if she joined the ranks of the courtesans of the Moulin Rouge. With a small smile, she turned away from the window. If Christian was as great as she thought he was, it would possibly be worth the sacrifice.

'Let the game begin'

Meanwhile, across the street….

The tattered ruins of curtains provided little protection against the crude wind that tossed them about as they fluttered in and out of the broken half-open window. An abused typewriter, scarred with marks from being flung against the paper-thin walls of the tiny room, or kicked onto the dirty, scuffed floor boards, sat alone in the corner of the room. A pile of crumbled papers with discarded ideas surrounded the flimsy table it sat on. Occupying the other corner, with a diagonal view out the window, was a poor, broken-spirited man with a half-empty bottle of Absinthe in his hand. He hadn't shaved in weeks, and his blood shot eyes revealed a plethora of sleepless, miserable nights since Satine's death. Scars of razor cuts covered the pale undersides of his arms, from his wrists to his elbows. He was a miserable sight, but if it weren't for Toulouse's constant visits, he would have killed himself the night Satine died, just so they could be buried together.

Now he spent his days, drinking Absinthe and trying to forget the pain of reality: The woman he loved was now dead. Sometimes, if he was having a decent day, he would attempt to write another story in Satine's memory. But everything he wrote seemed like an insult to the achievement of the love that they had shared, so it was always tossed aside.

Ziegler was becoming cross with him because it had been almost 2 months since Satine had died and Christian had not found a replacement for her, nor written another bohemian piece to be performed. Ziegler had even gotten to the point where he began to send some of his dancers over to satisfy his lust for Satine, but in the end, he turned them all away. Not one of them had half the beauty or poise that Satine had pulled off so effortlessly.

With a sigh, he pulled himself to his feet and sat at his typewriter once again. As he pondered what he was about to write, he saw a beautiful auburn haired woman leave the Moulin Rouge and head down the street. There was something about the graceful way she moved and the pride in which she held her head that made him think of someone. Perhaps he had been drinking too much because even his eyes told him that girl reminded him of his lost love. A small smile stole across his lips; Satine was in a better place.

'Besides, it was better to have loved and lost, then to not have loved at all right?'

It was time to write something wonderful.