Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or Moulin Rouge. The italicized lyrics are from the U2 song 'Dirty Day'.
Author's Note: So a lot of this story is inspired by a song, 'Dirty Day' by U2, which is appropriate for a story based on a musical. But the main idea is in the lyric below. If you haven't heard the song, give it a listen. It isn't standard U2, but it's very interesting. And I hope you enjoy the story!
"I had a starring role. I was the bad guy who walked out."
I walked out of the Moulin Rouge and never looked back.
That is a lie. I would have liked to never have looked back, and I might have gotten away with it if I hadn't bought the deed to the club. No matter how much I wanted to leave forever, I still had a job to do. I had to close the Moulin Rouge.
One could say that my job was made easier by Satine's death.
You might ask me how I didn't notice my courtesan was ill, but in truth I did not spend as much time with her as I would have liked. All of her time was absorbed by practicing with that silly poet, and soon I found out that it wasn't practicing for his play they were doing. No, the two were in love, and I had been blind to it.
I was surprised, truthfully, to hear that she had died. I had been angry with her for trying to make a fool out of me, and damn near succeeding with the ending of the play, when she and the poet sang to each other and every bloody member of the show did their best to keep me from killing the poet.
Really, he deserved to die. Satine was mine, and he took her away from me.
Before Satine, I had never had anyone truly be mine. I wanted…I don't know what I wanted. When I first saw her, I wanted her body. But beyond her body she was an enchanting woman, capable of making me feel anything, of making me feel love. I wanted her more than anything, and it was a terrifying feeling that I had never had before and didn't know how to deal with. So I did the one thing I could do, and I took all measures to make her mine. And even that didn't work.
Satine was never truly mine, and I hate her for it.
They all look at me with hatred in their eyes, as though they blame me for what happened. I want to scream at them, to tell them that I didn't know she was sick and if I had known I wouldn't have taken Zidler's deal, and really this is all Zidler's fault considering he was the one who knew she was sick in the first place.
We could sit around all day trying to pass the blame. It was my fault, it was Zidler's fault, it was the poet's fault, or even Satine's fault. We're all deserving of the blame in some way or another and none of us wants to admit it. I will say this, though. It is my fault that the Moulin Rouge will close. But it is not just my fault; it is also Satine's fault. She led me along, she pretended to love me, and not only did she love someone else, but she died. Now the Moulin Rouge has no star, and I have no lover. Things cannot simply work like this.
And then I see the poet, more clearly defined than the rest of the dancers and the ones who call themselves 'artists'. His grief is tangible even though I am not standing next to him. He looks up and catches my eye, and I see in his the look of one who has had his heart broken.
I wonder what he sees in my eyes.
Perhaps he sees indifference, although I regret her death. I don't like to show much emotion in front of others, although sometimes I can't help it. My father always taught me that it is a sign of weakness. I've never had to deal with this sort of thing before, and perhaps I don't know how to feel, much less how to show it. And now he is coming my way, perhaps to yell at me or to make me feel guilty.
I stopped feeling guilty awhile ago, when I realised it wasn't all my fault.
The poet stares at me for a few moments, looking as though he has no idea what to say. And then he murmurs, "I'm sorry."
If that doesn't beat all.
I have no idea what to say to him. I say, "I am, too." We stare at each other, and then I know why he is doing this. We're both in the same boat, both without the woman who was supposed to love us. I ask him, "Do you blame me for what happened?"
He bites his lip. He looks as though this pains him very much. "I don't know," he answers, voice low and carrying none of the enthusiasm that it used to. "I don't know who to blame anymore." He sighs. "I just want her back."
It doesn't even matter that a few nights ago I wanted to kill him. Without Satine, the whole thing doesn't matter. I just nod, and say "I know."
"No, you don't." Now there is something more to the poet's voice than before, an edge, a hint of anger. He looks into my eyes again. "Why don't you care?" His voice breaks.
I take a step back. "What?"
"Why don't you care that she's dead? You wanted her, you know. You tried to ruin what I had with Satine because you wanted her. Well?" His voice is raised; people are staring. "Didn't you love her? You must have loved her, to want her badly enough that you tried to kill me. Did you love her like I did? More? You sure aren't acting like it!" Now he sounds hysterical. "Did you love her?"
The bloody poet thinks he knows everything, standing there, smothered in self-righteous anger. But really, he doesn't know the half of it.
He thinks I never loved her.
It isn't that; I know I loved her. But now I realise that love is foolish. Look at what it has done to the poet, who will probably kill himself from the grief, or at the very least live a sad and lonely and pathetic life. And me, I bought a club that will go nowhere; I got myself into a hole. I've disgraced myself, all for some common whore.
I tell Christian, "No" and he shakes he head furiously and walks away.
He doesn't know.
No one must know. It was all a silly mistake, that is what I shall tell them. After all, it would have been unbecoming of a Duke to get mixed up in a love affair with a courtesan from the Moulin Rouge, of all places. I would have done better to marry a more respectable woman.
I must return to England and make everything right. But first I must close the Moulin rouge, sever all ties, and start anew.
I pity the poet.
He might think love to be the most important thing, but he is still naïve. Love means nothing in this world, and appearances everything. My love for Satine did nothing but drive her into the arms of a poet, and his love for her could not stop her from dying when the time came, and it has brought him nothing but misery. If I have learned anything from this, I have learned that love is something for the foolish.
The funeral is almost over. I will leave this place, never think about it again. It was a mistake, and mistakes are meant to be forgotten. I will return to England and make for myself a more respectable reputation, and forget about that silly affair I carried on in Paris. It was just a passing fancy, really.
I will not be made the fool again.