1890
Paris
The Moulin Rouge
Come in; don't be frightened. Oh, this is a place of vice and depravity, to be sure, and it's uncertain that you'll leave with your virtue intact, but you won't be bored. I guarantee it.
Here is a dark, narrow corridor lit with red-glassed candles, filled with a muted roar of frenzied revelry. The passage comes to an end at a heavy crimson velvet curtain, and opens onto a chaos of laughter both drunken and sober; of groups of men in white waistcoats and shirtfronts, packs of wolves in tailored wool; of ladies in bustled gowns, jewels on their ears, necks, and wrists flashing like signal lamps; of waiters dressed as devils and acrobats costumed as angels; of fleshy beauties with painted lips and feathers in their hair, dancing like gauzy butterflies to the cacophony of a hidden orchestra. The dresses of the dancing girls, saucily flipped upward, reveal foaming ruffles and daring striped stockings rolled just above the knee. The men in white waistcoats and shirtfronts let out raucous howls, pounding on the tables in enthusiastic approval.
You see that man? That lone man at the small table on the edge of the dance floor. He wears fringed buckskin trousers and worn boots, his sharp jaw is unshaven, and his blond hair disheveled. A bottle of brandy, the house's cheapest, sits on the table, uncorked and three-quarters full. His grey eyes are not yet unfocused, though he has spent each evening for a week at this table, and if previous nights are an indication of things to come, they soon will be. He is an American, a cowboy, an entertainer, and a curiosity in this most cosmopolitan of cities, and he cares nothing for sophisticated Parisians nor their elegant scrutiny. For this reason, he is more sought-after than ever, but tonight he has refused companionship and divides his attention between the floor show and the only other lone man in the place.
The object of the cowboy's regard is there – a few tables over. That lean, handsome man in evening dress like most other men present, but look at him. He's set apart by a bearing that is military in its straightness, and an expression of quiet despair. He too has a bottle upon the table, a clear bottle set in a silver bucket of ice. Every so often the man pours a transparent, syrupy liquid from the bottle into a tiny glass, and tosses it back as if it were a bad-tasting medicine.
The cowboy watches him closely now, his eyes traversing the man's face, his slender body. Every gesture is wearily graceful; his face is empty. Gradually, though, he becomes aware of the cowboy's gaze, and looks up. A faint smile curves his lips, and he raises his glass in a toast. The cowboy returns the salute.
For a week this little game has continued. I haven't placed a bet on the outcome, but it seems certain nonetheless, n'est-ce pas?
Ah, there. Three more drinks, and the cowboy picks up his bottle and stands, oblivious to the interested glances of those around him, and makes his way to the next table. The lean, handsome man – he is a count, they say, a Russian, and a war hero – gazes at him thoughtfully and, in fluent and idiomatic French – admirable in a foreigner – invites him to sit. The cowboy shakes his head and shrugs, and the count repeats his offer in English. The cowboy nods now, understanding, and sits. They watch the floor show together, occasionally speaking into each other's ear.
An hour goes by, then two. The contents of their respective bottles diminish. At last they stand and make their way toward the back rooms. You know about the back rooms, do you not? Ah well, perhaps I had better not shock you. You look easily offended, my friend. Let us simply say that there are delights in those rooms to tempt the most jaundiced appetites.
Time passes; the crowd dwindles. The first birds of Montmartre are singing in the chestnut trees when the two men emerge. Slightly worse for wear, you ask? Ah, I cannot say. You prefer discretion, I think. No, you're right; perfectly tawdry to speculate, to gossip. But I will venture to remark upon this: they appear happier, or at least content for the moment, and their parting glance is an affectionate one.
A pity it won't last. The cowboy returns to America next week, I hear, and the count? Well, who knows. He speaks to so few people. A true enigma. But he looks happy now, non? He smiles.
Don't judge, my friend. Don't condemn. Happiness is fleeting enough, in these troubled times. We must cling to life and its little pleasures when and where we can.
Summary: Oh, this is a place of vice and depravity, to be sure, and it's uncertain that you'll leave with your virtue intact, but you won't be bored.
Rated: PG-13
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Alexei Vronsky/Frank Hopkins
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 799 Read: 1401
Published: 13 May 2010 Updated: 13 May 2010