So guys, this is the final chapter of 'Cigarettes and Petticoats'. Ever. Boy, has it been a long ride! This chapter took a while because I was on holiday and then I started university, so I apologise. But finally the last chapter is done, so sit back, relax, and enjoy. The lyrics used in this (they're in French) are from the song Là-Bas by Jean-Jaques Goldmann. I listened to it a lot while writing this fic, so I included a little tribute.

Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further… and one fine morning- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'The Great Gatsby'.

If there was one thing that Christine knew for certain, it was that four years added a lot to a girl's face. Not that she had aged- at twenty-four she was hardly up to losing her looks- but there was no doubt that time had left it's mark etched across her features.

Like most girls, Christine was able to look back on the past four years and laugh, but words she had spoken when she was barely twenty were now coming back to haunt her steps. Satine had found a lover, and a highly unsuitable one at that. Their duty was clear: to let Satine's secret slip. All it took was for one of them to take the initiative.

"It's not that I don't want to," Christine told the girls contemplatively one afternoon. "It's just that… It would make everything worse, wouldn't it?"

"Worse?" Nini snorted at the next table. "How can things be worse?"

The statement was all too true. Four years of working her way through ranks of dancers and Christine had lost her entire status, shuffled into position as a grumpy chorus girl. Satine had fulfilled her dreams and become something more than a courtesan who could act, but this triumph on her part meant a demotion for everyone else. It was Christine's greatest fear: anonymity. All her life it had been made clear that she was not a person to be overlooked, whether through admiration, desire, jealousy or simple hatred. Christine did not care with which of these emotions she was regarded, provided she was noticed. But now…

Now everything was different.

In contrast to some of the other, stupider girls, Christine did not envy Satine her romance. Love was an unfortunate position to be in, it made one absent-minded and increasingly embarrassing. But there was something in the way Satine flaunted the emotion, something in the way she put all their jobs at risk with such innocent-

No. Christine practically punched her glass onto the table. There was no innocence, no joy. There could never be. All Christine envied was Satine's stardom, that feeling of all eyes watching you and no one else.

She was so unconvinced it made her laugh.

Luck, it seemed, was not on Christine's side that year. Apart from Satine's role, solo parts for female dancers were thinly spread in Spectacular Spectacular, and any roles that did not fall to the Four Whores were hotly fought about. Christine's status as one of the better dancers amongst the Diamond Dogs gave her a place in the first row, and three weeks into rehearsal Historic met with an unfortunate accident that saw Christine fill her role as a featured 'slave dancer'. The circumstances of Historic's accident were regarded as suspicious (the stair that had collapsed beneath her was not known to be loose), but Christine had long ago learned not to listen to dressing room gossip.

It was not enough. No small success was enough. Christine had risen too high to accept being sunk so low. Nini, for once, refused to help her; indeed the Englishwoman had not spoken much to Christine ever since Christine had spent a very drunken half hour in the Argentinean's arms during one of Toulouse's parties.

"Why?" Christine finally cried to Tattoo one evening when no one else was about. "Why does that stupid slut Satine get everything she wants? How can she be given so much glory, and then throw it about? She acts like she doesn't even care. Well, I do! I do!"

Tattoo held Christine and kissed her, murmuring something like "Oh, Travesty, it doesn't matter," and for half a minute Christine could have sworn she was in love, with no thought of how wretched everything had become. Then reality returned in the form of a shriek from down the hall, followed by an awful lot of shouting- something about Harlequin and a rope- and love was never mentioned again.

That day tensions ran as thick as the thickest treacle. Christian had added a new song into the show, and the Diamond Dogs had been given a twenty-minute lecture on how to sing in harmony. Morale was at an all-time low.

Christine watched as Satine exchanged looks with Christian that had all the subtlety of a drunken fishwife. The smiles, the kisses behind closed doors, it was all too much. No, something had to be done. She had made a promise after all.

She got up from her chair and walked to towards the Duke with deliberate slowness. It was her best performance, and she wanted everyone to see it; the seductive twist of her hips, the tilt of her head, and her best feature; that mocking smile, worn proudly on her lips. It was her triumph, her decisive step in the future of the Moulin Rouge. No one could rob her of that.

"This endin's silly." Christine jerked. Nini was leaning over the Duke's chair, draping herself over his shoulders. "Why would the courtesan go for the penniless writer?" she said brashly, then checked herself melodramatically. "Oops! I mean sitar player."

It took all of Christine's self control not to stamp her foot in fury. Her greatest moment, the few precious seconds when all eyes would be on her, and Nini robbed her of it. Nini, who had helped her so much at first, now willingly let Christine be less noticeable than the most common whore in Montmartre. Ambition had finally torn them apart.

She felt a shadow lay itself across her life. All those years she had been teasing it, enticing it, but always dancing just out of reach. There were times when she had skirted the edges, times when she really thought this was the end, but she had always managed to twirl away again, free in her prison of satin and dancing shoes. Now darkness was taking hold.

Night fell and the lives of those at the windmill were held in balance by the lust of a jealous man. Everyone had collected in the hall to await the outcome, leaving Christine alone in the dressing room. She let them wait a little longer.

It was partly her fault for writing the note that had sent out the challenge. She doubted she would be blamed, as doubtless people were still glaring at Nini and cursing Christian, but it was undeniably true.

Christine looked in the mirror. Yes, time had left its mark. Makeup hid the shadows under her eyes and the rouge dusted over her razor-sharp cheekbones failed to disguise very much. Liquor was now her constant companion after cigarettes began to make her cough.

A sudden banging at the door brought Christine out of her thoughts. "C'mon, Trav," Dominatrix's unmistakable voice announced in the hallway. "Satine's off to fuck the Duke, the writer looks as if he's about to die, and China Doll and Mome are taking bets on when that's going to happen. We don't want to miss anything."

"No," Christine agreed hoarsely. "No, we don't."

She wiped the blood on a handkerchief before leaving.

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"Satine," Marguerite announced one evening, "is a slut. A stupid, worthless, talentless slut who doesn't even have the sense to fuck the man who pays for her."

"Hmm, now there's something that couldn't be more obvious," Pearly Queen muttered into her absinthe. Rehearsals had been postponed while the lead actress received some private tutoring from the scriptwriter. Caroline had been quick to speculate as to what that private tutoring may include.

Marguerite threatened Pearly with the glowing embers of her cigarette to make the girl shut up, which, thankfully, she did. Marguerite had no patience for argument anymore. It was hard enough to survive without people being untrustworthy. Marguerite wondered how long it would be before discipline failed her and her magpie ways led her into stealing from other girls.

She would have voiced her fears to Travesty if she hadn't known the girl would probably not care. Travesty was always rather self-absorbed and the dire circumstances had only succeeded in making it worse. In some way, Marguerite understood: Travesty burned and dimmed with the stage lights, whereas Marguerite was a survivor. A silly show was no worry to her.

And yet… Her fingers itched, trembling for the touch of gold and silver. What she could no longer receive in jewels, Marguerite made up for in tattoos, having design after design traced on her skin until there was very little space left. When her money for such things ran out, Marguerite had one of the tattoo artists teach her how to do them herself in exchange for an afternoon of free pleasure. Roses roped themselves across her thighs, clashing with yellow stars, blue birds captured amongst inky false green lace. When every inch of skin was coloured, Marguerite found a willing human canvas in Dominatrix (the other girls refused to mar their porcelain skin), and soon spiders were spinning their webs across the sadist's back.

The afternoon was a dull one, and Marguerite alternated between smoking, drinking and tracing a design on Dominatrix's muscular upper arm. "You're hurting," her subject mumbled, her lips numb from inhaling tobacco and anything else she could get her hands on.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows sceptically. "I'm surprised you still feel pain, Domi."

Dominatrix frowned and dug her nails into Marguerite's wrist, quickly but painfully. "Likewise, I'm sure."

Travesty gave an odd, wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. "Look at what we've come to," she said shakily, covering her mouth. "Domi's so frustrated at not being able crack whips that she has to let it out on Tattoo's arm." She let out another cough. Marguerite watched her warily. "And Tattoo," Travesty continued, "has to… to…" she trailed off, choosing to pour gin down her throat instead.

Marguerite paused, examining the marks Dominatrix's nails had made on her wrist. A different sort of pain from the needles she was used to. "Trav, leave us alone," she said tiredly. "I'll talk to you later."

For a moment, Travesty looked hurt, but the expression was gone as soon as it came and she disappeared to chat with the Four Whores. Marguerite tried to talk to her in the evening, to make her see sense, but things were rudely interrupted by the news that Harlequin had tried to hang herself from the attic rafters. Marguerite, never one to miss the latest scandal, rushed to the attic to find one of the stagehands cutting an almost unconscious Harlequin down from the ceiling while Antoinette wailed into Liberty's shoulder. Liberty, to Marguerite's surprise, seemed oddly unaffected, merely a little pale. Her eyes were full of nothing, or everything, it was impossible to tell.

Marguerite had managed to escape the noose more than once throughout her life, and the thought that someone had voluntarily chosen that fate was unfathomable. "Oh, don't worry, you'll experience it soon enough," Caroline predicted nastily when Marguerite mentioned it. "There's something in you that will never be satisfied until you swing."

It all went to hell the day before rehearsal. Nini had finally blabbed to the Duke, something Marguerite was secretly relieved to have gotten behind her. At least there would be no more waiting for Satine and her lover to give themselves away. Satine was in the tower, allegedly to save them all, even though they all knew they were creatures already dying.

Marguerite drew on her cigarette, following that with a gullet-full of bitter absinthe. It was only a few hours before dawn.

Travesty entered the hall somewhat later than everyone else, and Marguerite gently clasped her hand as she passed by, a silent farewell and acknowledgement that years ago they had declared the challenge that had betrayed them all. Travesty paused, and glanced toward her for a moment, then was gone.

When Satine finally released her hold on the world (romantically, in her lover's arms), no one dared enter her dressing room for about a week, fearful that her sickness could somehow hold a presence there. Marguerite, not one for superstition, avoided the room for another reason. There were so many jewels in that room, but one didn't rob the dead. Not unless one was starving.

Finally, ten days after Satine's first and last performance as a real actress, Marguerite gave into temptation. The lock was pathetically easy to crack, and not even Zidler seemed eager to look after Satine's jewellery. Sapphires, rubies, diamonds, gold, Marguerite swept them all into a small bag, leaving no box unopened, no draw locked. She even rifled through Satine's wardrobe and helped herself to some silks. It wasn't as if Satine could miss them.

There was one necklace Marguerite could not bare to touch, and that was the huge string of diamonds given to Satine by the Duke. It was too heavy, too… collar-like. As if whoever received it instantly belonged to the giver.

She heard footsteps in the hallway; there wasn't much time. Quickly, Marguerite lit a match and tossed it into the fireplace, then threw the necklace onto the flames. A fitting tribute for a fallen courtesan. It smoked, refusing to burn, indulging its' final performance amongst the dancing light.

She made her way out through the backdoor. Somewhere, a hangman tightened his noose.

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In the summer of 1899 Marianne passed her twenty-third birthday, and already the years between then and the day she had come to the Moulin Rouge at a mere sixteen felt like centuries. Her birthday had little acknowledgement from even herself, as it came on the very day Harold Zidler found an investor to turn the dancehall into a theatre. Still, a wild party was held in the rooms of a local artist, and Marianne held up a glass of champagne in a silent toast to her new age. By her next birthday, it would be a new century. The world would be a different place, but she would still be here, in some Montmartre attic, aged by a life not worth living.

Dawn painted the rooftops of Paris as Antoinette and Harlequin found Marianne on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of absinthe in the other. It was surprising to see both of them upright, as most of the girls had succumbed to alcohol and were lying scattered about the room, cigarettes smouldering against their skirts. Strange Schoolgirl lay behind Marianne, slumped against the wall like a rag doll some child had carelessly discarded.

"Happy birthday, Liberty," Harlequin whispered with a ghost of a smile. "At least you went to a party."

The two of them presented her with a gift, the only one she had received. It was a red rose, slightly limp, with blue and white ribbons tied on its stem to represent the Tricolour. It had obviously been plucked from the Moulin's garden, and seeing it made Marianne begin to cry, even though there was no reason. When Antoinette asked her why Marianne replied that it was normal to tear up when inebriated, even though she hadn't drunk much at all.

The rose wilted quickly and dripped its petals onto her dresser.

Some days Marianne awoke and wondered why she bothered carrying on. She lead a nothing life, a worthless one, one so far removed from her childhood of memorising dates and names amidst towering shelves and dusty books. From one extreme into the other.

She wondered even more the night Harlequin kicked a trunk from under her feet, leaving herself dangling pathetically at the end of a rope. Harlequin had begun to decay a long time ago, crawling further and further into the grave. Harlequin, at heart a romantic, lived most of her life being starved of love, any chance at it being snatched away by greedy claws. Seeing Satine and Christian living a blissful fairytale romance was more than she could bear, and after weeks of jealously crying herself to sleep, Harlequin decided to end it all. Antoinette found Harlequin just as she was about to slip away, and the girl shrieked loud enough to wake up the entire quartier.

Marianne watched silently as Maximilian the stagehand ended Harlequin's failed suicide attempt, concentrating instead on comforting Antoinette. Juno was one of the first girls to reach the attic, and she looked on, pale-faced and bug-eyed. Garden Girl came next and was violently sick.

Harlequin continued to fade from lack of love, though Antoinette refusing to leave her side prevented her from making any further attempts on her life. So Harlequin lived on, barely, a dying star in their constellation.

Marianne had nightmares again. Travesty laughing, Harlequin dangling from the rafters, Juno huddled in the shadows like a ghost, her father chasing her through fog-filled alleys, and blood, blood everywhere…

Things suddenly became clear. She had to move on, or else she would die here, a torrid whore's death amongst silk and sex and rouge. She had to leave if she wanted any chance at life at all.

Throughout her years as a cancan dancer, Marianne had earned a decent bit of money and, despite most of it disappearing at the bottom of a wine glass, she had spent some of it on a very nice day dress that she had little opportunity to wear. It was of very thick, heavy wool in a striking shade of red, with black fur trimmings around the cuffs and neck. A small black hat with a veil made the whole ensemble seem very daring for polite society, but it made Marianne look more of a lady than she had ever been before. The time had come to say farewell.

Marianne hugged Antoinette and Harlequin goodbye, regretting the knowledge that she would never see them again. "You're a fool," Antoinette exclaimed. "Where will you go from here? Who will look after you? You've no money, no family to take you in…"

"I'll manage," Marianne interrupted gently. "Good luck with the show."

Harlequin sobbed and blew her nose into her handkerchief. "We'll miss you."

Marianne smiled. "Yes."

And with one last look at the dancehall, Marianne turned on her heel and took her first steps into the world.

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"And one, two three, four, five, six- no, Juno, you've gone wrong again!"

Cecile sighed and tried not to glare at Zidler as he passed by. Dancing the identical steps in rows of six did not agree with her. She was used to the speed and vigour of the cancan, where a foot out of place did not really matter and everyone was able to be as free and energetic as they wanted. One thing was for certain: Cecile was not destined for the ballet.

She was placed between Garden Girl and Liberty for most of the dances in the production, and tripped and turned her way through tedious slave dances and the so-called 'tantric cancan'. Garden Girl took to everything with her usual grace, and Liberty moved through the steps almost mechanically, learning quickly and rarely being out of place, but utterly passionless.

The seasons changed into an early autumn, complete with rather a lot of rain, and Cecile and Garden Girl amused themselves in the garden by throwing piles of wet, dead leaves at each other, squealing when they dripped into their collars and soaked their hair. Cecile was not fond of autumn, a season she had always considered a good time to stay indoors and wait for the joys of snow and Christmas. Now she needed all the amusement she could get.

"Là-bas…" Garden Girl sang childishly, striking a pose. Cecile laughed; it was a popular song from the music halls. "Loin de nos vies, de nos villages, j'ai oublierai ta voix, ton visage… J'ai beau te serrer dans mes bras… Tu m'echappes déjà, là-bas."

"Very romantic," Cecile praised, taking Garden Girl's hands and spinning her in a circle as if they were little girls. "You could almost think Christian had written it!"

Garden Girl, her nose red from the chill of the autumn afternoon, spun around again, giggling. "Yes, it is rather bohemian," she agreed, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck. "But a little too upsetting. He's more the 'oh, we'll be in love forever and never part' type."

"Hmm." Cecile flopped into a chair, lighting one of the cigarettes she'd recently taken to smoking. "Will their love ever end?" she asked lightly.

Garden Girl played with a loose strand of hair as she sat down next to Cecile. "Oh, probably," she breathed airily. "I'm sure it's getting in Satine's way, and, well, nothing does that for long."

"I don't think Satine wants it to end," Cecile whispered. "She's feeling too good for that."

Satine still had her remnants of admiration amongst the Diamond Dogs, as disguised as they may have been. Harlequin watched the lovers with wistful looks, thinking of the romance she would never have, Babydoll tried to copy the way she moved, Nini had a hate that could only stem from justified jealousy, and Cecile… Cecile watched Satine play at love with her writer and wondered why she bothered.

At nineteen, Cecile was hardly a child anymore. She had grown into her role as one of the lower ranking girls, having petty quarrels, playing pranks on other dancers, sharing her bed with countless men and not remembering a single one. She blended in well with other nighttime creatures.

With no dancehall to provide regular customers, the Diamond Dogs were forced to work the streets and alleys where they had first begun their trade. Cecile, having started at the most high-class bordello in Montmartre, had little success at first, being so used to men simply falling into her arms. Eventually she found a few lonely souls in the taverns, and then was summoned by a boy no older than sixteen. He had her against a wall, Cecile doing most of the work, it being his first time with a woman, and when he thanked her afterward she laughed in his face.

"Next time, do it the proper way," she sniggered, stuffing the money into her pockets. "In a field, surrounded by flowers, with a girl whose name you know."

Cecile began to walk away, only to hear the boy call out to her. "Mademoiselle," he said plaintively. "What is your name?"

Slowly, Cecile turned around. The early morning fog left a wet sheen across her face. "Oh no, boy," she reprimanded. "I'm not that girl."

What should have been the beginning of a new life for all of them ended up being the start of the end of their world. Satine, one of the few constants in Cecile's life, gave into her illness right after the final curtain fell on opening night. It was impossible for Cecile to accept that the woman she had been a companion to for so long was now no longer there. She kept expecting Satine to come around the next corner in the hallway, or ask her to fetch some stockings. The goddess of the Moulin Rouge had gone forever.

It was a while before Cecile could work up the courage to enter Satine's rooms. It was a mess of remnants; Tattoo had swept through them before, leaving only tattered bedclothes and corsets behind. The remains of something sparkly smoked in the fireplace, and Cecile stepped up to it, wondering what Tattoo could possibly have left behind. It was the Duke's fabulous necklace, still magnificent amongst the ashes as Satine was still magnificent in death. Cecile gave a cry, wiping away the soaked makeup that made tracks across her face. It didn't matter what the other girls said. Satine had been special. She had made Cecile into something other than just a dressmaker's girl, had shown her that beauty and love were possible even in the depths of Montmartre. Cecile had witnessed love, or rather the lack of love, in so many girls, but no one had ever loved them back. She had seen Liberty pine after Travesty, unattainable as the moon, and Harlequin, swinging from the ceiling, shaking at the grief that she was still alive. But none had been loved as Satine had.

It was midnight when Cecile left the windmill and crossed the muddy streets to the tenements. She had never been to Christian's garret, but she had often seen them in the window, oblivious to anyone but each other. Now the writer lay listlessly on his bed, sobbing brokenly for his Satine, still seeing no one but her. Cecile, unnoticed, left the charred necklace on his desk. She had no idea what he would do with it, if he even knew what it was, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Like her namesake, she flitted, spirit-like, onto the darkened street. Her makeup was still fresh, and she took up her place by the corner, one hand her hip.

Back to work.

Forgive me ending on a rather sombre note. It just seemed right. I'm quite sad to say goodbye to the girls! Never fear, I hope to write more about them. I also intend to edit all of 'Cigarettes', making it new and improved… though not just yet.

Many thanks go to the lovely Rosemarie-ouhisama, who has helped me through this with very helpful suggestions, feedback and criticisms. Thanks also to Phemale, for reviewing and writing beautiful fanfics (everyone, read her stuff! It's fantastic), and Thessaly for constructive crit. And of course, thankyou to every single person who's reviewed this! Those reviews mean the world to me.

Adios, or rather, au revoir,

The Sugarfaerie