Dance at the Moulin Rouge

I found this picture in a book of masterpieces Grandma sent for the birthday of one of our budding artists. Great book. Grandma graciously pasted a few of the pages together before sending. Painting the naked human figure may be more craft than eroticism for the artistic masters, but none of my young artists is quite at that point in their craft. Fortunately, Toulouse Lautrec was featured with a painting that passed muster, so At the Moulin Rouge: The Dance was our writing prompt on Sept 27th.

Their intention when they darted into the ballroom was to get lost in the crowd. The toughs that were pursuing them had been close on their heels. Too close. And they meant business. Stanton had had enough close calls with their like to know about that.

The ballroom had seemed like a good idea. He was, after all, dressed like a gentleman and Gertie was got up like a lady. It was the perfect hideout. And crowded. They would blend right in.

But he had forgotten that he hadn't taught Gertie anything about how the upperclass dance. And he'd had no idea that her high-class costume wasn't complete to her underclothing. Who would have guessed that she'd be wearing long, red underwear beneath her gown? Or that she'd lift her skirts and dance with the abandon of the dance hall.

It wasn't surprising that all the dancing around them ceased. That they found themselves in the center of a gaping circle, at the edge of which hovered the toughs. Of course, they could do nothing in here, not with all these witnesses.

So Stanton simpered and stepped like the gentleman he was pretending to be and looked askance at Gertie with all the rest of them, while his mind buzzed over their predicament. There was a way out. He was sure of it. And any moment it was going to hit him. Either that, or the toughs would.