Cheery greetings filled the air as I silently slipped through the bustling crowds. It was that holy day of days, Christmas Eve, and every person I passed seemed filled to bursting with good cheer and happiness. Nobles and peasants alike shared wishes of good health and prosperity. All barriers of class and age seemed to have evaporated. Here, a noble gave an extravagant tip to a carriage driver. A little further, a ragged peddler wished a well-dressed man a "Merry Christmas." Barriers surmounted with the power of one holy day.
All barriers, save one.
No one dared to say anything to an imposing man dressed completely in somber black on such festive day. I drew many disapproving glances, making me wonder what wild impulse had driven me to leave my safe abode beneath the Parisian streets. Good cheer was not to be mine, the same as every Christmas Eve I could remember. Cold and dark were my memories of the time of year that, by rights, should be filled with laughter and joy. I could not ever recall celebrating; indeed, Christmas served as a reminder of my terrible differences, why I could not enjoy simple human pleasures like the rest of the world.
Disheartened once more, I turned my steps back to my cheerless home. Bitterness flooded me as I followed the familiar snow-covered path. Why on earth had I felt the need to rub my masked face in what I could not have?
I had gone but a few blocks when the faint whisper of song reached my ears. A Christmas carol, no doubt, but one I did not recognize. It was strangely minor in feel, oddly dark for such a festive holiday. Almost unnoticing, I drifted from my course to find myself standing before a small, humble church. There were a few strands of garlands, a few splashes of green and red amidst the plain brown boards. Hesitant, yet compelled by an unknown force, I pushed open the doors and slipped within.
The entryway was warm, in comforting contrast to the cold air outside. My eyes lighted on the source of the haunting melody: a choir stood at the front, near the altar. Shabbily dressed and obviously poor, their voices nonetheless soared through the small space. Finding an open seat in the very back, I quietly sat down, unwilling to attract the stares of the parishioners. Drawn by the music, I remained for the entire service, listening to the age-old story of the babe in the manger. Though I had heard it before, it seemed strangely comforting. The choir sang several more anthems, this time familiar, cheery carols.
Frozen by music and memory, I slowly realized that there was no way for me to slip away unseen. Already, families were gathering children and belongings, the service having ended without my notice. The pastor (for this was a Protestant church) walked down the aisle, shaking hands and beaming. Dreading the awkward looks and potential questions, I got up, hopeing to leave with as few people seeing me as possible. So intent on escaping was I, that I failed to notice a small child standing in my path. Out of reflex, I caught the child's hand before she could tumble to the cold and dirty floor. She looked up at me, and my breath caught in dread anticipation. Undoubtedly, she would scream or cry at the sight of a strange man in a mask, as she couldn't be more than three or four years old, dressed in her little red coat with matching bow in her hair.
To my surprise, she giggled at me."Are you in a hurry to get home, Monsieur?" she piped up in her small voice.
I could only look at her in shock before mumbling in the affirmative.
She nodded sagely. "Is your family waiting for you?"
My heart clenched at those innocent words. How was I to answer that? No, my family wishes I were dead! I simply shook my head.
"Oh," she said. She looked positively heartbroken at that.
I gently tugged my gloved hand free of hers, turning to leave, wishing more than ever that I had not left the Opera House.
"Wait!" a little voice cried.
I spun back at her shout. Solemnly taking the red ribbon from her hair, she placed in my hand with a shy little smile and whispered "Merry Christmas, Monsieur!" before darting off in the direction of a woman I assumed to be her mother.
I returned to the dark cellars of my abode, then; all the while softly humming a haunting Christmas carol and fingering a bright red hair ribbon…
A/N: The carol he hears is "Sing We Now of Christmas," a simply beautiful French carol from the 15th century. Merry Christmas!