I don't remember when we made it to France. I don't even remember what the opera house looked like the first time I was inside it. But once again, the woman was by my side when I woke. It was the middle of the night, and I was beginning to think she would stay by my side until I could manage to at least speak. Didn't she need rest too? Maybe, I thought, she had slept on the journey from England like I had.
Strangely, she wasn't alone. A man knelt on my other side though I couldn't see him clearly, partly due to the white mask hiding half of his face. Our eyes met, and I realized he was pitying me. But this wasn't just pity. Something in his eyes seemed to say he understood my pain.
Finally, the woman spoke. "Eric will look after you Madame. At least until morning. But you can't tell anyone he was here whenever you recover enough to. This is our secret." With that, she was gone and Eric and I were alone.
She was good to me. I knew that. If we were at this Opera Populaire she had called it, that probably meant I wouldn't have to wait as long for these burns to heal as much as they would. But why was this man, Eric, a secret? And what was under that mask?
We looked at each other for several minutes before he took my hand in his own and began to sing. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before. The song was beautiful, both sad and full of love, and his voice captured the wonder of it perfectly. I never cared for opera. But if the people here could sing like Eric was—if he was one of them—maybe I could find love for it some day.
