Free Unmasked by Michelle Marcos Page A

Monsieur
Frenet was a business associate who was a patron of the arts. I
thought if he could find me a situation as a seamstress in the
theatre, or even as a tutor, for I had some knowledge of books, I
might be able to make my own way in life. I gathered my remaining
coins and embarked on the uncomfortable journey to Paris, to the
house of the only man in the world who could help me.
    The servant who opened the door was very
rude, but I expect his attitude had something to do with my frock,
which bespoke years of alterations, and the scandalous fact that I
was unescorted. Nevertheless, he informed me that I could find
Monsieur Frenet at the Paris Opera House.
    Perhaps I should have recognized the name of
the theatre right away, but I did not. The Opera had long been
associated with a sinister phantom, the lurid tales of whom had
reached even the remote ears of our tiny village. But that day, as
I set out on the arduous walk to the theatre, my thoughts were
consumed with steering clear of the pickpockets and dodging the
buckets of waste that Parisians emptied from their windows.
    I reached the steps of the Opera two hours
later, nearly collapsing on the banquette near the curb. Though
exhausted, I could not help but marvel at the splendor of the
theatre. The façade was grand beyond my expectations, its gilded
statues and dome ablaze with the reflection of the setting sun.
Approaching the door was like stepping through the gates of
heaven.
    The lobby was dark, but I could imagine how
impressive it must be when alive with the promise of a performance.
The lobby was a broad stroke painting of marble, velvet and gilded
plaster. Statues of Greek figures, frozen in the beauty of an
instant, lined the expanse. A wide staircase flowered out onto the
second story, the purview of those wealthy enough to afford
privileged seating.
    Tiptoeing upon the blood-red carpet, I
followed the path to the immense doors that led to the theatre bay.
The air was thick with the leaden smell of paint, and the sound of
hammering assaulted my ears. Two men were on the stage arguing
heatedly. At first, I took them to be actors preparing for a play.
But the subject of their dispute proved me wrong.
    “Monsieur le Directeur,” said the taller man
with an exasperated flourish, “if you cannot find a way to make do
with the costumes in stock, then I’m afraid you will have to
acquire any new costumes at the expense of your salary.”
    “This is an outrage,” yelled the other. “Do
you now expect me to work for nothing?”
    “No, Rénard. My intention is merely to
demonstrate to you that I cannot expend a single franc more on this
production.”
    The men continued to debate loudly over the
pounding, and I walked to the front row unnoticed. It had been
about eleven years since I had last seen Monsieur Frenet, but I
recognized him immediately.
    “Monsieur Frenet?” I ventured.
    He turned to look at me, and a scowl twisted
his face. “Who the devil are you?”
    “My name is Paulette. I am the daughter of
François de Sauvoigny. He was an old acquaintance of yours,
yes?”
    Recognition illuminated his face. “Oh,
yes…François. Now I remember you. How you’ve – grown.”
    The double-edged remark was not lost on me,
but I chose to ignore it. “My father spoke of you often as a
friend, monsieur, and I’ve come from Sescité to speak with you.
Might I have a word in private?” I asked, glancing at the workmen
who had stopped their hammering to stare at me.
    “I’m afraid not. I’m rather busy at the
moment. Perhaps you could come back next week.”
    My hopes plunged at the curt dismissal. “No,
monsieur, I cannot. You see…I…well…”
    His expression angered to annoyance. “Come,
come, out with it.”
    My courage faltered in the face of his
impatience. “I know no one else in Paris. I was hoping you might
find a position for me in the theatre.”
    He heaved an exasperated sighed. “What can
you do?”
    “I can sew. My grandmother