To all of my readers: I wanted to write the play dialogue in French. I do not speak a word of the language (brilliant, I know), so I sincerely apologize for any inaccuracies. Can anyone guess that song and/or which opera it’s from?

Paris, 1889

The “Bravos” filled the room as Sophie Clark finished her piece on the piano. The loudest clapper was Roland Aucoin, the owner of the salon where Sophie played frequently. Tristan Blanc politely clapped. He was just as amazed by her performance as the rest of the crowd, but he did not show it. Roland was sitting next to him and said, “Tristan, is she not amazing?”

“You are having a woman play for us? You are unbelievable, do you know that?” Tristan shot back, angrily. Roland had been to enough salon events for writers to know that despite being a woman, Sophie had more talent than any of the salon musicians in Paris, perhaps even in all of France. He could not believe that it had been but two years ago that Roland had learned to control his shyness and began his own salon events for playwrights and opera composers. He talked to a friend at a music school about getting musicians to play. This was the first time that Roland, or any salon owner for that matter, hired a female salon musician. Many attendees had refused to attend this meeting because of it, but they were missing out on greatness. Roland knew that Tristan highly disapproved of the idea, but for some reason, Tristan stayed. Besides, now that Tristan’s excellent opera was being produced in a renowned opera house, Tristan’s leaving would cost Roland even more.

After the piece, Roland announced that they would all read aloud a scene from Éric Bouvier’s play. In playwrighting salons, it helped to have female Salonnières who were good actresses to read the female roles. Sophie was used to reading parts at the salon, so she immediately gathered around and was given the part of Céline, the prostitute who dreams of an education. Sophie was especially excited about playing a role like this. Both Sophie and Roland heavily admired Éric’s radical Expressionist style of writing that was not much different from Roland’s style. Tristan, a very traditional operatic composer, thought just the opposite. He sighed and stroked his fingers through his jet black hair.

“Céline boit heureusement une bouteille de genièvre dans une ruelle. Elle se lève, elle balance un peu pendant qu'elle marche dehors, et elle tombe vers le bas. un homme donne sa main pour l'aider à se lever. Céline happily drinks a bottle of gin in an alley. She gets up, sways a little as she walks out, and falls down. A man hold out his hand to help her up,” said Roland, reading the stage directions.

“Une jolie fille comme vous ne devrait pas errer les rues ceci tard la nuit. A pretty girl like you should not be wandering the streets this late at night.” said Éric, impersonating the john. Sophie continued, “Soyez tranquille. Be quiet.”

“Vous? Will you?”

“Désolé, monsieur, mais moi suis en congé ce soir. Sorry, sir, but I am off duty tonight.”

“L'homme donne plusieurs francs éclatants. The man holds out several glittering Francs,” said Roland.

“Bien, ce choses de changements. Well, that changes things,” said Sophia.

“Es deux vont de nouveau dans la ruelle et l'homme sort une petite couverture. Céline essaye de déboutonner sa camisole, mais à la place, son corps balance et elle vomit. L'homme se lève et marche loin sans sa couverture, dans le dégoût. The two go back into the alley and the man takes out a small blanket. Céline tries to unbutton her camisole, but instead, her body sways and she vomits. The man gets up and walks away without his blanket, disgusted.” They continued the scene until Céline gets picked up by a woman who runs a shelter for homeless women. Tristan had been listening to the play in disgust. This new era was severely downplaying the arts. His father, who had been a banker and lover of music and theater, would be disgusted with the new genres and styles if he were alive to see and hear them now. Both Éric and Roland had filthy writing styles and wrote about completely ridiculous topics.

“A prostitute with an education! Who ever heard of such a thing?!” cried Tristan, after the scene was finished.

Sophie, always ready to speak her mind, said, “Some women come to poor circumstances. You must not judge them! You really cannot know what a poor person thinks until you have lived like one.”

“Really? Roland told me that you came from a wealthy family in America. I cannot imagine him lying about your, shall we say, sexy past.” Sophie’s face turned bright red as everyone, except Roland, laughed hysterically. Tristan was usually a kind man, but he could be very cruel when anyone debated his conservative ways. Sophie had moved to Paris to be near people who defied conformity. Most of the attendants of the artistic salons fit this description, but there were certainly many in Paris who did not.

The salon meeting had begun after lunch and ended around suppertime. After everyone left, Sophie and Roland were still in the room.

“So, what are your plans for supper?” asked Roland, already knowing the answer.

“Not really anything. Most of the people in the boardinghouse go out on Saturday nights.”

“Well then, you must be like them.” Sophie did not even bother questioning him, except to ask where they were going.

“Well, I wanted it to be a surprise,” said Roland, “But I was thinking about a bistro.”

“Oh my, that sounds expensive.” Roland knew perfectly well that it was not, although it sounded that way because it was a new way of dining. He was certainly not going to tell Sophie that, especially because he had something else in mind.

“Well, since it is costing me so much, I decided to take you on one condition.”

“And what is that?”

“I want to hear you sing.” Sophie blushed almost as much as when Tristan had humiliated her.

“No, you really do not.”

“Oh, please. When I first found you at the music school, all of the students said that you had the most beautiful voice in all of Paris.”

“You should not believe what other people say.”

“Well, then, if you refuse to sing, I suppose that I will have to go home.” Roland went to grab his coat. He smiled with his back turned to Sophie. He slowly reached for his coat, exaggerating the movements, until he heard a small voice singing “Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas, Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain. Mais pas aujourd'hui, c'est certain. When will I love you? Good Lord, I don't know, maybe never, maybe tomorrow. But not today, that's for sure.” Roland quickly spun around, “Louder.”

“L'amour est enfant de Bohème, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi; si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime: si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! Si tu ne m’aimes pas, si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! Mais, si je t’aime, si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! Si tu ne m’aimes pas, si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! Mais, si je t’aime, si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and you call him quite in vain if it suits him not to come. Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer. One man talks well, the other keeps silent; it's the other one that I prefer. He never said anything, but I like his looks. Love! Love! Love! Love!” she belted in her harmonious mezzo-soprano.

“Well, then,” said Roland, stunned, “It seems that we have a bistro to get to.”