Pierre Gringoire

The actors stepped onto the stage, and a miracle happened: the hall fell silent.

Almost.

Gringoire's play finally began. Four characters in embroidered costumes declaimed fine verses about the kingdom, the nobility, trade and labour. It was solemn. It was careful.

For that overheated crowd, it was terribly long.

Gringoire drank in every word. Pressed against a pillar, he moved his lips along with the actors. Every verse was his child.

— What a beautiful opening, he whispered. Listen… listen!

Around him, people listened less and less.

One neighbour yawned. Another mocked an actor's costume. Two students bet on what time the cardinal would arrive. The hubbub rose again, wave after wave, like a tide no dam could hold.

Gringoire clenched his fists.

— It is my play, he kept telling himself. They will understand. They will love it.

He even tried to launch the applause at the end of a speech. A few hands followed, out of politeness. Then the noise took back its rights.

And suddenly an usher appeared at the golden door, and his voice burst like a cannon shot:

— His Eminence the Cardinal!

In one instant, the play died.

A thousand heads turned toward the door. The actors went on reciting, but their verses fell into the void. The crowd had eyes only for the red and gold procession advancing into the hall.

— Go on! Gringoire begged. Keep playing!

Nobody heard him.

He had dreamed of this day as the day of his glory. He was learning a bitter lesson instead: you can write the story, choose every word, direct every scene — and lose your audience in a second, to a red robe passing through a door.

Gringoire watched his play die slowly on the stage.

He had written the story.

But he no longer controlled anything.