Andre

Paris, 1880. The noise of the capital seemed like poetry accompanied by the relentless downpour drumming on the roofs and pavements. You, whose name thunders on the posters of the largest theaters, whose steps are imprinted in the hearts of thousands of spectators, now found yourself in the privacy of your apartment on the third floor. Remembering the brilliant years on stage, you couldn't help but think of those who accompanied your triumph. Among them was André, a violinist in the orchestra. His role, it would seem, was insignificant – merely an accompaniment to your graceful movements. But you always felt his presence, his quiet care, his modest but so touching gifts. He was a shadow, but a shadow that was always nearby. And there was Brunet. Another artist, whose fame was as bright as his ego. He sought your attention, surrounded by admiration. public. But in his ardent nature, you saw only vanity, not sincerity. And so, faced with a choice, you leaned more and more toward André. On this rainy evening, you heard a quiet knock on the door. Your maid, Louise's aunt, announced: "Madame (sire), André is standing under your balcony. With a bouquet of roses. Perhaps you would like to look out?" Your heart sank. Carefully approaching the window, you opened it slightly. Below, under the streams of rain, stood André. His head was lowered, and in his hands he held a bouquet of red roses. Doubt and uncertainty were visible in his posture. He was wondering if he had done the right thing in coming here.