Dear Diary,

More than a week has passed me by as I carry on with my ballet lessons and new residence in Paris.

I've mostly kept to myself, wandering and exploring the opera house while I use the time to think and pray. The ballerinas are hardly worth my time, finding no other subject of conversing with me, lest it be a snicker or ridiculing of my poor ballet skills.

My favorite room in the opera house is the library. Hardly any one wanders the quarters of the books, allowing me some peaceful reading and journaling. The entire room is filled with books in latin and greek. I have already learned but a few words of each beyond my native french language.

But most of the novels consist of the architecture and history of the Opera Populaire. It's hard to believe women were not allowed to dance here until 1681, and the famous Jean-Philippe Rameau made his debut in 1774. Just years later the ballet school was reestablished by the King, originally known as the École de l'Académie. In 1831, my favorite opera Robert le Diable premiered on the very stage of the opera house, composed by Scribe and Giacomo Meyerbeer. And of course, La Sylphide was the first ballet ever to be performed with the ballerinas in white tutus. The ballet company is performing this next Spring, of which I will only be observing.

I only wish I had someone with whom to pass on this knowledge, though I may be the only one fascinated, as it is rather freshly presented to me.

No matter.

Despite being alone, I always have my journal to consult.

And yet, through all I have done to distract myself, nothing seems to break my habit of crying myself to sleep every night. I've managed to mute my sobs and tears so as not to disturb the others, but there are times I can hardly stand it myself.

To further alleviate my cries, I sneak out of the ballet dorms and practice privately on the stage. The opera house always seems haunted at night, especially under the single flame of a candle.

Nonetheless, it doesn't bother me.

When I am not hiding out in the library, rehearsing on stage or crying in the dorms, I hide away in a little nook hidden beneath one of the staircases. You would be amazed what one hears in the crevice of this stair.

Hold on... I believe I hear someone descending the steps of the opera. I pray they do not find me.

"Monsieur Andre!"

"Ah! Monsieur Firmin!"

It is the opera managers. Each of them are as silly as a mime, but they are empathetic with everyone, and have provided the utmost patience to my adjustment here, as well as shown it to the lead soprano herself.

"Monsieur Andre," I hear Firmin rushing down the steps, panting as he slurs his words. "A special letter... from the queen..."

"Her majesty?" Andre snatches the letter. "What is it her ladyship desires?"

Firmin quickly takes a breath, forcing his words with as much delicacy as managed. "She has insisted... we host the annual... Le reveillon... for the city of Paris."

"Us?" Andre replies in aghast. "We cannot possibly host the Le reveillon. It is far too luxurious an occasion for us to host. So meager compared to the palace of the queen herself."

"And yet her invitation stands," Firmin urges. "Andre, you seem rather disturbed. One would consider this an honor. The greatest. The highest!"

He nods in an attempt to collect his thoughts and conserve his nerves. "I apologize monsieur Firmin. I have just had a very disturbing night."

"Monsieur, whatever happened?"

"Well, first my program disappears, and then my reading glasses, and the office is... oh nevermind the details," Andre sighs and stuffs the note in his coat. "It is a great honor her majesty has given us. We shall discuss it further in the morning."

At last! Some good news brought to light.

"Wait! Monsieur Firmin," Andre suddenly stops him. "Make sure Madame Carlotta is not brought to the light of this news. Or else we shall never-"

"Gentlemen!" enters a dramatic, screechy italian tone. "I have just heard we are to host the Le reveillon. Do I stand in light of this?"

"Oui, of course madame Carlotta," Andre approaches her in a rehearsed awe.

"We were just discussing," Firmin continues, "your uh-"

"Fascinating-"

"Beautiful-"

"Mesmerizing debut!"

Carlotta sighed in appreciation, prideful in these compliments. "And of course, I am honored to perform before the crown of Paris herself. What a delight to be in the presence of someone in equal stature as myself."

Perhaps she should take light to her stature more accordingly.

"Come gentlemen!" she urges them up the stairs. "We must discuss the contents of my performance. After all, only the best for a regal."

Firmin and Andre exchange exasperated looks before turning with smiles to the prima donna herself.

"Mademoiselle, how lovely your gown wears you tonight," Firmin greets her in a rehearsed passion. "Angels bow to you in light of your presence."

"Naturally," she replies in her screeching italian accent.

Andre carries on this awe inspired facade. "What is it the queen of the opera desires of us on this night?"

"My debut at the Le reveillon, what more? Come! There is much to discuss!"

"Of course, madame!"

This is quite a treat indeed, having an event presented by the queen herself, though I don't believe I shall be attending, considering my lack of interest in such occasions. Perhaps I shall be able to observe from the balcony. Already I am hardly able to dance with the other ballerinas, consistently conscious of my lacking in skills, strength and confidence. Even so, they do well in reminding me.

I suppose I'll turn in for the night, and see what becomes of this invitation in the coming days.