Another Opera Story

Mrs. Jones was a lively old lady who lived in a tiny house in the woods with her “children” in London. She was tall, with black hair and gray eyes. This all started one cold autumn night in the year 1919.

Mrs. Jones was preparing supper in her large kitchen when she heard the doorbell ring. She opened it to find a pale old man with brown eyes and white hair standing outside. He was wearing a blue shirt, jeans, and blue shoes.

“Bonjour,” he said. “I hate to bother you like this, but can I come in?”

Now, Mrs. Jones was from France and was enthusiastic to hear the language from a native speaker.

“Oui, Monsieur,” said Mrs. Jones. “S’il vous plaît, entrez!”

The man promptly walked inside, and Mrs. Jones shut the door behind him.

“Merci,” he said. “What is your name?”

“My name is Hélène,” she replied. “And yours?”

“I am Doctor Favroche.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Oui.”

Favroche coughed into his arm.

“Sit down, sir,” said Mrs. Jones as she pulled out a chair. “S’il vous plaît, make yourself comfortable,”

Favroche looked around the kitchen. It had a stove, an oven, cooking pots, a large brown table, and seven wooden chairs. He sat down in the one Mrs. Jones had pulled out for him.

“I do not mean to pry,” he said, “but do you have any children, Hélène?”

“T'ey are not mine,” explained Mrs. Jones. “I treat t'em like my own. I took them in, you see,”

“Ah,” said Favroche. Hélène placed a plate of corn, some soup, and a glass of water in front of him.

“I have a guest room upstairs if you want to spend the night,” she offered.

“Oui, merci, kind woman!” said the doctor.

“You’re welcome. I’ll show you your room,”

And so she did.

The children came in an hour later. The oldest, Mason, was a fourteen-year-old boy with brown hair and eyes. The second oldest was a tall, brown-haired, green-eyed girl named June. Then came the twins, Abraham and Sunny. Abraham had brown hair and eyes, but Sunny stood out from them. She was short, with blue eyes and blonde hair like the sun, hence the name Hélène had given her. All of them were wearing white surgical masks. Mrs. Jones was in the kitchen.

“Where 'ave you been?” she demanded.

“Nice to see you, too, Mother,” said Mason.

“Sorry, Mason,” she said, “but zat’s ze fifth time zis week I’ve almost 'ad to call the police to report all four of you missing when you passed curfew,”

“We were studying,” June explained. “Yes, in the schoolyard. We forgot to check the time,”

“Please don’t punish us!” Abraham begged.

“My grace 'as its limits,” said Mrs. Jones. “Your dinner is cold now, but you can still eat,”

They all sat down together and ate the soup.

“Though,” said Mrs. Jones, “where 'ave you been all day? School ended two hours ago,”

Sunny looked around nervously at her brother and their friends. The truth was that they worked as servants for the mayor, a man by the name of Crawford, to help pay rent. He was a short man of seventy-six years, with gray eyes and white hair. Mrs. Jones had her own opinions on child labor. “Children don’t get paid anyt'ing,” she’d say. This wasn’t entirely true; they were paid only twenty-five pence a month. Whenever the money came in, they’d hide it in places all around the house where they or Mrs. Jones could find it. Loose change never hurt anybody. Then again, lies do not either.

“You’re all being quiet zis evening,” said Mrs. Jones.

“I guess we’re all just tired,” said Sunny.

Mrs. Jones got up and started collecting their bowls and silverware.

“Ah, oui,” she said. “I suggest you all go up and get ready for bed. Please don’t make any noise. We 'ave a new guest. He’s a doctor zey call Favroche. Say your prayers,”

After giving them all kisses, Mrs. Jones sent them on their way. As Sunny was on her way to her room, she heard a loud “Psst,” come from the guest room. She opened it a crack and saw Favroche lying down in the bed.

He coughed and said, “Hello, young girl. Please send for Hélène,”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t speak French, but since you said Mother’s name, I will send for her,”

Mrs. Jones came up as soon as Sunny called her.

“Oui, Monsieur?” she said as she stood in the doorway. She could see that the man was paler than before. Now he was breathing shallowly.

“Nice, Hélène!” Favroche exclaimed. “Here. Give this letter to the postman,”

He got up and went to the desk. He picked up a letter and handed it to her. Hélène examined it closely. It was addressed to the church she took the children to every Sunday.

“This is for the priest to read,” he explained. “I am Catholic and have unconfessed sins,”

She wondered what unconfessed sins he had but decided not to ask. That was for him, the priest, and God alone, she thought.

She replied calmly, “Ze post office is closed, so I will go tomorrow morning,”

“Merci, madame,”

There was a moment of silence.

“Why are you so pale?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“I didn’t want to say anything because you might have turned me away like all the others,” admitted Favroche. “I have la grippe espagnole,”

La grippe espagnole. The Spanish flu. It was the most dreaded disease that was killing millions of people all around the world. Mrs. Jones turned white in the face. Why hadn’t she seen the warning symptoms when she met him? She had been trying to protect herself by hardly going out and telling the children to wear masks and not play with their friends outside of school anymore. Not that they could, anyway. Now here she was, being exposed to it! She stepped back in shock.

“You 'ave ze Spanish flu?” she said.

“Yes, I just said that,” said the doctor. “I didn’t want to show it either,”

She went into her room across the hall and opened the small desk drawer. She placed the letter inside.

“Hélène!” called Favroche. She went back to his doorway.

“I do not want to talk anymore!” she responded angrily. “You will spread ze germs,”

“Please listen to me for just a moment,” Favroche said.

Mrs. Jones contemplated what he said.

“I’m listening,” she said calmly.

“I forgot to give you something else,” Favroche responded. “You may—you may be interested in this,”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. Cautiously, Mrs. Jones took it. On the paper was an address, the name “Edouard de Marche,” and a telephone number. The last name shook her to the core.

“You do not know him, but a friend of mine told me he spends the autumn here in his house in London,” explained Favroche.

Mrs. Jones nodded and went back to her room. She got in bed and prayed to God for Favroche’s healing. It wasn’t just his health that troubled her.

It was the fact that her secrets were probably going to be exposed.