Lucien had been waiting a few moments, staring almost nervously at the closed door; this was the place, wasn’t it? He was just about to step away when the door opened, and he smiled automatically. The boy who was speaking to him did not look like the proprietor of this theater—and, for that matter, was he even a boy? Lucien assumed so only by his manner of dress.
“Ah… Bonjour,” Lucien said, the smile still fixed politely on his face. “Non, I am not here for a show or for an appointment… I am looking for work, and I was told to look for a Monsieur Harry Fisher at the Bridge Theater. Is this the right place?” His English was fluent but quite obviously accented, and Lucien rather hoped that this boy was not one of those Englishmen who held certain negative preconceptions about the French.