He sat in the audience, one arm draped over the back of the chair next to him, watching his players rehearse.

"More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends."

Michel loved the stage, though he only performed when a player fell ill. He preferred watching from the sidelines, guiding the movements and the story, although taking on another persona under the lights had an allure all it's own. He was lucky that his staff saw acting as a passion, and not merely a paycheck.

"The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."

He'd known from a young age that this would be his life; he always knew that le Théâtre de Beniot was his, and he never wanted to do anything else. The nuns indulged him, and he would stage plays in the courtyard using whatever orphans happened to be passing through the convent at the time. He could turn quiet, withdrawn orphans into flourishing actors, he could coax a performance out of the most recalcitrant child. He enjoyed the challenge so much, getting to the Théâtre and working with professional actors was almost boring.

"Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear?

Michel stood, and walked a few rows down for a better vantage point. Thérèse had been having difficulty with this scene, and he wanted to give her some moral support. English was not her strong suit, but he would not stage Shakespeare in anything other than the original English. So he stood, hands on his hips, just close enough to the stage that she could see him even though the house lights had dimmed, and watched.