She stopped to speak to Teresa one Sunday morning.

"You're wasting your life here, my dear. You have an extraordinary voice. You should be using it."

"I am using it. I—"

"I'm not talking about,"—she looked around the church—"this. I'm talking about your using your voice professionally. I pride myself on knowing talent when I hear it. I want you to sing for my nephew. He can put you on the radio. Are you interested?"

"I—I don't know." The very thought of it terrified Teresa.

"Talk it over with your family."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Teresa's mother said. "It could be a good thing for you," her father agreed. It was

Monique who had reservations about it. "You're not a professional," she said. "You could make a fool of yourself."

Which had nothing to do with Monique's reasons for trying to discourage her sister. What Monique was afraid of was that

Teresa would succeed. Monique was the one who had always been in the limelight. It's not fair, she thought, that God should have given Teresa a voice like that. What if she should become famous? I would be left out, ignored.

And so Monique tried to persuade her sister not to audition.

But the following Sunday at church, Madame Neff stopped

Teresa and said, "I've talked to my nephew. He is willing to give you an audition. He's expecting you on Wednesday at three o'clock."

And so it was that the following Wednesday a very nervous

Teresa appeared at the radio station in Nice and met the director.

"I'm Louis Bonnet," he said curtly. "I can give you five minutes."

Teresa's physical appearance only confirmed his worst fears. His aunt had sent him talent before.

I should tell her to stick to her kitchen. But he knew that he would not. The problem was that his aunt was very rich, and he was her only heir.

Teresa followed Louis Bonnet down a narrow hallway into a small broadcast studio.

"Have you ever sung professionally?"

"No, sir." Her blouse was soaked with perspiration. Why did I ever let myself get talked into this? Teresa wondered.

She was in a panic, ready to flee.

Bonnet placed her in front of a microphone. "I don't have a piano player around today, so you're going to have to sing a cappella. Do you know what a cappella means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wonderful." He wondered, not for the first time, if his aunt was rich enough to make all these stupid auditions worthwhile.

"I'll be in the control booth. You'll have time for one song."

"Sir—what shall I—?"

He was gone. Teresa was alone in the room staring at the microphone in front of her. She had no idea what she was going to sing. "Just go and meet him," his aunt had said.

"The station has a musical program every Saturday evening and…"

I've got to get out of here.

Louis's voice came out of nowhere. "I don't have all day."

"I'm sorry. I can't—"

But the director was determined to punish her for wasting his time.

"Just a few notes," he insisted. Enough so he could report to his aunt what a fool the girl had made of herself. Perhaps that would persuade her to stop sending him her proteges.

"I'm waiting," he said.

He leaned back in his chair and lit a Gitane. Four more hours to go. Yvette would be waiting for him. He would have time to stop off at her apartment before he went home to his wife. Maybe there would even be time to—

He heard it then, and he could not believe it. It was a voice so pure and so sweet that it sent chills down his spine. It was a voice filled with longing and desire, a voice that sang of loneliness and despair, of lost loves and dead dreams, and it brought tears to his eyes. It stirred emotions in him that he had thought were long since dead. All he could say to himself was, Jesus Christ! Where has she been?

An engineer had wandered into the control booth, and he stood there listening, mesmerized. The door was open and others began to come in, drawn by the voice. They stood there silently listening to the poignant sound of a heart desperately crying out for love, and there was not another sound in the room.

When the song ended, there was a long silence, and one of the women said, "Whoever she is, don't let her get away."

Louis Bonnet hurried out of the room into the broadcast studio. Teresa was getting ready to leave.

"I'm sorry I took too long. You see, I've never—"

"Sit down, Maria."

"Teresa."

"Sorry." He took a deep breath. "We do a musical radio broadcast every Saturday night."

"I know. I listen to it."

"How would you like to be on it?"

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"You mean—you want to hire me?"

"Beginning this week. We'll start you at the minimum. It will be a great showcase for you."

It was almost too good to be true. They're going to pay me to sing.

"Pay you? How much?" Monique asked.

"I don't know. I don't care." The important thing is that somebody wants me, she almost said, but she stopped herself.

"That's wonderful news. So you're going to be on the radio!" her father said.

Her mother was already making plans. "We'll see that all our friends listen, and we'll have them send in letters saying how good you are."

Teresa looked at Monique, waiting for her to say, "You don't have to do that. Teresa is good."

But Monique said nothing. It will blow over quickly, was what she was thinking.

She was wrong.

Saturday night at the broadcast station, Teresa was in a panic.

"Believe me," Louis Bonnet assured her. "It's perfectly natural. All artists go through this."

They were seated in the small green room used by performers.

"You're going to be a sensation."

"I'm going to be sick."

"There's no time. You're on in two minutes."

Teresa had rehearsed that afternoon with the small orchestra that was going to accompany her. The rehearsal had been extraordinary. The stage from which they broadcast was crowded with station personnel who had heard about the young girl with the incredible voice. They listened in awed silence as Teresa rehearsed the songs she was going to sing on the air. There was no question in any of their minds but that they were witnessing the birth of an important star.

"It's too bad she's not better-looking," a stage manager commented, "but in radio who can tell the difference?"

Teresa's performance that evening was superb. She was aware that she had never sung better. And who knew where this could lead? She might become famous and have men at her feet,

begging her to marry them. As they begged Monique.

As though reading her thoughts, Monique said, "I'm really happy for you, Sis, but don't let yourself get carried away by all this. These things never last."

This will, Teresa thought happily. I'm finally a person.

I'm somebody.

Monday morning, there was a long-distance telephone call for Teresa.

"It's probably somebody's idea of a joke," her father warned her. "He says he's Jacques Raimu."

The most important stage director in France. Teresa picked up the telephone, wary. "Hello?"

"Miss De Fosse?"

"Yes."

"Teresa De Fosse?"

"Yes."

"This is Jacques Raimu. I heard your radio program

Saturday night. You're exactly what I'm looking for."

"I—I don't understand."

"I'm staging a play at the Comedie Francaise, a musical. I start rehearsals next week. I've been searching for someone with a voice like yours. To tell you the truth, there is no one with a voice like yours. Who is your agent?"

"Agent? I—I have no agent."

"Then I'll drive down there and we'll work out a deal between us."

"Monsieur Raimu—I—I'm not very pretty." It was painful for her to say the words, but she knew that it was necessary. He mustn't have any false expectations.