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For her, the glare of the footlights, the tumultuous roar of applause: a thousand hands joined in homage, one great cry 'Brava!', hailing the newest prima donna.
For him, nothing. No light, no sound. No smile to greet him, and only his own voice to echo through the catacomb.
For the moment, he begrudges her nothing.
He brought her to that place, led her by the hand to where she stands now, bewildered, delighted, surrounded by roses and glory. He gave her the voice to beguile a multitude, though it leave him with nothing. He asks so little in return.