He read Christine's note over and over again,
smelling its perfume, recalling the sweet pictures of his childhood,
and spent the rest of that tedious night journey in feverish dreams
that began and ended with Christine Daae. Day was breaking when he
alighted at Lannion. He hurried to the diligence for Perros-Guirec.
He was the only passenger. He questioned the driver and learned that,
on the evening of the previous day, a young lady who looked
like a Parisian had gone to Perros and put up at the inn known
as the Setting Sun.
The nearer he drew to her, the more fondly he remembered the story
of the little Swedish singer. Most of the details are still unknown
to the public.
There was once, in a little market-town not far from Upsala, a peasant
who lived there with his family, digging the earth during the week
and singing in the choir on Sundays. This peasant had a little daughter
to whom he taught the musical alphabet before she knew how to read.
Daae's father was a great musician, perhaps without knowing it.
Not a fiddler throughout the length and breadth of Scandinavia
played as he did. His reputation was widespread and he was always
invited to set the couples dancing at weddings and other festivals.
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