Dear Mme. Giry,
It doesn't matter how my mother died. What matters is that she saved my father from himself. She made him feel loved in a
world that hated him. Sometimes I don't think my father realizes just how much she changed him. Then again, he was always
one for surprises. Music was his salvation; she was his saving grace. At the time I didn't understand, but I see now why my
mother could loved both my fathers. She missed her own. She was an orphan, an unhappy one. Both of my fathers were an
attempt to fill that void. And I too need them both, though they will never be able to stand the sight of each other. I supposed
being ten years old at the time it wasn't my choice to stay with Mr. Y—I mean my real father. I felt my mother wanted it
though. It was her last words to me anyway. I see my other father, the Vicomte, whenever I can on holiday in Paris. We keep in
constant correspondance through letters. My father, while we live in New York, is as eccentric as ever. He still is reluctant after
all these years to take his mask off in front of me. Somehow I can't get it through his head that his face doesn't scare me
anymore. He stays up at ungodly hours of the night composing. He prefers numerous candles in his room over improved gas
lamps. I fear for his eyesight. He doesn't like going out during the day for fear of people. No wonder he has so many
tempestuous mood swings; he never gets enough sun! I do have to say when he's in a foul humor, though he composes his best
work. Whenever he's melancholy I play the violin for him. He is an excellent teacher, but a demanding one. Sometimes I don't
know how my mother put up with him. Well, I can say life with him is always an adventure, never a dull moment, I assure you.
What I want to say most is thank you for saving him, for giving him a second chance at life. And for caring for my mother long
ago. You've been a mother to us all. My father will be sending you a letter soon if he ever gets around to it. His room is
completely cluttered with music sheets, but as you would say, that is the work of a genius.
Merci,
Gustave de Chagny
"le petit progeny"