A mother sleeping with a child, painting by Christian Krohg (1883) - Christine as a baby and her dying mother

CHRISTINE

Christine Daée buried her hand in a clump of soil and moss. She still hoped to feel the wam remnants of the sun against her fingers. She could not. Today, the dirt was cold and dry. It did not matter anymore: soon, it would all be left behind. Her father, the violinist Gustave Daée, had decided to sell their decaying farm, dizzy with the prospect of travelling all over the country and sharing their gift to the world. Christine was too excited with this adventure to properly mourn the loss of her childhood home -or perhaps was she relieved to be freed from its gloomy atmosphere. The land was slowly agonising. Summer was fast approaching in Sweden, and her father had lost the will to plow the fields last autumn. Both of them knew it would be a waste of time anyway; their shared grief had gradually condensed right above their head into a cloud large enough to block the sun. Or maybe her mother had been their sun until last year, and just as strength progressively abandoned her confused mind and sickly body, so did life in their fields. A breeze rose to chill every extremity that had the misfortune to be uncovered. Christine stood up and vigorously rubbed her hands together to remove the dirt from her fingers. She stared into the distance and squinted as yellow hair, which had slipped from her two braids, floated around her face and before her eye, like soft feathers against her skin. Their stone house stood alone on the top of the hill. From where she stood, it looked like a dark and depressing stain against the light gray of the billowing clouds.

19th century swedish stone cottage, from a skansen (open air museum)

A sudden movement near the house caught her attention: a murder of crows was fleeing in a panicked flurry from a a male silhouette she recognised as being her father's. His pace was slow, his body dragging itself against its will towards their shabby little home. She gathered her skirts and ran to meet him.

"Pappa !" She called, relieved to be freed from her boredom and loneliness . "Pappa ! How was it today ? Were they much impressed ?"

His tanned face broke into a weary, yet honest smile, when he embraced her. She could feel the fresh sparks of his magic tingling her skin. Her father would often go into the near city of Uppsala to perform in the street with his fiddle and his magical light, and it had soon become their only reliable source of income.

" Hej sötis , how was your day ?" He asked in return, squeezing her little hand with his bigger one in a gesture of affection.

"Oh ! Oh you would never believe Pappa !" she squealed excitedly "I think I saw an elf strolling near the woods today ! Oh how droll he was, Pappa, with his funny little cap and his long beard !"

" Oh really ?" He playfully answered, although his eyes were slightly vacant, staring at a distant point. " And what happened ? Did you perchance see him cursing our fields ?"

Christine thought hard of a way to make her story even more extravagant, so her father's light eyes would focus on her instead. "I don't think he did anything to it. Really, he must have been surprised to see me. He suddenly disappeared into the mist, like that, poof ! " She mimicked the onomatopoeia with her hands, delighted when the man's weak smile broadened into a grin. "But I saw him, I swear, I really did. Oh, you would believe me, wouldn't you, Pappa ?

"Well, I know elves truly exist, even though I've never seen one" he indulged her. "You were very lucky indeed ; why, it's almost summer, and they are more of a Christmas folk. "

"I did spend most of my times singing to my dolls, you know. I must have attracted him. I even saw one or two sparks of light !" She proudly reported.

"Did you, now ?" She could see in his eyes he was genuinely impressed. "I always knew you would be as gifted as your mother and I. Won't you show me, love ? "

Christine beamed at him and giggled nervously. She closed her eyes, like she had seen her parents do a million times before, and took a deep breath. A folk song came to her mind. It was still faint, but she could feel it , soaring through her body like a powerful wave. She sang, her young voice high and immature, lost in the freshness of the wind. White sparks of light floated around her eyes...

" My hair ! Why does it do that ?" She shrieked as she noticed it becoming so frizzy her long braids stuck up into the air. Her father burst out laughing.

"I have no clue ! One could never understand the true intricacies of music - even after years of practice. My own mother said very few individuals possess this gift."

This observation made her giddy : she felt extremely unique in the world, a sort of chosen one, like the virgin Mary.

"So why can we do magic ? Is it because we're very good at music ?"

" I do know why, it must be the Angel of Music." He inhaled and softly sang : " He bestowed upon us his grace, blessed us with light and with sound ! "

Her eyes widened and she dramatically raised her hands to her mouth with disbelief. A brilliant blue angel of light appeared out of nowhere and fluttered around her like a butterfly.

"The Angel of Music ! Now as I sing I can sense him ! Yes, I know he's here ! " She chanted, and the little angel of light became even more radiant.

"See what happened there ?" reverently whispered his father. Although he pointed at the light creature, she watched his face with wonder. His eyes were large and luminous like they used to be before Mamma's death ; only magic and music could do that to him, now. "Your magic interacts with mine."

"What does it mean ?" she wondered, and he merely shrugged softly. His long, artistic fingers played with the eery lights, casting moving shadows on his skin. The rasp-like screech of the crows shattered their quiet moment of joy. She noticed them flying in a circle above their head, like ominous vultures waiting for their death.

"Why are they doing that ?"

Her father looked up and silently contemplated the odd behaviour.

"Animals know things we do not. Perhaps are they sensitive to our magic ?"

Quietly, the angel progressively disintegrated into floating sparks of light, yet it somehow didn't feel swift enough, clean enough.. She blinked, confused when her field of vision suddenly consisted only in the dull grey of the clouds. Her father touched her shoulder and led her to their home to shield them from the harsh wind of spring.

"Pappa, the angel disappeared ! " She pointed out, turning back to check if the creature had truly gone.

She only heard his booming voice from inside the house. Why was he so quick to get away from her, she anxiously thought, searching for him.

"Why, love, but magic never completely disappears. As long as you have music, you can summon him again and again !" In an afterthought, he came to her, looking down at her with an odd, solemn expression an added : "There are certain rules in magic. But, Christine, you are a good girl. You needn't have a care for them - I certainly try not to. Now, come inside."

She nodded and believed him, as fiercely as she believed in the Angel of music. The door slammed itself shut behind her following a strong gust of wind.

" Tomorrow we will pack our belongings and start our journey." He later reminded her, as they both laid in the master bed the family had always shared together. "We cannot take much. We will be happy, my child." The words were uttered like a prayer, more than a promise. Her father had always been vague, mysterious and - somehow hard to reach, even when they were together.

"Pappa wait !" She called him as he was about to blow out the candle. "Can you tell me another story tonight ?". She wished he would accept, if only to hear the sound of his voice a bit more longer.

Gustave smiled fondly at her, but it never reached his eyes.

"Not tonight, little dove. But as we travel I will tell you of all the stories in the world, I promise."

She fussed and pouted a little, but he was adamant. Perhaps she was not cute enough anymore. The flame of the candle died under his breath and they were left in the dark. She curled up against her father and hid her face against her chest, afraid of a night devoid of light.

They left the morning after and sold their last remaining pig, a miserable scrawny thing.

From then, Father and daughter travelled from fair to fair, slowly gaining recognition. The good people knew music was not witchcraft, and they only saw their magic as fascinating pretty lights and pleasing melodies - but Christine knew better : it was a manifestation of her connection with a superior entity, the Angel of Music. Pride in childhood was the seed of all evil when nurtured by power - and Gustave himself was increasingly blinded by its own. Willingly, they abandoned themselves to music. Her voice and his play of the fiddle became one captivating melody which never seemed to desert their mind. Yet, charity and performances weren't enough to protect them from misery. When Christine complained, Gustave acted as if she did not have good reasons to do so. Fate would eventually allow them to improve their situation, he believed. In the meantime, bread and music was enough. But reality soon caught up, hunger and exhaustion clouding their judgment and tainting their art.

Halfway through summer the following year, they finally reached the city of Gothenburg, somewhere in the far southwestern side of the country. It was a significant trading city, and a curious Christine wandered in the harbour with childish wonder in her eyes. The heat of the sun caused the heavy air to rise. She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant smells of fish, sweat, filth and spices. Every now and then, a woman would pass by her and leave behind the invisible trail of a flowery fragrance. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she could feel the softness of their silky skirts against her hands. Lutheranism would inspire people to show proof of their modesty in clothes and manners; yet, in this medley of cultures and nationalities, she saw many a colorful dress and extravagant attire. So many new sensations ! She felt overwhelmed, and decided to sit on an abandoned wooden crate for a short rest. The many layers of wool of her already tattered blue dress felt constricting. Christine fanned herself as best as she could with the red scarf she often wrapped around her head to prevent her two braids from flying everywhere- it used to be her mother's. Her face was flushed and sweaty, drops of perspiration rolling down her temples and gathering on her upper lip. Truthfully, she thought she looked like a smoked ham with her pink and chubby face. She couldn't understand half the words the group of men were shouting next to her - was it danish ?

Something unexpectedly twisted inside her. A phantom pain resonating deep within her bones. It was a new, growing feeling she had been trying to ignore for the past three months. She did not like it: it felt odd and sticky, as if honey had been poured into her stomach. A lump rose in her throat and she was unable to suppress it. Homesickness. Weariness. A bit of ineluctable resentment against her father who could not provide enough. She wanted fresh, new clothes for herself and her doll. She wanted a bed of her own and a place somewhere in this world she could call home. She wanted her father. Her father to focus only on her wellbeing. Father, where was her father ? He wasn't far behind her: when she turned around, the man held her gaze and beckoned her to his sides.

"It is time, my brilliant angel." He told her as she came up beside him. She watched him tuck the fiddle under his chin in one swift, familiar move. There was an odd light in his eyes she could not recognise. She bowed her head, ashamed of this odd feeling in her stomach , and nervously grasped the cloth of his breeches. His legs were long and strong, straight like two trunks deeply rooted into earth. He was like a great oak, forever by her side to support her.

"We will find greatness in magic, Christine. Greatness..." He whispered in a low voice, and she looked up at him. "You have to believe in me... This is the only way to understand the true value of music… To bewitch our audience the way music speaks to the both of us, or we will not..."

Christine waited for him to finish his sentence. He never did. She felt dumb and confused, as if unable to see the obvious. Her father began to play, and she could hear the desperation in his music - the fear and sadness he never otherwise expressed to his daughter.

"Sing, Christine. Sing !" He ordered, and so she did. Music wiped away all trace of doubt.

It was on this very day that Professeur Valerius, a French savant, came to them. She would always remember it, the way his face was flushed and his moustache frizzy from excitement. A tall man, elegantly dressed. He smiled at her and she looked down out of fright. Intrigued, she studied his clothes, and noticed how the skirts of his waistcoats stuck out away from the hips. In addition, he wore dark knee breeches which fit very tightly against his lean thighs: a foreigner, then. The style was far too unusual for a Swede. She would always remember when, voice weak with emotion, he told them in an accented Swedish: "I found myself entranced by your exotic grace. Let me be your benefactor."

This was a turning point in their life. Fascinated with what he considered a rare talent, the professeur welcomed them into his home and provided food and warmth. He knew of magic, but hadn't been gifted by it. Day after day grew his fascination for both their musical talent and the bright, luminous shapes that would surround them every time the father would take the bow and the daughter would sing . Eventually, the professor decided to take them back to France with him - a good news for the little swedish family, as both of them wanted to see the world and benefit from the professor's generosity.

"I have a wife" he unexpectedly confessed to the father and daughter inside the carriage, as they crossed the border. She saw him glance at the slumped figure of Gustave, who appeared utterly unaffected by the news and was dozing off next to the window.

"She has been waiting long enough for me to come home now."

To Christine, he added with a smile which did not quite reach his eyes: "She has always wanted to be a mother."

"Doesn't she have children of her own ?" She asked, clutching her own little doll - Lotte, a rag with a face stitched on it, really, but she loved it either way.

"No." He answered with a sigh, shifting position in his seat as if bothered.

"Why ?" She insisted - maybe he, himself, didn't want children ?

She froze when the Frenchman looked straight into her eyes, jaw clenched "God works in mysterious ways, Christine," he replied.

She wasn't satisfied with the comment. There was clearly a reason, and she wasn't allowed to know. This slightly upset her: was not she allowed to have his trust after all this time ? When silence settled itself, the subject was dropped as fast as it had come up. Her father had fallen asleep next to her, lightly snoring. She looked through the window to distract herself, but there was nothing to be seen apart from boring countryside and devastated villages. Did it mean...

"Is the country at war ?" She asked the professor with growing worry. Why wouldn't he tell them that beforehand ?

"It was. It's over now..." he stressed when her eyes widened in fear "...Which is why it is safe for us to come back. The countryside was mainly spared, and my wife was safer and more comfortable here than she would have been accompanying me to Sweden." There was a pause. She watched him play absentmindedly with his moustache.

"Many that fled the country will never return," he added "for, in their case, there is nothing or no one waiting for them. Nothing but shame... Shame...".

She answered nothing, the sudden spike of fear she had felt at the prospect of a war leaving her exhausted. She rested her head on her father's shoulder and let herself be lulled to sleep by the warmth seeping through his clothes. She was safe.

A destroyed village after the french-german war -1870 (Strasburg)

XXXXX

ODETTE VALERIUS

In the south east of the Pays de La Loire, one of the French regions located in the west part of the country, there lived Odette Valerius. At forty three years of age, Mrs Valerius was a pious, strong-willed woman. Her face was plain, her hairstyle modest, her hands prematurely wrinkled. She had never claimed to love her husband, whom she had wed because of time constraint and familial pressure. It was not a bad marriage, per se : he had never beat her, had remained faithful and respectful. It wasn't a lack of fondness either: in a way, she knew she was as much his dearest friend as he was hers. However, she did not inspire his love. She knew that. This lack of passion had been a void powerful enough to draw him away from her for several years. She had tried her best, but it wasn't enough. Her best simply wasn't enough.

Yet, she was weak in front of him. She couldn't prevent hope from blooming in her chest at the sight of his carriage waiting in front of their garden. She felt like a giddy child as she ran down the stairs. Oh, but wasn't she human after all ? Surely it was a sign of God: under his guidance, the anticipation of a favorable outcome was not to be constrained !

The truth was bittersweet. She never expected him to come back with guests. Silently, modestly, she watched as her husband held a hand out to help a little girl coming out of the carriage - and for the next couple of minutes, she dreaded the worst : he had brought back his natural child with him. But she was soon proven wrong, for another stranger came out of the vehicle. A haggard, foreign looking man with a blond beard and tanned skin, carrying a violin case close to his chest like a new mother would with her infant. The reunion between wife and husband was, as always, warm and polite. The professor introduced the two Swedes to her, and she could not help but notice the way his eyes would constantly flicker toward them - even though she was the one whose face he had not seen for years. They didn't even speak French properly.

It did not take her long to notice the madness. There was something unhealthy in the way her husband was drawn to them. Day and night, the trio would intoxicate themselves with music, away from society, cloistered in her husband's office. They would forget to eat or drink. She tried to connect with the two strangers, but the rude man clearly showed no interest in whatever discussion she had tried to initiate with him. He was a strange individual, who ignored most things in life except girl, she would have thought easier - and, true enough, she was not as ill-behaved as her father was. On the contrary, she was unexpectedly very obedient and soft-spoken. Nevertheless, she thrived alongside her father in this odd madness.

How frightened I am ! How dearly I pray, my Lord ! It is pure insanity I see in their eyes, she wrote in her diary the very day she welcomed the Daées into her house. The man is gaunt and unpredictable in speech and movement. Her daughter is but a wisp of a girl, yet already displays a silent haughty demeanour; and when prompted, she babbles on and on in Swedish about a supposed Angel of Music. I do not recognize my husband anymore, for he has become a shadow of the man I wed. I dare not say it out loud, as the consequences would be disastrous, but I will write it for what I know it to be : this is witchcraft !

Odette Valerius clearly was not as sensitive to magic as his husband had been, and with dread in her wet eyes and pleas on her dry lips, she witnessed the downfall of the three companions. As she abided by her husband's law, she could not act against his will and banish the two devils from her house, even if she knew better.

The Swedish violinist was the first to fall ill.

1855 painting of a street musician, O Pobre Rabequista (The Poor Rabeca Player), by José Rodrigues