The citizens of Perros-Guirec were perplexed by the blonde maiden who had moved with an aging woman to the house by the sea some months ago. There were four things about her that were certain: her name was Christine, she was the ward of Madame Valerius (the woman), they had come from Paris, and she never smiled.
Christine walked among the townsfolk like a shade. They thought she would be beautiful if it were not for the lack of care she seemed to give towards anything, including herself. Her hair, which appeared to have at one point been a brilliant gold, hung about her face in gnarled hanks. Her eyes, the color of the sky, were dulled by some inner turmoil. Her clothing, of fine make, was always wrinkled. There was a cloud about her that even the sunniest of days could not penetrate. She came to the town center rarely, and only to buy necessities. She never stopped to talk to anyone beyond the bare minimum of politeness, and when she was gone the townsfolk felt a sense of relief that they would be free from her haunting presence for a while.
About a week after the Madame and Christine moved to Perros-Guirec, a boy rode into town. Wild from the ride, he frantically asked everyone if they knew anything of Christine. Unwilling to give up the secrets of one of their own, the townsfolk remained silent. He stayed a week at the inn, then left and was not seen again.
Another curious occurrence happened shortly after they came. One night, after all reasonable people were in bed, the wailing of a violin could be heard. It was the most heart-wrenching music any member of the town had ever heard, and for days after it was all they would speak of. The music sounded like the death of a soul, like the final outcry of a tortured animal. It was infinitely beautiful and infinitely sad.
The townsfolk had hoped that gossip of these two incidents would draw Christine into their fold, yet it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her eyes would fill with tears, and she would quickly excuse herself. After that first attempt, none of them would try to welcome her again. If she wanted to maintain the false framework of politeness, so would they.
And so the months passed. Though she never got any closer to them, the townspeople continued to wonder after Christine. Why was she there? Where was the rest of her family? Why did the joyful tunes of the town band make her appear so sad?
The citizens of Perros-Guirec never got their answers, and after ten months of Christine and Madame Valerius living in the house by the sea, something happened to ensure that they never would.
The Madame died, of old age it seemed. The funeral party was small, only the priest and Christine in attendance. She wept over the grave long after it was filled, then turned and walked away. The next day, the townspeople saw her walking to the train station, black veil drawn to cover her face. She would never step foot in Perros-Guirec again.