One day, Christine and I visited the Rue Scribe; a cemetery in the center
of Paris. It was there that Papa Daae was buried. I wasn't sure I was ready
to visit his grave; after all, the grief was still very fresh. However, I
knew that I was mourning too long, and that I needed to get on with my
life. Perhaps seeing his grave would help me separate the facts.
Walking down the shady path, I studied the terrain; a pleasant trail edged with thick green grass and sprinkled with wildflowers. Small trees dotted the lawn as well. The sun streamed down upon our heads as we made our way toward the gravesite.
Neither of us spoke as we approached the stretch of dirt, still freshly turned. It was surrounded by an iron gate, created by sharp spikes stuck into the ground. The front was adorned with an ornament of iron made to look like cloth extended across, and in the middle was a death head, grinning evilly at me. Under the skull, the word Daae in bold letters stood out. I shivered at the ghastly sight. Christine gripped my hand tightly as we knelt next to the horrific gravestone.
"Dreadful," I murmured. "Who put this here?"
Christine answered, "It was a gift, from.from a friend. I know it isn't the most charming thing, but he meant well, I'm sure."
We sat together, next to the tomb of our father. Memories flooded over us as we paid tribute to Joseph Daae. Looking around, I saw several cherubs hanging from trees, or decorating tombs. Behind Papa Daae's grave was a pile of skulls, real or made of iron I did not know. I shuddered once more at the irreverence of it all. A tear rolled down my face as I thought of the man we loved so dearly, underground, motionless, cold, waxy, and dead. I started crying harder, and Christine joined me. We sobbed, holding each other desperately. Finally we calmed down, and simply sat quietly, reflecting.
Christine's voice broke into my thoughts. "Meg?"
"Yes?"
Hesitantly, Christine continued. "Meg, I think I should tell you something. Do you recall the Angel of Music?"
I smiled at our childhood fantasy as I responded, "Of course. Why do you ask?"
"Well. Meg, I. I have been visited by the Angel." Christine searched my face anxiously. I started to speak but she interrupted me. "Meg, please don't start with your sensible speeches right now. You don't have to believe me, but I heard him. I just wanted to tell you because you're my best friend and I had hoped you would be happy for me, as Papa would have been, if you could only believe."
I was speechless. For a moment I reflected upon the possibility Christine had truly gone mad. Horrified at myself for even considering such a thing about my best friend, I opened my mind to her. "Christine, you are sure you heard him?"
"Yes, Meg, yes! No one could ever mistake his voice for someone else."
"Well, what does he sound like?"
Christine's face glowed as she tried to describe it to me. "Oh Meg, he truly sounds like an angel. He has the softest voice, not quiet, but soft, as though silk would feel if it was music. It flows with the music, I cannot think of a word to express it other than creamy. One moment he is singing all around you, so powerful, and the next he is crooning in your ear, and his voice is still surrounding you.
"He plays the most majestic music, it still haunts me. His voice, it coaxes you to come to it, and you try and try but you can't find him. Its like he is invisible.
Meg, I wish I could have seen him, someone with such a magnificent voice must have the most beautiful face!" She ended breathlessly. "You do believe me, don't you? Oh, please Meg! Don't think I am crazy. I know, I just know its him! Papa said he would send me the Angel of Music. Papa believed in him, and you don't think Papa was crazy, do you?"
"No," I repeated. "I don't believe he was crazy. Christine, I don't think you are crazy either. I just don't know what to think."
Christine sighed. "Well, I guess that is all I can ask of you." She smiled at me. "I think we'd best go."
Nodding, I stood and brushed my skirts free of dirt. Christine and I left the graveyard without a backward glance, holding hands. Such an experience had brought us closer than the younger comradeship we had possessed.
As we departed, Christine hugged me, whispering into my ear, "Thank you, Meg. I could not have done that alone. Please, please promise you will be here for me. It's so lonely some days."
"I will always be here for you, Christine. Always."
We embraced, while the warm wind played with our hair and skirts. Flowers gently waved in the breeze while birds flew busily about. The bright sun shone down upon two forlorn girls, remembering.
Walking down the shady path, I studied the terrain; a pleasant trail edged with thick green grass and sprinkled with wildflowers. Small trees dotted the lawn as well. The sun streamed down upon our heads as we made our way toward the gravesite.
Neither of us spoke as we approached the stretch of dirt, still freshly turned. It was surrounded by an iron gate, created by sharp spikes stuck into the ground. The front was adorned with an ornament of iron made to look like cloth extended across, and in the middle was a death head, grinning evilly at me. Under the skull, the word Daae in bold letters stood out. I shivered at the ghastly sight. Christine gripped my hand tightly as we knelt next to the horrific gravestone.
"Dreadful," I murmured. "Who put this here?"
Christine answered, "It was a gift, from.from a friend. I know it isn't the most charming thing, but he meant well, I'm sure."
We sat together, next to the tomb of our father. Memories flooded over us as we paid tribute to Joseph Daae. Looking around, I saw several cherubs hanging from trees, or decorating tombs. Behind Papa Daae's grave was a pile of skulls, real or made of iron I did not know. I shuddered once more at the irreverence of it all. A tear rolled down my face as I thought of the man we loved so dearly, underground, motionless, cold, waxy, and dead. I started crying harder, and Christine joined me. We sobbed, holding each other desperately. Finally we calmed down, and simply sat quietly, reflecting.
Christine's voice broke into my thoughts. "Meg?"
"Yes?"
Hesitantly, Christine continued. "Meg, I think I should tell you something. Do you recall the Angel of Music?"
I smiled at our childhood fantasy as I responded, "Of course. Why do you ask?"
"Well. Meg, I. I have been visited by the Angel." Christine searched my face anxiously. I started to speak but she interrupted me. "Meg, please don't start with your sensible speeches right now. You don't have to believe me, but I heard him. I just wanted to tell you because you're my best friend and I had hoped you would be happy for me, as Papa would have been, if you could only believe."
I was speechless. For a moment I reflected upon the possibility Christine had truly gone mad. Horrified at myself for even considering such a thing about my best friend, I opened my mind to her. "Christine, you are sure you heard him?"
"Yes, Meg, yes! No one could ever mistake his voice for someone else."
"Well, what does he sound like?"
Christine's face glowed as she tried to describe it to me. "Oh Meg, he truly sounds like an angel. He has the softest voice, not quiet, but soft, as though silk would feel if it was music. It flows with the music, I cannot think of a word to express it other than creamy. One moment he is singing all around you, so powerful, and the next he is crooning in your ear, and his voice is still surrounding you.
"He plays the most majestic music, it still haunts me. His voice, it coaxes you to come to it, and you try and try but you can't find him. Its like he is invisible.
Meg, I wish I could have seen him, someone with such a magnificent voice must have the most beautiful face!" She ended breathlessly. "You do believe me, don't you? Oh, please Meg! Don't think I am crazy. I know, I just know its him! Papa said he would send me the Angel of Music. Papa believed in him, and you don't think Papa was crazy, do you?"
"No," I repeated. "I don't believe he was crazy. Christine, I don't think you are crazy either. I just don't know what to think."
Christine sighed. "Well, I guess that is all I can ask of you." She smiled at me. "I think we'd best go."
Nodding, I stood and brushed my skirts free of dirt. Christine and I left the graveyard without a backward glance, holding hands. Such an experience had brought us closer than the younger comradeship we had possessed.
As we departed, Christine hugged me, whispering into my ear, "Thank you, Meg. I could not have done that alone. Please, please promise you will be here for me. It's so lonely some days."
"I will always be here for you, Christine. Always."
We embraced, while the warm wind played with our hair and skirts. Flowers gently waved in the breeze while birds flew busily about. The bright sun shone down upon two forlorn girls, remembering.