I peered nervously into the darkness. At first I could see nothing, but then I looked down and noticed a huddled mass crouched on the doorsteps of my home. Quickly, I slammed the door, and stood against it, as if my small, slight frame could stop whatever that thing was from entering.
"No… please… ma'am… have mercy…"
A voice! A poor, pitiful, rasping voice! The voice of a skeleton, of a ghost, of a zombie, of a walking corpse! No, I could not let it in now!
"Please… open the door… my daughter…"
Surely wolves did not have daughters!
I opened the door again. This time I saw the face of the creature. It was a man, haggard and bedraggled. His face was wet, whether with rain or with tears I could not tell. In his arms, I now noticed, he cradled a small bundle. Wet, limp blonde curls poked out from it.
"Please… good lady… my child… we need shelter… at least… for now… please…"
I did not know what to do! So many choices! I could cast him out, and not risk getting the house and carpet dirty from their filth. I could let him and his daughter die in the rain. It was likely their own fault they were like this; why should I intervene with the consequences of their stupidity?
And yet, I could do something! I could bring them inside! I could save them! I had freedom of choice, at least; that was one thing God expected me to exercise!
"Come in, come in," I said uncertainly. The poor man positively crawled inside the house. I closed the door behind him, and led him to the couch in the parlor. The fire had died, and I would need to bring it back to life if this man and his daughter were to live.
For a few minutes the man and the little girl simply sat on the couch and quivered. The fire grew slowly, first becoming a few flickering flames, then expanding into a great fire, finally giving off warmth for the poor beggars. The man got off the couch, and huddled by the fire with his daughter. He slowly stripped off his outer coat, and then his daughter's coat. In the firelight, by which I could feel myself calming down, I could see the man better. He was thirty, perhaps forty. His hair was blonde and streaked with gray. His eyes were blue, and his frame was rather gaunt. His clothes were ragged, not the clothes of an aristocrat.
The little girl reminded me of myself when I was young! Aside from her clothing, which were likewise as ragged as her father's, she might have been me. She had golden curls, as golden as mine, and her eyes, closing in sleepiness, were a luminescent blue.
Her face, however, was flushed with fever. She drew deep, rattling, uneven breaths, and every so often, she would cough horribly, as if she would regurgitate her very heart. Even by the fire, she continued to shiver and quake.
They were soaked to the bone, and I could see that they, the little girl especially, would need a change of clothes. With no preamble, I left them shivering by the fire and ran down the hallway, taking care not to bump into the walls in the gloom. I entered my room, and opened my closet. My clothes were far too large for such a small, young girl, but I did find a few old dresses and frocks from my youth, and pulled those down hastily from my closet. I then ran to Papa's room and snatched a few old garments of Papa's for the man, praying that Papa would never discover I had lent his clothes, even his old ones, to some mendicant.
I also grabbed two blankets, and with a full load of garments and blankets, I returned to the parlor. The two were still sitting by the fire, and the man was resting a hand on his daughter's forehead. He looked up, a distraught look on his face, when he heard me enter.
I threw the clothes unceremoniously to the man.
"Wear these," I said tersely. "I shall return with some food. Please make yourself comfortable."
I ran to the kitchen, and ten minutes later, I returned with soup and boiled water. I noticed, with satisfaction, that the man and the girl were now properly dressed in dry clothing. The man had stopped shivering so violently, and his daughter, wrapped up in the blankets, looked slightly better.
"Sir, here is-" I began, but the man swiftly snatched the bowl from my hands before I could finish. I sat on the couch and watched, fascinated, as he tenderly patted his daughter with his free hand, speaking her name in a soothing voice. The little girl's eyes fluttered open, and her father gently spooned soup into her mouth. She was terribly slow and weak, and her father had to support her in his arms as he fed her, and yet he never complained once. He only patted her head lovingly, and sang a soft, sweet lullaby to her till she had finished and nodded off to sleep. He was a good singer, and I could scarcely believe that such a sweet voice could issue from the same haggard man who had begged with the voice of a corpse to be let in.
Then when the girl, though still sickly-looking, had fallen asleep, the man gently lifted her up and set her on the couch across from me. He finished the rest of the soup quickly. Between spoonfuls, he began to talk.
The man, I learned, was named Charles Daaé. He used to live in a small market-town nearby. His wife had recently died, and he had sold his land to roam Upsala with his six-year-old daughter, who's name was Christine. He played his violin and sang with his daughter for a living, barely surviving off of this meager wage.
Privately, I wondered if I should have left them to die. This man was a dreamer, and a foolish one at that. To engage in his own mad sorrow was one thing, but to subject his daughter to the vagabond life he led was even crueler! Yet, he insisted, as if he could read my mind, they had lived well, until the recent spring storm, which was when Christine had caught her cold. Then he had crawled from door to door, rejected by each resident there, and had finally collapsed at our doorstep.
"Thank you, Lotte, for your kindness," Daaé said when I had introduced myself. "You are truly an angel. I hardly expected you to open your door again, a lone girl in the doorway, and yet you did. You saved our lives. Christine's life."
I smiled. " It was the least I could do. You are welcome to stay here until Christine is well again. But now, I think it best that you slept. You may stay in my parents' room."
"Your parents' room? But where are your parents? Are they home? Are you alone?"
Though I was quite sure that they were innocent questions, I hesitated. I was utterly alone, completely at the mercy of a vagabond. Who knew what he might do once he knew my parents would not be returning for quite some time? I was beginning to regret I had saved their lives! It was simply too much to worry about!
"My parents are out for the time being, but they shall return shortly," I said finally. "You may stay in their room till then."
Daaé nodded. He did not even blink or turn sharply at my statement. Instead, he picked up his daughter gracefully – he was not thinking of me; his thoughts concerned Christine alone. I led them to Papa's room, and when they had settled comfortably into each other's arms, I exited the room, leaving them to their dreams.