It took Nils Daae a year to sell the land, teach Christine the rudiments of French (he marveled at how quickly she picked up the language), and make arrangements for an audition at the far-off Opera Populaire. This last required more effort than all the rest put together. Though the opera house was desperate for talented performers, he was an unknown farmer from a country that rarely registered in the French consciousness.
When all was in place, he and Christine made the arduous journey of several hundred miles to the nearest train station, and from there spent a week on a train, which deposited them in the bustling city of Paris. Nils hurried his daughter along, trying to shield her from the unsavory specters of city life; whores, beggars, and other riff-raff clogged the city streets. He flagged down a cab, and they piled in.
"Daddy, what are those women doing?"
"Something they oughtn't. Now, only speak French, ma chere. No one speaks anything else here."
"Desolee, Papa. Qu'est qu'elles font?"
"We aren't having this conversation, sweetie. Let's sing "Vogels van het bosje". Now, keep your pitch even."
The Opera Populaire loomed in front of the cab. Nils lifted his daughter to the sidewalk and pointed to the grand architecture, and the beautiful people going in and out. "If Papa plays very well, ma chere, we will go to live there and you will learn to sing on a great stage in front of hundreds of people who will all cheer for you."
Christine's eyes widened. She felt very clumsy in her rustic clothes and wooden shoes, which clopped so loudly on the marble entryway floor that she took them off and stood in her stocking feet. In stark contrast to the little girl's humility, her father walked in as though he already owned the place. He marched up to a young man in an usher uniform and said, "Where do I find the managers, sir? I'm set to audition today."
The usher looked at Nils' brown tweed, and his daughter's checked gingham and stifled a laugh. He spoke slowly, as though the blonde man was feeble as well as rustic. "Upstairs, sir, and to the left. Third door. The one that says 'Managers' Office."
Nils ignored the usher's insolence and walked off as though he had been given the most respectful of treatment. He knew that his time would come in this place, and if his did not, his daughter's certainly would.
He knocked on the huge oaken door that said, as advertised, "Managers' Office." A smooth, refined voice from the inside bade them enter. Nils pushed the door open and pushed his suddenly reticent daughter through. Two huge desks of ebony sat on opposite sides of a luxuriously appointed room. Behind each desk sat a gentleman. They were both dressed in tux and tails and appeared to be entirely absorbed in some sort of paperwork.
"Excuse me, messieurs, but I have come to audition. And I'd request that you hear my daughter as well while we are here. Her talent dwarfs my own."
The gentleman on the left looked up and peered over his monocle.
"You're the Swedish chap, I suppose." said one.
"The fiddler from Sweden, eh? Alright. Do you know any Mozart?" began the other.
Again, Christine watched her father dismiss the snubbing and proceed with his plan as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "Of course, monsieur, I know Mozart. Any Mozart."
"Stop babbling, then, and play something," was the curt rejoinder.
Nils complied with pleasure. Talking, especially in his heavily accented French, was not where his strength lay. He pulled the violin from its case, lovingly rosined the bow, and played Mozart's first violin concerto, caressing each note tenderly. Christine's little heart swelled with pride as she watched her father's skill draw the snobby managers from their work. She watched as their eyes glazed and their jaws dropped. Their overbearing flippancy was gone, replaced by respectful deference. Her smile was broad enough to make her face ache, and when he finally lowered the bow, she ran to him and hugged him fiercely.
"You played that so good… no…"she corrected her French, "so…well, Daddy. That was wonderful!"
He looked up to the managers who were staring at him blankly. "Well, messieurs, would you like to let me play in your orchestra? Or would you like to call my daughter a liar?"
They were bold words, and if he had not just outplayed their finest musician, the boast would have landed him and his little poppet out in the street. As it was, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny stood and came forward as one to congratulate their new first chair violinist. Their eyes were far away, seeing the reviews this man would help create. And those reviews would bring more patrons. They were not the most musical of men, but they knew genius when they heard it. This was genius. And...and...had he said that his daughter's talent dwarfed his own? Yes, as they recalled, that was exactly what he said. M. Poligny eyed the small girl clinging to her father's hand. He then cast a raised eyebrow at his partner, who nodded.
"Alright, sir. You have shown us that you have no small talent with the violin. Does your daughter play as well?"
"Ah no, monsieur. She sings." He gently pressed her forward. "Go ahead, Christine, mijn kleine zangvogel, sing a little tune for the gentlemen. They will enjoy hearing you. "
The tiny girl stepped forward and stood with her knees slightly bent, and her body relaxed. Her father had not told her what to sing for this audition. She felt warm inside knowing that he trusted her to pick the piece. She thought about this place, its large marble hallways and imposing curving staircases. It was a house of music, and music was holy. Obviously, then, the piece she picked would have to be holy, as well.
The two managers expected something childish or something absurdly adult, over-rehearsed and unnatural in a child's mouth. Maybe the girl would give them a sweet rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or the love song from Carmen. The doubtful gazes of the managers melted into wonder as the first crystal strains of Allegri's Misrere Mei floated up from the little girl's thin chest. They looked to each other, disbelieving. Their eyes clearly asked, "Where have these two been hiding?" Nils could only smile. Christine had always been a joy and a wonder to him. Pride glowed in his eyes as he listened, as enchanted as anyone else in the room.
Nils' violin audition had stopped many passersby in their tracks. A small crowd was gathered outside the office, listening and whispering among themselves. It has just started to dissipate when a child's voice, like a cloud of spun silver, settled over them and drew them back. The whispers resumed, now focused on the miracle that was clearly going on in the managers office. When silence fell, they wandered off in pairs, still whispering. Messieurs Debienne and Poligny would have much to explain when they emerged.
Rural weddings were generally held outside in warm weather. A voice had to carry if the singer wished to be heard beyond the first few rows. Christine's voice carried well. In fact, it carried through the halls and passages immediately surrounding the managers' office with perfect clarity. No one who heard that voice remained untouched by it. In the crawlspace behind the mahogany walls a scurrying figure suddenly stopped and went rigid. Shivers of ecstasy coursed through it. A panel of the hallway wall slid to the side and a shadowed form stepped out. Unable to resist the siren call of the sweet little voice, Erik glided down the hall, from niche to niche, hoping to catch a glimpse of the possessor of that extraordinary instrument.
