Nils died on a Saturday, which meant that he died with only the sanitarium staff by his side. Most of them had come to love the soft-spoken man over the eight months he stayed with them; there was not a dry eye in the room when the doctor pronounced his long struggle ended. When his face was decently covered and his body wheeled from the room, the nurses began to studiously avoid one another's' eyes. Someone had to go to the Opera Populaire with a certain violin and tell a little girl that she was now an orphan.
Nurse Rechenard found herself shuffling along Rue Scribe, moving slowly to delay the unpleasant task. As much as the staff loved Monsieur Daae, they adored his little girl. She was always cheery. Her singing brought joy to a place where there was little to be joyful about. Several of the nurses wanted Mlle Rechenard to propose that Christine continue to sing for the patients - for a small fee. It might help the girl in times of need, when there was no one else to look out for her. Mlle Rechenard knew she could do no such thing. It would be hard enough to look the child in the eyes as it was.
The plump nurse asked for Christine at the front desk. She felt very out of place amidst a throng of fine people in evening wear. She had come just before the opening of a new operetta. When the usher heard the nurse's business, his normally haughty expression softened.
He murmured, "Of course, Mlle. If you will follow me, I will take you to her rooms."
Christine had just settled in the parlor to practice her scales when a knock sounded on the door. She ran happily to answer it, thinking Meg and Mme Giry had come to take her to the performance. When she saw Nurse Rechenard's sorrowful face and her father's black violin case with the silver pointings, she almost slammed the door on the poor woman.
Nils had reared his daughter well, though, and she forced herself to drop a small curtsy.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Please do come in." She stepped aside to allow the plump woman to pass through.
Nurse Rechenard looked around the small apartment as she followed the little girl to the parlor. Everything was in perfect order, not a single surface showed dust or smudges. The child had preserved everything just as it was before her father left. His raincoat and hat still hung on the coat rack. His slippers and rosin case sat on a little end table beside a cracked leather chair. She leaned the violin case carefully against this table as Christine prepare a plate of bread and cheese, then poured a small glass of wine.
Christine set the tray on the coffee table in front of the nurse. She then perched uneasily on the leather chair, her feet tucked up under her wool skirt.
"The wine is father's, Mademoiselle, but I don't think he'd mind my giving you a glass. The tea from lunch is cold," she apologized and gestured towards the plate. "Please try the havarti. It's delicious."
Nurse Rechenard took a slice of cheese and a piece of bread and held them, staring down at her hands while she tried to reformulate her plan. How could she pass on the dread information over wine and cheese? She set her food back down on the plate.
"Christine, dear, thank you for the food, but there is something I must tell you. Your father has been sick for a very long time, dear, and his illness had progressed beyond what the doctors could heal. This morning…" she swallowed hard over the lump that suddenly filled her throat, "this morning he passed on." She waited for the wailing, the hysterical outburst of denial.
No hysterics came. Christine sat very still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her face was drained of all color except dark circles that appeared under her unblinking eyes. Nurse Rechenard had to look closely to be sure the little girl was breathing at all. "Dear? If you want to talk about it…"
Christine slid to the floor and padded across to stand next to the nurse. "When can I see him, Mademoiselle?" Her voice was low, barely a whisper, that Nurse Rechenard had to strain to hear over the popping of the hearth fire.
"You may see him at the funeral."
Christine continued, speaking as though each word was painful. "Won't there be a wake?"
"No. He requested that there not be a wake."
"When is the funeral?"
"Wednesday. It will be announced in tomorrow's paper. It will be quite an event, dear, if that makes you feel better. Your father was much loved."
"I know, Nurse. Thank you for coming to tell me. I would not have wanted to find out some other way. I am feeling very…tired…and I think I ought to lie down and rest." Her voice remained low, but was still steady. Her eyes were dry, but sunken. She leaned over and kissed the nurse on the cheek.
The nurse got up and walked to the door, which Christine held open for her. "Well, dear, if you ever need to talk to someone…"
"Adieu, Nurse, and do be careful walking home."
The door swung slowly shut. Christine stared at it for a moment, as though she had never realized it performed that particular function. Still moving in a deathlike calm, she turned and walked to the old chair that had been her father's. It smelled of his light cologne and the pastilles he used to quiet his cough. Firelight glinted on the silver pointings of the violin case. She lifted the case and cradled it carefully. She had never learned to play the instrument. It had always been his way of making magic; she did not want to know the magician's secret.
With the violin pressed to her chest, she curled up in his chair and closed her eyes. The world was broken for her, so she shut it out. She felt herself begin to shiver; her teeth clicked together annoyingly, so she bit her lip. When her mother died, she had been able to take comfort in her father's assurance that her mother was in a beautiful musical heaven. She tried to imagine her father playing for her mother, but the image provided no comfort. She needed her father here, now. Heaven could have waited for him. The shuddering gradually gave way to slow, silent tears. She could not find release in weeping; the grief was too heavy on her chest.
In a dark chamber behind the room's massive gilt-edged mirror, Erik stood watching. He felt helpless in the face of Christine's grief. He should have thrown his plan into action. He should have swooped in as her Angel of Music, but he was as paralyzed by her silence as the nurse had been confused by it. He understood. He knew what sort of pain left one shivering and curled in a ball. That Christine should feel such pain was unthinkable. Just as he began to rally his courage to act, there was a hesitant knock at the door.
Christine heard the knock, but didn't move. She was not sure she could move even if she wanted. She could not think of any reason why she should. When the door cracked open and Meg's tentative voice asked, "Christine? Are you still in here?" she still could not move. Meg and her mother came into the parlor and stood by her for a moment. Mme Giry reached down and scooped the little girl into her arms, then carried her out the door.
Erik's breath escaped in a hiss. "Damn!" His chance had just walked out the door. Who knew how long it would be before Christine was alone in the parlor again. He kicked the wall hard enough to hurt his foot. "Damn!" He repeated. Of all the times to have a failure of courage, why had it happened now, when he was actually needed? He had no trouble threatening the powerful managers, he had barely paused before taking a man's life, but in the face of a little girl's silent tears, he was immobilized.
He touched the lever that made the mirror swing inward. He stepped into the empty suite and began to familiarize himself with every nook. His voice would throw best in the parlor, but it might be heard in the hallway. Christine's small bedroom would provide better privacy, but Erik was loath to break his long-standing rule of respecting her privacy in that place. He would simply have to risk the parlor,
"If she ever returns here alone…" he berated himself. On parting, he left a single white rose tied with a black velvet ribbon on her father's chair.
Mme Giry carried Christine to her own apartment and settled her in Meg's bed. "Stay with her, Meg, while I go get a little laudanum to help her sleep."
Meg nodded, smoothing Christine's disheveled hair back from her forehead. Christine still clutched the violin case with both hands. Tears ran from her closed eyes and down her face unnoticed and unwiped. Meg began to blot these with her handkerchief, but realized the effort was futile. Instead, she gently patted her friend's shoulder in silent sympathy.
"Christine, I'm so, so sorry. When Maman and I heard, we came straight away. How dare that awful nurse just tell you like that, without your friends nearby?" Christine showed no sign that she heard, so Meg chattered on, as was her wont, without waiting for a reply. "Well, I think it was just beastly. Your Daddy's funeral will be soon. Everyone will be there. Everyone loved him! Even Carlotta liked him, and she doesn't like anyone. The entire orchestra will play for him. You ought to sing. Christine, what will you sing? I don't think your father would want you to just lie there crying like that. You have to figure out what you'll sing quickly, so you can practice."
The direction of Meg's chatter finally broke through Christine's frozen thoughts. She opened her streaming eyes and sat up. "Mozart. Requiem." she said, and the words seemed to push themselves through river mud. "Lacrimosa. I don't…I won't need to practice. I know it in my heart."
A moment passed in silence. Christine traced her finger over the silver ornamentation on the violin case, while Meg continued to sympathetically pat her back, unable to understand why Christine didn't just cry, like any other girl. Soon, Mme Giry returned with a small glass of milk, which she pressed on Christine.
"Drink it, Christine. I know you don't want it, but it will make you sleep."
Christine accepted the glass and forced the cold, oddly bitter liquid down her throat. Mme Giry nodded with satisfaction and took the glass. She eased Christine back in the little bed and pulled the covers tight under the girl's chin. As her mind wandered and her eyes dropped leadenly, Christine's only thought was a wish for her father to play a lullaby for her.
Meg looked up at her mother, her eyes shining with tears. "Why didn't Christine cry, maman? She looks terrible!"
"She'll cry in time, ma cherie. She's going to need a very good friend to be patient with her, no matter her mood, at least for a while. Especially when she is snappish." Mme Giry was familiar with the moods of little girls who lost their parents, and she knew that Christine Daae was likely to be depressed and irritable for many months to come.
Meg nodded thoughtfully. Her mother was, by her estimation, a paragon of wisdom. If her mother said she had to be patient with Christine, then patient she would be. Meg never knew her father; he died at sea when she was only a few months old. She tried to imagine losing her mother, but her mind wouldn't allow it. Poor Christine, she thought. Her eyes strayed to the violin. At least you still have your music.
