Chapter Eleven: I Meet Christine Daaé and Learn a Few Stories

"Who is it?" A woman's voice called from behind the door.

"Mademoiselle Daaé?" I asked, hoping Rémy brought us to the right dressing room.

There was a moments hesitation and then she answered, her voice trembled slightly. "Yes, why do you want to know?" She said at length.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, my name is Mackenzie and I need to speak with you. May I come in?"

"Wuh-who sent you? Did he send you? Did he send you to spy on me?" The tremor in her voice intensified with anger.

"I was sent by Monsieur Sherlock Holmes," I said gently. "And I was certainly not sent to spy on you."

"You mean you were not sent by him?"

"Him who?" I asked, suddenly becoming frustrated. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I do not have the slightest inkling of whom you are speaking. Monsieur Holmes simply sent me to inquire about certain events that supposedly took place in your dressing room."

"Which events?"

I glanced from the door to my friend. I could see by her expression that she was quickly getting annoyed speaking to the diva from behind a closed door. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly shut it when I glared at her. I had to choose my words carefully and I did not need my friend making any comments, thus destroying the small rapport I was establishing with the singer.

When I did not answer immediately, Mm. Daaé repeated her question. "Which events?"

"It is my understanding, as well as the understanding of Mr. Holmes," I said summoning up enough courage to speak, "that a man's voice was hear in your dressing room."

The diva's voice suddenly grew indignant. "How dare you lie to me! I will not tolerate that! He did send you in the guise of some investigator…"

"Mademoiselle, if you do not believe I was sent by Monsieur Holmes, then who do you think sent me?"

There was silence, and I was about to voice my question again when she spoke, her voice much softer than before. "You mean you were not sent by Raoul?"

Quickly, I wracked my brain to place some significance to the name. Ah yes, the Vicomte de Chagny, in Holmes's narrative. "Mademoiselle Daaé if you mean Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny, then you have no fear. I have never met nor spoken to the man."

The door slowly opened, revealing the pale green eyes of the singer, which looked at me with both surprise and unease. She stared into my face for several seconds before opening the door wide enough to admit me. Signaling for Becky to follow, I stepped into the dressing room and glanced around.

The first thing that grabbed my attention was a large mirror affixed to the wall opposite the door. I moved about the room slightly and noticed my reflection followed me where ever I went. "Wow, that's kinda freaky," I said suppressing a shudder.

Christine Daaé turned around and looked at me curiously. "What's freaky?"

I wasn't sure if she meant what I was referring to or my use of the word. I decided, although I'm most probably wrong, she wanted to know what I was talking to. "That mirror," I replied quickly. "It's just queer how your reflection follows you where ever you move."

That phrasing should be better!

Christine Daaé smiled tightly. "You get use to it," she replied. "It is very helpful when I am rehearsing."

"I'm sure it is. May I sit down?" I asked, indicating one of the few small folding chairs across from her dressing table.

Christine nodded and Becky and I sat next to each other. The diva glanced nervously at my best friend.

"It's all right," I said with a grin. "Elle s'appelle Becky. She won't repeat anything you say because she doesn't speak a word of French."

At my reply to her unspoken question, the diva laughed and the tense mood, which seemed to surround the diva, was lifted. When she laughed, her entire face lit up, making her look a lot younger than she really was. With one of her slender ivory hands, she pushed back her flowing blond hair.

"I must apologize for my earlier behavior," she said with a slight smile. "But I must be very careful, for mon ange does not want me speaking with Raoul or anyone associated with him. I do not mind Raoul's company, but it's just my angel…" her voice trailed off and a dream-like look came across her features. "Well," she said, suddenly realizing that Becky and I were in the room. "You certainly aren't here to listen to my problems. What can I do for you?"

Gently, I cleared my throat. "I mentioned earlier the strange matter of voices being heard in your dressing room. I was wondering if you could explain exactly what occurred."

At the mention of the voices, her faces clouded and her green eyes shone with anger. "Where did this Monsieur Holmes learn of this?"

I hesitated but not long enough for her to realize. "He was pursuing a line of enquiry and that matter just happened to come up."

"Do you promise not to repeat anything I tell you?" The singer asked dropping her voice to barely above a whisper.

Her request put me in a precarious position. I knew I had to inform Holmes of everything I learned and yet in doing so I would be breaking this girl's confidence. "I will hold my silence as long as I can," I said, hoping to elevate the sense of guilt I was already feeling because I knew I would have to break a promise.

She seemed to understand my predicament and began speaking. "When I was a child, I lived with my father who was a very famous violinist in Sweden. Father would play the violin and I would sing with his accompaniment. We traveled the countryside together entertaining people at fairs and other occasions. He was very fond of my voice, as any father would be. In fact, he once told me that I had the voice of an angel…"

"Mademoiselle," I said interrupting her narrative. "I fail to see what this preamble has to do with the strange even that I spoke of."

She favored me with a small smile. "You see, in addition to playing the violin, father would often tell me stories of the North. My favorite story was the story of Little Lotte. You have heard that story, haven't you?"

Wearily, I shook my head. Never having had much tolerance for childish conversation, I felt my patience slowly beginning to disappear. I clenched my teeth in effort to relax and fight back the words I wanted to say to this naïve singer. "Non," was the only word I allowed myself to get out.

She gasped in surprise. "Well I will tell it to you!" She said with childish enthusiasm. "Little Lotte was a young girl who thought of everything and nothing. She had a fiddle, many shoes and several dolls, but none of these things were very important to her. What little Lotte loved best was the night. She loved when she was asleep in her bed and the Angel of Music sang songs in her head…"

I raised my eyebrows skeptically. "The Angel of Music?"

"You poor dear! You have never heard of the Angel of Music?"

"No, should I have?"

"Every great musician, artist and writer receives a visit from an angel once in their lives. Sometimes, like in the case of Little Lotte, the Angel will appear when children are very young, producing child prodigies. Sometimes, if a child is bad, the angel will not come until they are older, and sometimes if someone has a wicked heart, the Angel does not come at all. The Angel of Music visits all great musicians.

'No one has ever seen the Angel of Music, but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. Usually, he comes when a musician least expects it, like when they are discouraged. Then, after the Angel's visit, a musician cannot pick up an instrument or open his mouth to sing without producing heavenly sounds.

'I asked my father if he ever heard the Angel of Music, but he never did. He promised me that when he was in heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to me, to guide my voice," she finished her story with such enthusiasm and her eyes shone so brightly, that I was forced to question myself whether my disbelief in angels was correct.

"Without sounding extremely rude," I said swallowing my annoyance, "why did you tell me about the Angel of Music?"

Christine Daaé smiled at me. "I knew you would ask that! Well, my father is dead and I have been visited by the Angel of Music. He gives me lessons right here in this room!"

"And I take it this angel is very strict?"

"Oh yes! He does not like me speaking with anyone, especially with Raoul," her voice suddenly was filled with sadness. "I do care for Raoul," she suddenly turned to me and seized both my hands in hers. Her voice grew wild with intense emotion. "I do care for him, and when you see him, please tell him that! Please tell him I miss him and enjoy his company, but I do not want to upset mon ange, because I'm afraid. I'm afraid my angel will leave me and never return if I disobey him! Please tell Raoul that for me!"

I gently disengaged myself from the diva's grasp and looked into her fear and pained filled eyes. "Mademoiselle, please try and calm yourself. If you care for this man and he cares for you, then I'm certain you have nothing to fear. I'm sure Raoul will understand your fears and will respect your wishes."

My words seemed to have a subduing effect on the diva. Her face softened and the tension somewhat dissipated from her body. "You really believe Raoul will understand? You will tell him how I feel?"

I nodded and averted my eyes from her honest face. My ears burned with shame because I lied to this innocent girl, filled her head with thoughts of understanding men and half truths. In my heart, I knew this Raoul would never understand and I knew I would never tell him her feelings, which made me, feel even worse. Even though she was my senior by several years, I felt more mature than she and felt terrible for lying to her and in a way erasing her purity.

"Oh thank you!" She said wrapping her arms around my neck in a friendly embrace. Her gratitude only succeeded in making me feel more like a sleaze-ball. "How can I ever thank you for telling Raoul how I feel?"

I managed a weak smile and pulled away from Mademoiselle Daaé. "You can answer just one more question. Can you describe the voice of your angel?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. "His voice is very hard to describe. He has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. It is so easy to close your eyes and forget the world, blocking everything out but that beautiful golden voice."

After hearing her description, something clicked in my mind, signaling a connection, but I couldn't quite figure out what was being connected.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, it was a pleasure meeting you," I said rising from my chair. "You have been most helpful and I look forward to hearing you sing."

Mademoiselle Daaé also stood. "Please call me Christine and thank you for delivering my message to dear Raoul."

Becky and I took our leave; my guilt was slowly gnawing at me. We walked down a long corridor without saying a word to each other. My mind was reeling, guilt of course was the prominent feeling, but curiosity was also inside there, rattling my thought process. Why did the description of the angel's voice trigger something in my mind? Was Christine really being visited by an angel or was it someone playing some type of prank on her?

"What the hell were you two talking about in there?" Becky asked angrily, interrupting my thoughts in the process.

"What?" I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance of my thoughts being stopped.

"You heard me. You have no idea how annoying it is not being able to understand a word anyone is saying around you."

I smiled absently mindedly. "I'm glad you didn't understand what was going on."

"Why?"

"Because you cannot control your laughter."

"What are you talking about?"

Instinctively, I lowered my voice. "Remember what Holmes told us about voices coming from Christine's dressing room?"

Becky nodded.

"Well, she said that the voice was that of the Angel of Music."

Becky looked at me and then began laughing hysterically. "That is defiantly the funniest thing I heard all day!"