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Dec. 1869
It was mid-December; marking seven months since Gustave Daae's unfortunate death. Many patrons of the arts came to give their condolences to the girl which included flowers, dolls, and uncomfortable hugs from strangers she didn't know.
She was getting used to life after death. She got up one day out of bed after two months of refusing to do anything. She had only eaten the occasional slice of loafed bread and a glass of water every afternoon.
She often overheard the whispers from the adult performers who crowded her door many times a week checking on her from a distance.
They said things to each other like, "The girl is hardly human anymore she is practically bones!", or "God bless the little child she must have loved her father very much", or "Poor thing." But Christine didn't feel sorry for herself she felt sorry for her papa, even though she was sure he was entertaining heavenly hosts now with his beautiful fiddling.
Pappa had kept the promise he made to her on his deathbed. He said, "Little Lotte when I die the Angel of Music will come to visit you."
Two weeks went by after her ceaseless praying and then one night around one o'clock she was awoken by the sound of an older gentleman's voice. She was extremely frightened at first. She sat up staring into the pitch darkness holding her quilt tightly to her chest when like magic, candles that were spread sporadically around the desolate room, lit up by themselves!
Christine was amazed and her jaw dropped simultaneously. That's when she felt the cold room strangely shift and become unusually cozy, as if a fire had been going in a fireplace, yet there was nothing in the long rectangular room other than twenty iron barred beds, a couple coat racks, and a few nightstands beside some of the beds including her own.
A voice spoke to her then. It was the loveliest most gentle and deep voice she had ever heard baring the memory of her own fathers. The disembodied voice somehow calmed her in a way nothing else could seem to.
"Beautiful child don't be afraid."
Christine could not do anything but listen. Still paralized from shock.
"Yes, your father in heaven has sent me to teach and watch over you," the powerful voice replied with a natural benevolence.
"Where are you?"
"All around you child. I am spirit and body, but you must not see me in my flesh dwelling until I have successfully taught you how to master your voice and have made your father proud."
"If you can communicate with my father please tell him thank you. He has kept his promise to me. Now I know he is still listening."
"Of course dear girl," the angel replied, confidently.
"Will you sing for me angel?" Christine asked timidly, hoping that her request was not too large.
His sonorous voice soared through the room like a musical wind, touching Christines heart and thrilling her mind.
He sang "Una Furtiva Lagrima", a song popularized forty years ago in 1830 from the opera L'elisir D'amore.
Her father would perform the same song on his violin when he was performing in Paris. Christine had always been fond of the tune.
Soon the lulling of the angel of music's voice was so strong she had fallen fast asleep.
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