But their great treat was, in the twilight, in the great silence of the
evening, after the sun had set in the sea, when Daae came and sat down
by them on the roadside and, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he
should frighten the ghosts whom he evoked, told them the legends of the
land of the North. And, the moment he stopped, the children would ask
for more. There was one story that began:

"A king sat in a little boat on one of those deep, still lakes that
open like a bright eye in the midst of the Norwegian mountains ..."

And another:

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden
as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She
wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock
and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when
she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music." While the old man told this story, Raoul looked at Christine's blue
eyes and golden hair; and Christine thought that Lotte was very lucky
to hear the Angel of Music when she went to sleep. The Angel of Music
played a part in all Daddy Daae's tales; and he maintained that every
great musician, every great artist received a visit from the Angel at
least once in his life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle,
as happened to Lotte, and that is how there are little prodigies who
play the fiddle at six better than men at fifty, which, you must admit,
is very wonderful. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the
children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practise their
scales. And, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children
have a bad heart or a bad conscience. No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to
hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad
and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial
harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives. Persons who are visited by the Angel quiver with a thrill unknown to
the rest of mankind. And they can not touch an instrument, or open
their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human
sounds to shame. Then people who do not know that the Angel has
visited those persons say that they have genius. Little Christine asked her father if he had heard the Angel of Music. But Daddy Daae shook his head sadly; and then his eyes lit up, as he
said:

"You will hear him one day, my child! When I am in Heaven, I will send
him to you!" Daddy was beginning to cough at that time. Three years later, Raoul and Christine met again at Perros. Professor
Valerius was dead, but his widow remained in France with Daddy Daae and
his daughter, who continued to play the violin and sing, wrapping in
their dream of harmony their kind patroness, who seemed henceforth to
live on music alone. The young man, as he now was, had come to Perros
on the chance of finding them and went straight to the house in which
they used to stay. He first saw the old man; and then Christine
entered, carrying the tea-tray. She flushed at the sight of Raoul, who
went up to her and kissed her. She asked him a few questions,
performed her duties as hostess prettily, took up the tray again and
left the room. Then she ran into the garden and took refuge on a
bench, a prey to feelings that stirred her young heart for the first
time. Raoul followed her and they talked till the evening, very shyly. They were quite changed, cautious as two diplomatists, and told each
other things that had nothing to do with their budding sentiments. When they took leave of each other by the roadside, Raoul, pressing a
kiss on Christine's trembling hand, said:

"Mademoiselle, I shall never forget you!" And he went away regretting his words, for he knew that Christine could
not be the wife of the Vicomte de Chagny. As for Christine, she tried not to think of him and devoted herself
wholly to her art. She made wonderful progress and those who heard her
prophesied that she would be the greatest singer in the world. Meanwhile, the father died; and, suddenly, she seemed to have lost,
with him, her voice, her soul and her genius. She retained just, but
only just, enough of this to enter the CONSERVATOIRE, where she did not
distinguish herself at all, attending the classes without enthusiasm
and taking a prize only to please old Mamma Valerius, with whom she
continued to live. The first time that Raoul saw Christine at the Opera, he was charmed by
the girl's beauty and by the sweet images of the past which it evoked,
but was rather surprised at the negative side of her art. He returned
to listen to her. He followed her in the wings. He waited for her
behind a Jacob's ladder. He tried to attract her attention. More than
once, he walked after her to the door of her box, but she did not see
him. She seemed, for that matter, to see nobody. She was all
indifference. Raoul suffered, for she was very beautiful and he was
shy and dared not confess his love, even to himself. And then came the
lightning-flash of the gala performance: the heavens torn asunder and
an angel's voice heard upon earth for the delight of mankind and the
utter capture of his heart. And then ... and then there was that man's voice behind the door--"You
must love me!" --and no one in the room...

Why did she laugh when he reminded her of the incident of the scarf? Why did she not recognize him? And why had she written to him? ...

Perros was reached at last. Raoul walked into the smoky sitting-room
of the Setting Sun and at once saw Christine standing before him,
smiling and showing no astonishment. "So you have come," she said. "I felt that I should find you here,
when I came back from mass. Some one told me so, at the church." "Who?" asked Raoul, taking her little hand in his. "Why, my poor father, who is dead." There was a silence; and then Raoul asked:

"Did your father tell you that I love you, Christine, and that I can
not live without you?" Christine blushed to the eyes and turned away her head. In a trembling
voice, she said:

"Me? You are dreaming, my friend!" And she burst out laughing, to put herself in countenance. "Don't laugh, Christine; I am quite serious," Raoul answered. And she replied gravely:  "I did not make you come to tell me such
things as that." "You 'made me come,' Christine; you knew that your letter would not
leave me indignant and that I should hasten to Perros. How can you
have thought that, if you did not think I loved you?" "I thought you would remember our games here, as children, in which my
father so often joined. I really don't know what I thought...  Perhaps
I was wrong to write to you ... This anniversary and your sudden
appearance in my room at the Opera, the other evening, reminded me of
the time long past and made me write to you as the little girl that I
then was..."

There was something in Christine's attitude that seemed to Raoul not
natural.