istine's note over and over again, smelling its perfume, recalling
the sweet pictures of his childhood, and spent the rest of that tedious
night journey in feverish dreams that began and ended with Christine
Daae. Day was breaking when he alighted at Lannion. He hurried to the
diligence for Perros-Guirec. He was the only passenger. He questioned
the driver and learned that, on the evening of the previous day, a
young lady who looked like a Parisian had gone to Perros and put up at
the inn known as the Setting Sun.

The nearer he drew to her, the more fondly he remembered the story of
the little Swedish singer. Most of the details are still unknown to
the public.

There was once, in a little market-town not far from Upsala, a peasant
who lived there with his family, digging the earth during the week and
singing in the choir on Sundays. This peasant had a little daughter to
whom he taught the musical alphabet before she knew how to read.
Daae's father was a great musician, perhaps without knowing it. Not a
fiddler throughout the length and breadth of Scandinavia played as he
did. His reputation was widespread and he was always invited to set
the couples dancing at weddings and other festivals. His wife died
when Christine was entering upon her sixth year. Then the father, who
cared only for his daughter and his music, sold his patch of ground and
went to Upsala in search of fame and fortune. He found nothing but
poverty.

He returned to the country, wandering from fair to fair, strumming his
Scandinavian melodies, while his child, who never left his side,
listened to him in ecstasy or sang to his playing. One day, at Ljimby
Fair, Professor Valerius heard them and took them to Gothenburg. He
maintained that the father was the first violinist in the world and
that the daughter had the making of a great artist. Her education and
instruction were provided for. She made rapid progress and charmed
everybody with her prettiness, her grace of manner and her genuine
eagerness to please.

When Valerius and his wife went to settle in France, they took Daae and
Christine with them. "Mamma" Valerius treated Christine as her
daughter. As for Daae, he began to pine away with homesickness. He
never went out of doors in Paris, but lived in a sort of dream which he
kept up with his violin. For hours at a time, he remained locked up in
his bedroom with his daughter, fiddling and singing, very, very softly.
Sometimes