Daaé. I remembered all that Christine had told me of the Angel of Music. The air was “ The Resurrection of Lazarus ,” which old M. Daaé used to play to us in his hours of melancholy and of faith. If Christine’s Angel had existed, he could not have played better, that night, on the late musician’s violin. When the music stopped, I seemed to hear a noise from the skulls in the heap of bones; it was as though they were chuckling and I could not help shuddering.

Did it not occur to you that the musician might be hiding behind that very heap of bones?

It was the one thought that did occur to me, monsieur, so much so that I omitted to follow Mlle. Daaé, when she stood up and walked slowly to the gate. She was so much absorbed just then that I am not surprised that she did not see me.