“Gentle flow’rs in the dew,

Be message from me⁠ ⁠…”

“Gentle flow’rs in the dew, Be message from me⁠ ⁠…”

As she sang these first two lines, with her bunch of roses and lilacs in her hand, Christine, raising her head, saw the Vicomte de Chagny in his box; and, from that moment, her voice seemed less sure, less crystal-clear than usual. Something seemed to deaden and dull her singing.⁠ ⁠…

“What a queer girl she is!” said one of Carlotta’s friends in the stalls, almost aloud. “The other day she was divine; and tonight she’s simply bleating. She has no experience, no training.”