To-morrow is the anniversary of the death of my poor father, whom you knew and who was very fond of you.

He is buried there, with his violin, in the graveyard of the little church, at the bottom of the slope where we used to play as children, beside the road where, when we were a little bigger, we said good-by for the last time.
The Vicomte de Chagny hurriedly consulted a railway guide, dressed as quickly as he could, wrote a few lines for his valet to take to his brother and jumped into a cab which brought him to the Gare Montparnasse just in time to miss the morning train.

He spent a dismal day in town and did not recover his spirits until the evening, when he was seated in his compartment in the Brittany express.

He read Christine'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.