🎬✨ BAROQUERIE – CANTUS LUMINIS • PART II

Dear music lovers,

Cristof de Moreau (fictional) is no longer alone...

Joining his baroque world are Théodore de Laroque, master of the violoncello, and Eliane de Verriére.

Their presence opens a new chapter in our Baroquerie series.

🎶 Eliane – Mademoiselle de Verriére

Behind a heavy velvet curtain, hidden from the public eye, Eliane traced the inside of her wrist with one fingertip, searching for her pulse — as if she meant to play her own heart in A major. The silk lining of her gown clung faintly to her skin, not from heat, but from the rising tension. Her voice, warmed since dawn with verbena tea and long legato exercises, lay captive behind closed lips. She was to perform only at the very end, and yet she trembled as though she had composed every note herself.

And perhaps, in a sense, she had: Cristof once confessed that he had composed Cantus Luminis while thinking of the curvature of her vowels and the radiance of her timbre.

II. Baroquerie

From the hall now came the first sounds of the second piece — bright and peacock-feathered, dancing in 3/8 time, splintered with mischievous trills from the oboe and harpsichord. The rustle of fans wielded by the corpulent ladies in the fourth row created a percussive echo, as though the score were being written live, adding parts for flounces and plumes. Cardinals, trapped in purple, followed the rhythm with fingertips concealed beneath the lace of their albs.

Eliane, standing in the half-light of the wings, watched them through the lattice screen of the proscenium.

III. Veni Sancte Spiritus (instrumental)

As the final chord of Baroquerie faded into a veil of resonance, the viola stepped forward, grounded by the deep, velvety anchor of the cello. Their shared tone rose like incense smoke in a gothic chancel. The cellist let his bow hover a fraction too long, carving a fragile silence — a silence that held the weight of a prayer.

Eliane felt her breath slow, her throat soften, as if she were attuning herself to that invisible choir of souls.

At the rear of the hall, someone lit more candles. Their flames shimmered against the gilded stucco, painting the walls with the shadow of wings — wings that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the pious melody. Eliane imagined it was the Holy Spirit descending between the instruments, blessing each interval with divine intent.

Anticipatio

And then… Cantus Luminis was to come.

Eliane caressed the concave surface of a silver medal hidden at her waist. Her fingers found the engraved initials C ✕ E, etched by Cristof on a May night when they whispered of music that might preserve the light.

“Sing only for me,” he had said. And that is precisely what she intended to do — even though the hall trembled with the stares of dignitaries. In her mind, there was now only one listener — someone who knew every nuance of her voice better than she did herself.

Behind the curtain came the faint rustle of silk gloves: the stagehand handed her a decorated stand with a miniature score, though she knew Cantus Luminis by heart. It was more ritual than necessity.

She placed the stand in shadow; candlelight caught in the golden threads of her gown, creating a halo worthy of any Florentine triptych saint.

Holding her breath just beneath her sternum, she waited for the cue. And as the viola ended its final phrase of Veni Sancte Spiritus with a semitonal descent, Eliane raised her chin.

She felt her pulse under her fingertips — a tempo not only of music, but of everything yet to come that evening.

(Or so Cristof thought, watching the wings from the conductor’s podium, baton lifted — ready to draw light from silence with a single gesture.)

👉 Part III