Véronique closed her eyes, and memories surged forth—just as vivid as the morning reflections on the lake. She saw herself again as a teenager, in her village nestled in the heights of the Vaud Jura. To earn a few francs, she took on a series of small jobs: sweeping the minigolf course with her sister, polishing the mirrors of a hair salon, organizing the colorful jars in a grocery store, or cleaning the back room of a bakery. Each task was like a door slightly ajar to the world. But it was only at the end of her school years, when she stepped through the doors of the museum of automata and music boxes, that she felt a shiver of eternity pass through her.
This museum, with its glass cases where figurines danced to the rhythm of clockwork mechanisms, was a sanctuary of mechanical poetry. Véronique, an impromptu guide, would lead visitors through these marvels. She told them the stories of the automata—those metal and wooden beings that seemed to defy time. Among them, one mechanical bird had always fascinated her. Enclosed in a golden cage, no bigger than a sparrow, it spread chicken feathers dyed in sapphire blue and carmine red. When she turned the key at its base, the bird came to life: its head turned, its beak opened, and a clear, almost living song filled the air. Two hundred and fifty tiny parts—gears, springs, bellows—worked in perfect harmony, the result of the genius of the Reuge craftsmen. It was not merely an object: it was a poem, a soul trapped in a body of metal, an echo of the Jura craftsmanship that made Véronique’s heart beat faster.
But her favorite remained the little Pierrot, seated at his desk in a corner bathed in light. Dressed in a white nightshirt and a drooping cap over one shoulder, he wrote—quill in hand—an imaginary letter to his Colombine. When his mechanism was activated, his painted eyes lit up with a melancholic glow, his hand scratched the paper, and an old melody—two delicate tunes from the Paillard workshops, circa 1890—floated like a sigh through the air. Each movement was a marvel, a ballet of cams and levers that seemed to whisper: the past is never far. For Véronique, this Pierrot was more than an automaton: he was a guardian of dreams, a reflection of the romantic soul of the Swiss valleys, a mirror of her own inner quest.
One day, a sudden impulse seized her. She crafted and slipped into a costume of black and green silk, woven with shimmering gold fabric, painted her face in white and pink, and began to dance to the tune of a music box, her jerky movements mimicking those of an automaton. The museum visitors stopped in their tracks, captivated. One day, a little girl, eyes wide with wonder, asked her if she was a mechanical doll that had come to life.
Véronique laughed, her heart light, but the legends whispered by the museum spoke of something else: birds escaping into the shadows, a Pierrot wandering beneath the moonlight, mechanisms coming to life when no one was watching. Was it true? She didn’t know. But deep inside, she felt that these stories carried a deeper truth.
It was during one of these dances that a visitor noticed her. A man with smiling eyes was charmed by her performance. He spoke of a vibrant crowd, of a street festival where her dance could shine beneath other skies. “Come,” he said, “bring your music box and your costume — and dance.” Heart pounding, Véronique accepted. For the first time, she left her village, a suitcase in one hand, her music box clutched tightly to her chest.
In the old train carrying her away, the ta-dum, ta-dum of the tracks seemed to whisper a promise: Adventure awaits you.
But this journey, she sensed, was more than just a departure. And carried by the breath of the wind, between forest spirits and mountain legends,
Véronique moved forward — step by step — into the unknown, guided by something greater than herself.
