TheProjectGutenbergEBookofThePhantomoftheOpera,byGastonLeroux

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Title:ThePhantomoftheOpera

Author:GastonLeroux

ReleaseDate:June9,2008[EBook#175]

Language:English

***STARTOFTHISPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKTHEPHANTOMOFTHEOPERA***

ThePhantomoftheOpera

by

GastonLeroux

Authorof“TheMysteryoftheYellowRoom”and“ThePerfumeoftheLadyinBlack”

Contents

Chapter PROLOGUE

I ISITAGHOST?II THENEWMARGARITAIII THEMYSTERIOUSREASONIV BOXFIVEV THEENCHANTEDVIOLINVI AVISITTOBOXFIVEVII FAUSTANDWHATFOLLOWEDVIII THEMYSTERIOUSBROUGHAMIX ATTHEMASKEDBALLX FORGETTHENAMEOFTHEMAN’SVOICEXI ABOVETHETRAP-DOORSXII APOLLO’SLYREXIII AMASTER-STROKEOFTHETRAP-DOOR

LOVERXIV THESINGULARATTITUDEOFASAFETY-PINXV CHRISTINE!CHRISTINE!XVI MME.GIRY’SREVELATIONSXVII THESAFETY-PINAGAINXVIII THECOMMISSARY,THEVISCOUNTANDTHE

PERSIANXIX THEVISCOUNTANDTHEPERSIANXX INTHECELLARSOFTHEOPERAXXI INTERESTINGVICISSITUDESXXII INTHETORTURECHAMBERXXIII THETORTURESBEGINXXIV BARRELS!BARRELS!XXV THESCORPIONORTHEGRASSHOPPER:

WHICHXXVI THEENDOFTHEGHOST’SLOVESTORY

EPILOGUE (plusa“bonuschapter”called“THEPARISOPERAHOUSE”)

ThePhantomoftheOpera

Prologue

INWHICH THE AUTHOR OF THIS SINGULARWORK INFORMSTHE READER HOW HE ACQUIRED THE CERTAINTY THAT THEOPERAGHOSTREALLYEXISTED

The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, acreatureoftheimaginationoftheartists,thesuperstitionofthemanagers,oraproduct of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of theballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or theconcierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed thecompleteappearanceofarealphantom;thatistosay,ofaspectralshade.

WhenIbegantoransackthearchivesoftheNationalAcademyofMusicIwas at once struck by the surprising coincidences between the phenomenaascribedtothe“ghost”andthemostextraordinaryandfantastictragedythateverexcited theParisupperclasses;and I soonconceived the idea that thistragedymight reasonably be explained by the phenomena in question. Theeventsdonotdatemorethanthirtyyearsback;anditwouldnotbedifficulttofind at the present day, in the foyer of the ballet, old men of the highestrespectability,menuponwhosewordone could absolutely rely,whowouldremember as though they happened yesterday themysterious and dramaticconditionsthatattendedthekidnappingofChristineDaae,thedisappearanceoftheVicomtedeChagnyandthedeathofhiselderbrother,CountPhilippe,whosebodywasfoundonthebankofthelakethatexistsinthelowercellarsof theOperaon theRue-Scribe side.Butnoneof thosewitnesseshaduntilthat day thought that therewas any reason for connecting themore or lesslegendaryfigureoftheOperaghostwiththatterriblestory.

Thetruthwasslowtoentermymind,puzzledbyaninquirythatatevery

moment was complicated by events which, at first sight, might be lookeduponassuperhuman;andmorethanonceIwaswithinanaceofabandoningataskinwhichIwasexhaustingmyselfinthehopelesspursuitofavainimage.Atlast,Ireceivedtheproofthatmypresentimentshadnotdeceivedme,andIwasrewardedforallmyeffortsonthedaywhenIacquiredthecertaintythattheOperaghostwasmorethanamereshade.

On that day, I had spent long hours over THE MEMOIRS OF AMANAGER, the lightand frivolousworkof the too-skepticalMoncharmin,who, during his term at the Opera, understood nothing of the mysteriousbehavioroftheghostandwhowasmakingallthefunofitthathecouldatthevery moment when he became the first victim of the curious financialoperationthatwentoninsidethe“magicenvelope.”

I had just left the library in despair, when I met the delightful acting-manager of ourNationalAcademy,who stood chattingon a landingwith alivelyandwell-groomedlittleoldman,towhomheintroducedmegaily.Theacting-manager knew all about my investigations and how eagerly andunsuccessfully I had been trying to discover the whereabouts of theexaminingmagistrate in the famousChagny case,M. Faure.Nobody knewwhathadbecomeofhim,aliveordead;andherehewasbackfromCanada,wherehehadspentfifteenyears,andthefirstthinghehaddone,onhisreturntoParis,wastocometothesecretarialofficesattheOperaandaskforafreeseat.ThelittleoldmanwasM.Faurehimself.

We spent a good part of the evening together and he toldme thewholeChagnycaseashehadunderstooditatthetime.Hewasboundtoconcludeinfavor of themadness of the viscount and the accidental death of the elderbrother, for lack of evidence to the contrary; but he was neverthelesspersuadedthataterribletragedyhadtakenplacebetweenthetwobrothersinconnection with Christine Daae. He could not tell me what became ofChristineortheviscount.WhenImentionedtheghost,heonlylaughed.He,too,hadbeen toldof thecuriousmanifestations that seemed topoint to theexistence of an abnormal being, residing in one of the most mysteriouscornersoftheOpera,andheknewthestoryoftheenvelope;buthehadneverseen anything in it worthy of his attention as magistrate in charge of theChagnycase,anditwasasmuchashehaddonetolistentotheevidenceofawitnesswhoappearedofhisownaccordanddeclaredthathehadoftenmettheghost.ThiswitnesswasnoneotherthanthemanwhomallPariscalledthe“Persian” and who was well-known to every subscriber to the Opera. Themagistratetookhimforavisionary.

IwasimmenselyinterestedbythisstoryofthePersian.Iwanted,iftherewerestilltime,tofindthisvaluableandeccentricwitness.Myluckbeganto

improveandIdiscoveredhiminhislittleflatintheRuedeRivoli,wherehehad livedeversinceandwherehedied fivemonthsaftermyvisit. Iwasatfirstinclinedtobesuspicious;butwhenthePersianhadtoldme,withchild-likecandor,allthatheknewabouttheghostandhadhandedmetheproofsofthe ghost’s existence—including the strange correspondence of ChristineDaae—todoasIpleasedwith,Iwasnolongerabletodoubt.No,theghostwasnotamyth!

Ihave,Iknow,beentold that thiscorrespondencemayhavebeenforgedfromfirst to lastbyamanwhoseimaginationhadcertainlybeenfedonthemostseductivetales;butfortunatelyIdiscoveredsomeofChristine’swritingoutside thefamousbundleof lettersand,onacomparisonbetween the two,allmydoubtswereremoved.IalsowentintothepasthistoryofthePersianand found that he was an uprightman, incapable of inventing a story thatmighthavedefeatedtheendsofjustice.

This,moreover,was theopinionof themore seriouspeoplewho, at onetime or other,weremixed up in theChagny case,whowere friends of theChagny family, to whom I showed all my documents and set forth all myinferences. In this connection, I should like to print a few lines which IreceivedfromGeneralD——:

SIR:

I can not urge you too strongly to publish the results of your inquiry. Irememberperfectlythat,afewweeksbeforethedisappearanceof thatgreatsinger, Christine Daae, and the tragedy which threw the whole of theFaubourgSaint-Germainintomourning,therewasagreatdealoftalk,inthefoyer of the ballet, on the subject of the “ghost;” and I believe that it onlyceasedtobediscussedinconsequenceofthelateraffairthatexcitedusallsogreatly.But,ifitbepossible—as,afterhearingyou,Ibelieve—toexplainthetragedy through the ghost, then I beg you sir, to talk to us about the ghostagain.

Mysterious though theghostmayat firstappear,hewillalwaysbemoreeasilyexplainedthanthedismalstoryinwhichmalevolentpeoplehavetriedtopicture twobrotherskillingeachotherwhohadworshipedeachotheralltheirlives.

Believeme,etc.

Lastly, with my bundle of papers in hand, I once more went over theghost’svastdomain,thehugebuildingwhichhehadmadehiskingdom.Allthat my eyes saw, all that my mind perceived, corroborated the Persian’sdocumentsprecisely;andawonderfuldiscoverycrownedmylaborsinaverydefinite fashion. It will be remembered that, later, when digging in the

substructure of the Opera, before burying the phonographic records of theartist’s voice, theworkmen laid bare a corpse.Well, I was at once able toprovethatthiscorpsewasthatoftheOperaghost.Imadetheacting-managerputthisprooftothetestwithhisownhand;anditisnowamatterofsupremeindifferencetomeifthepaperspretendthatthebodywasthatofavictimoftheCommune.

Thewretcheswhoweremassacred,undertheCommune,inthecellarsoftheOpera,werenotburiedonthisside;Iwilltellwheretheirskeletonscanbefound in a spot not very far from that immense crypt which was stockedduringthesiegewithallsortsofprovisions.IcameuponthistrackjustwhenIwaslookingfortheremainsoftheOperaghost,whichIshouldneverhavediscoveredbutfortheunheard-ofchancedescribedabove.

Butwewillreturntothecorpseandwhatoughttobedonewithit.Forthepresent, I must conclude this very necessary introduction by thanking M.Mifroid (who was the commissary of police called in for the firstinvestigationsafter thedisappearanceofChristineDaae),M.Remy, the latesecretary,M.Mercier, the late acting-manager,M.Gabriel, the late chorus-master, andmore particularlyMme. la Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac, whowasoncethe“littleMeg”ofthestory(andwhoisnotashamedofit),themostcharming star of our admirable corps de ballet, the eldest daughter of theworthyMme.Giry,nowdeceased,whohadchargeoftheghost’sprivatebox.Allthesewereofthegreatestassistancetome;and,thankstothem,Ishallbeabletoreproducethosehoursofsheerloveandterror,intheirsmallestdetails,beforethereader’seyes.

And I should be ungrateful indeed if I omitted, while standing on thethreshold of this dreadful and veracious story, to thank the presentmanagementtheOpera,whichhassokindlyassistedmeinallmyinquiries,andM.Messagerinparticular,togetherwithM.Gabion,theacting-manager,andthatmostamiableofmen,thearchitectintrustedwiththepreservationofthebuilding,whodidnothesitate to lendme theworksofCharlesGarnier,althoughhewasalmostsurethatIwouldneverreturnthemtohim.Lastly,Imust pay a public tribute to the generosity of my friend and formercollaborator, M. J. Le Croze, who allowed me to dip into his splendidtheatrical libraryand toborrowtheraresteditionsofbooksbywhichhesetgreatstore.

GASTONLEROUX.

ChapterIIsittheGhost?

ItwastheeveningonwhichMM.DebienneandPoligny,themanagersofthe Opera, were giving a last gala performance to mark their retirement.Suddenly thedressing-roomofLaSorelli,oneof theprincipaldancers,wasinvadedbyhalf-a-dozenyoungladiesoftheballet,whohadcomeupfromthestageafter“dancing”Polyeucte.Theyrushedinamidgreatconfusion,somegivingventtoforcedandunnaturallaughter,otherstocriesofterror.Sorelli,whowishedtobealoneforamomentto“runthrough”thespeechwhichshewastomaketotheresigningmanagers,lookedaroundangrilyatthemadandtumultuouscrowd.ItwaslittleJammes—thegirlwiththetip-tiltednose,theforget-me-noteyes,therose-redcheeksandthelily-whiteneckandshoulders—whogavetheexplanationinatremblingvoice:

“It’stheghost!”Andshelockedthedoor.

Sorelli’sdressing-roomwasfittedupwithofficial,commonplaceelegance.A pier-glass, a sofa, a dressing-table and a cupboard or two provided thenecessaryfurniture.Onthewallshungafewengravings,relicsofthemother,whohadknownthegloriesoftheoldOperaintheRuelePeletier;portraitsofVestris,Gardel,Dupont,Bigottini.Buttheroomseemedapalacetothebratsof the corps de ballet, whowere lodged in common dressing-roomswherethey spent their time singing, quarreling, smacking the dressers and hair-dressersandbuyingoneanotherglassesofcassis,beer,oreven rhum,untilthecall-boy’sbellrang.

Sorelli was very superstitious. She shuddered when she heard littleJammesspeakoftheghost,calledhera“sillylittlefool”andthen,asshewasthefirst tobelieveinghostsingeneral,andtheOperaghostinparticular,atonceaskedfordetails:

“Haveyouseenhim?”

“AsplainlyasIseeyounow!”saidlittleJammes,whoselegsweregivingwaybeneathher,andshedroppedwithamoanintoachair.

ThereuponlittleGiry—thegirlwitheyesblackassloes,hairblackasink,aswarthycomplexionandapoorlittleskinstretchedoverpoorlittlebones—littleGiryadded:

“Ifthat’stheghost,he’sveryugly!”

“Oh,yes!”criedthechorusofballet-girls.

Andtheyallbegantotalktogether.Theghosthadappearedtothemintheshapeofagentlemanindress-clothes,whohadsuddenlystoodbeforetheminthepassage,withouttheirknowingwherehecamefrom.Heseemedtohave

comestraightthroughthewall.“Pooh!”saidoneofthem,whohadmoreorlesskeptherhead.“Yousee

theghosteverywhere!”

Anditwastrue.Forseveralmonths, therehadbeennothingdiscussedattheOperabutthisghostindress-clotheswhostalkedaboutthebuilding,fromtoptobottom, likeashadow,whospoke tonobody, towhomnobodydaredspeak andwho vanished as soon as he was seen, no one knowing how orwhere.Asbecamearealghost,hemadenonoiseinwalking.Peoplebeganbylaughingandmakingfunof thisspecterdressedlikeamanoffashionoranundertaker; but the ghost legend soon swelled to enormous proportionsamong the corps de ballet. All the girls pretended to have met thissupernatural being more or less often. And those who laughed the loudestwere not themost at ease.When he did not show himself, he betrayed hispresenceorhispassingbyaccident,comicorserious,forwhichthegeneralsuperstitionheldhimresponsible.Hadanyonemetwithafall,orsufferedapractical jokeat thehandsofoneof theothergirls,or lostapowderpuff, itwasatoncethefaultoftheghost,oftheOperaghost.

Afterall,whohadseenhim?Youmeet somanymen indress-clothesattheOperawhoarenotghosts.Butthisdress-suithadapeculiarityofitsown.Itcoveredaskeleton.Atleast,sotheballet-girlssaid.And,ofcourse,ithadadeath’shead.

Wasall thisserious?Thetruthis that theideaof theskeletoncamefromthedescriptionof theghostgivenbyJosephBuquet, thechiefscene-shifter,whohadreallyseen theghost.Hehadrunupagainst theghoston the littlestaircase,bythefootlights,whichleadsto“thecellars.”Hehadseenhimforasecond—fortheghosthadfled—andtoanyonewhocaredtolistentohimhesaid:

“He isextraordinarily thinandhisdress-coathangsona skeleton frame.Hiseyesaresodeepthatyoucanhardlyseethefixedpupils.Youjustseetwobigblackholes,asinadeadman’sskull.Hisskin,whichisstretchedacrosshis bones like a drumhead, is notwhite, but a nasty yellow.His nose is solittleworthtalkingaboutthatyoucan’tseeitside-face;andTHEABSENCEofthatnoseisahorriblethingTOLOOKAT.Allthehairhehasisthreeorfourlongdarklocksonhisforeheadandbehindhisears.”

This chief scene-shifter was a serious, sober, steady man, very slow atimaginingthings.Hiswordswerereceivedwithinterestandamazement;andsoon therewere other people to say that they too hadmet aman in dress-clotheswithadeath’sheadonhisshoulders.Sensiblemenwhohadwindofthestorybeganbysaying thatJosephBuquethadbeen thevictimofa joke

playedbyoneofhis assistants.And then, one after theother, there cameaseries of incidents so curious and so inexplicable that the very shrewdestpeoplebegantofeeluneasy.

Forinstance,afiremanisabravefellow!Hefearsnothing,leastofallfire!Well,thefiremaninquestion,whohadgonetomakearoundofinspectioninthecellarsandwho,itseems,hadventuredalittlefartherthanusual,suddenlyreappearedonthestage,pale,scared,trembling,withhiseyesstartingoutofhis head, and practically fainted in the arms of the proud mother of littleJammes.[1] And why? Because he had seen coming toward him, AT THELEVELOFHISHEAD,BUTWITHOUTABODYATTACHEDTOIT,AHEADOFFIRE!And,asIsaid,afiremanisnotafraidoffire.

Thefireman’snamewasPampin.

Thecorpsdeballetwasflung intoconsternation.At firstsight, this fieryheadinnowaycorrespondedwithJosephBuquet’sdescriptionoftheghost.But the young ladies soon persuaded themselves that the ghost had severalheads,whichhe changed about as hepleased.And, of course, they at onceimagined that they were in the greatest danger. Once a fireman did nothesitatetofaint,leadersandfront-rowandback-rowgirlsalikehadplentyofexcusesforthefrightthatmadethemquickentheirpacewhenpassingsomedark corner or ill-lighted corridor. Sorelli herself, on the day after theadventureofthefireman,placedahorseshoeonthetableinfrontofthestage-door-keeper’sbox,whicheveryonewhoenteredtheOperaotherwisethanasa spectatormust touchbefore setting footon the first treadof the staircase.This horse-shoewas not invented byme—anymore than any other part ofthisstory,alas!—andmaystillbeseenonthetableinthepassageoutsidethestage-door-keeper’sbox,whenyouentertheOperathroughthecourtknownastheCourdel’Administration.

Toreturntotheeveninginquestion.

“It’stheghost!”littleJammeshadcried.

An agonizing silence now reigned in the dressing-room. Nothing washeard but the hard breathing of the girls. At last, Jammes, flinging herselfuponthefarthestcornerofthewall,witheverymarkofrealterroronherface,whispered:

“Listen!”

Everybodyseemedtoheararustlingoutsidethedoor.Therewasnosoundoffootsteps.Itwaslikelightsilkslidingoverthepanel.Thenitstopped.

Sorellitriedtoshowmorepluckthantheothers.Shewentuptothedoorand,inaquaveringvoice,asked:

“Who’sthere?”

But nobody answered.Then feeling all eyes upon her,watching her lastmovement,shemadeanefforttoshowcourage,andsaidveryloudly:

“Isthereanyonebehindthedoor?”

“Oh, yes, yes!Of course there is!” cried that little driedplumof aMegGiry,heroicallyholdingSorellibackbyhergauze skirt. “Whateveryoudo,don’topenthedoor!Oh,Lord,don’topenthedoor!”

But Sorelli, armedwith a dagger that never left her, turned the key anddrewbackthedoor,whiletheballet-girlsretreatedtotheinnerdressing-roomandMegGirysighed:

“Mother!Mother!”

Sorelli looked into thepassagebravely. Itwasempty;agas-flame, in itsglass prison, cast a red and suspicious light into the surrounding darkness,withoutsucceedingindispellingit.Andthedancerslammedthedooragain,withadeepsigh.

“No,”shesaid,“thereisnoonethere.”

“Still,wesawhim!”Jammesdeclared,returningwithtimidlittlestepstoherplacebesideSorelli.“Hemustbesomewhereprowlingabout.Ishan’tgobacktodress.Wehadbetterallgodowntothefoyertogether,atonce,forthe‘speech,’andwewillcomeupagaintogether.”

Andthechildreverentlytouchedthelittlecoralfinger-ringwhichsheworeasacharmagainstbadluck,whileSorelli,stealthily,withthetipofherpinkright thumb-nail, made a St. Andrew’s cross on the wooden ring whichadornedthefourthfingerofherlefthand.Shesaidtothelittleballet-girls:

“Come,children,pullyourselvestogether!Idaresaynoonehaseverseentheghost.”

“Yes,yes,wesawhim—wesawhimjustnow!”cried thegirls.“Hehadhis death’s head and his dress-coat, just as when he appeared to JosephBuquet!”

“And Gabriel saw him too!” said Jammes. “Only yesterday! Yesterdayafternoon—inbroadday-light——”

“Gabriel,thechorus-master?”

“Why,yes,didn’tyouknow?”

“Andhewaswearinghisdress-clothes,inbroaddaylight?”

“Who?Gabriel?”

“Why,no,theghost!”

“Certainly! Gabriel told me so himself. That’s what he knew him by.Gabrielwasinthestage-manager’soffice.SuddenlythedooropenedandthePersianentered.YouknowthePersianhastheevileye——”

“Oh,yes!”answeredthelittleballet-girlsinchorus,wardingoffill-luckbypointing their forefinger and little finger at the absent Persian, while theirsecondandthirdfingerswerebentonthepalmandhelddownbythethumb.

“And you know how superstitious Gabriel is,” continued Jammes.“However, he is alwayspolite.Whenhemeets thePersian,he just putshishand in his pocket and touches his keys. Well, the moment the Persianappearedinthedoorway,Gabrielgaveonejumpfromhischairtothelockofthe cupboard, so as to touch iron! In doing so, he tore awhole skirt of hisovercoatonanail.Hurrying togetoutof theroom,hebangedhis foreheadagainst a hat-peg and gave himself a huge bump; then, suddenly steppingback,heskinnedhisarmonthescreen,nearthepiano;hetriedtoleanonthepiano,butthelidfellonhishandsandcrushedhisfingers;herushedoutoftheofficelikeamadman,slippedonthestaircaseandcamedownthewholeofthefirstflightonhisback.Iwasjustpassingwithmother.Wepickedhimup.Hewas coveredwithbruises andhis facewas all overblood.Wewerefrightenedoutofourlives,but,allatonce,hebegantothankProvidencethathehadgotoffsocheaply.Thenhetolduswhathadfrightenedhim.Hehadseen the ghost behind the Persian, THE GHOST WITH THE DEATH’SHEADjustlikeJosephBuquet’sdescription!”

Jammeshadtoldherstoryeversoquickly,asthoughtheghostwereatherheels, and was quite out of breath at the finish. A silence followed, whileSorelli polished her nails in great excitement. It was broken by little Giry,whosaid:

“JosephBuquetwoulddobettertoholdhistongue.”

“Whyshouldheholdhistongue?”askedsomebody.

“That’smother’sopinion,”repliedMeg,loweringhervoiceandlookingallaboutherasthoughfearinglestotherearsthanthosepresentmightoverhear.

“Andwhyisityourmother’sopinion?”

“Hush!Mothersaystheghostdoesn’tlikebeingtalkedabout.”

“Andwhydoesyourmothersayso?”

“Because—because—nothing—”

Thisreticenceexasperatedthecuriosityoftheyoungladies,whocrowdedroundlittleGiry,begginghertoexplainherself.Theywerethere,sidebyside,

leaning forward simultaneously in one movement of entreaty and fear,communicating their terror tooneanother, takingakeenpleasure in feelingtheirbloodfreezeintheirveins.

“Isworenottotell!”gaspedMeg.

But they left her no peace and promised to keep the secret, untilMeg,burningtosayallsheknew,began,withhereyesfixedonthedoor:

“Well,it’sbecauseoftheprivatebox.”

“Whatprivatebox?”

“Theghost’sbox!”

“Hastheghostabox?Oh,dotellus,dotellus!”

“Notsoloud!”saidMeg.“It’sBoxFive,youknow,theboxonthegrandtier,nexttothestage-box,ontheleft.”

“Oh,nonsense!”

“I tellyou it is.Motherhaschargeof it.Butyouswearyouwon’tsayaword?”

“Ofcourse,ofcourse.”

“Well, that’s theghost’sbox.Noonehashaditforoveramonth,excepttheghost,andordershavebeengivenatthebox-officethatitmustneverbesold.”

“Anddoestheghostreallycomethere?”

“Yes.”

“Thensomebodydoescome?”

“Why,no!Theghostcomes,butthereisnobodythere.”

Thelittleballet-girlsexchangedglances.Iftheghostcametothebox,hemustbeseen,becauseheworeadress-coatandadeath’shead.ThiswaswhattheytriedtomakeMegunderstand,butshereplied:

“That’s just it! The ghost is not seen.And he has no dress-coat and nohead!All that talk about his death’s head and his head of fire is nonsense!There’snothing in it.Youonlyhearhimwhenhe is in thebox.Motherhasneverseenhim,butshehasheardhim.Motherknows,becauseshegiveshimhisprogram.”

Sorelliinterfered.

“Giry,child,you’regettingatus!”

ThereuponlittleGirybegantocry.

“Ioughttohaveheldmytongue—ifmotherevercametoknow!ButIwasquiteright,JosephBuquethadnobusinesstotalkofthingsthatdon’tconcernhim—itwillbringhimbadluck—motherwassayingsolastnight——”

Therewas a sound of hurried and heavy footsteps in the passage and abreathlessvoicecried:

“Cecile!Cecile!Areyouthere?”

“It’smother’svoice,”saidJammes.“What’sthematter?”

Sheopenedthedoor.Arespectablelady,builtonthelinesofaPomeraniangrenadier, burst into the dressing-room and dropped groaning into a vacantarm-chair.Hereyesrolledmadlyinherbrick-dustcoloredface.

“Howawful!”shesaid.“Howawful!”

“What?What?”

“JosephBuquet!”

“Whatabouthim?”

“JosephBuquetisdead!”

Theroombecamefilledwithexclamations,withastonishedoutcries,withscaredrequestsforexplanations.

“Yes,hewasfoundhanginginthethird-floorcellar!”

“It’stheghost!”littleGiryblurted,asthoughinspiteofherself;butsheatonce corrected herself, with her hands pressed to her mouth: “No, no!—I,didn’tsayit!—Ididn’tsayit!——”

All around her, her panic-stricken companions repeated under theirbreaths:

“Yes—itmustbetheghost!”

Sorelliwasverypale.

“Ishallneverbeabletorecitemyspeech,”shesaid.

Ma Jammes gave her opinion,while she emptied a glass of liqueur thathappenedtobestandingonatable;theghostmusthavesomethingtodowithit.

ThetruthisthatnooneeverknewhowJosephBuquetmethisdeath.Theverdictat the inquestwas“naturalsuicide.”InhisMemoirsofManager,M.Moncharmin,oneof the jointmanagerswhosucceededMM.Debienneand

Poligny,describestheincidentasfollows:

“A grievous accident spoiled the little party which MM. Debienne andPolignygavetocelebratetheirretirement.Iwasinthemanager’soffice,whenMercier,theacting-manager,suddenlycamedartingin.Heseemedhalfmadand toldme that thebodyof a scene-shifterhadbeen foundhanging in thethirdcellarunderthestage,betweenafarm-houseandascenefromtheRoideLahore.Ishouted:

“‘Comeandcuthimdown!’

“By the timeIhad rusheddown thestaircaseand theJacob’s ladder, themanwasnolongerhangingfromhisrope!”

SothisisaneventwhichM.Moncharminthinksnatural.Amanhangsattheendofarope;theygotocuthimdown;theropehasdisappeared.Oh,M.Moncharminfoundaverysimpleexplanation!Listentohim:

“Itwas justafter theballet;and leadersanddancing-girls lostno timeintakingtheirprecautionsagainsttheevileye.”

Thereyouare!PicturethecorpsdeballetscuttlingdowntheJacob’sladderanddividingthesuicide’sropeamongthemselvesinlesstimethanittakestowrite!When,ontheotherhand,Ithinkoftheexactspotwherethebodywasdiscovered—the third cellar underneath the stage!—imagine thatSOMEBODYmusthavebeen interested inseeing that the ropedisappearedafterithadeffecteditspurpose;andtimewillshowifIamwrong.

ThehorridnewssoonspreadallovertheOpera,whereJosephBuquetwasvery popular. The dressing-rooms emptied and the ballet-girls, crowdingaroundSorelliliketimidsheeparoundtheirshepherdess,madeforthefoyerthrough the ill-lit passages and staircases, trotting as fast as their little pinklegscouldcarrythem.

[1]Ihavetheanecdote,whichisquiteauthentic,fromM.PedroGailhardhimself,thelatemanageroftheOpera.

ChapterIITheNewMargarita

On the first landing, Sorelli ran against theComte deChagny,whowascoming up-stairs. The count, who was generally so calm, seemed greatly

excited.

“Iwasjustgoingtoyou,”hesaid,takingoffhishat.“Oh,Sorelli,whatanevening!AndChristineDaae:whatatriumph!”

“Impossible!” saidMeg Giry. “Six months ago, she used to sing like aCROCK! But do let us get by, my dear count,” continues the brat, with asaucy curtsey. “We are going to inquire after a poor man who was foundhangingbytheneck.”

Justthentheacting-managercamefussingpastandstoppedwhenheheardthisremark.

“What!” he exclaimed roughly. “Have you girls heard already? Well,please forget about it for tonight—andabovealldon’t letM.DebienneandM.Polignyhear;itwouldupsetthemtoomuchontheirlastday.”

They all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full ofpeople.TheComtedeChagnywasright;nogalaperformanceeverequalledthisone.Allthegreatcomposersofthedayhadconductedtheirownworksinturns.FaureandKrausshadsung;and,on thatevening,ChristineDaaehadrevealed her true self, for the first time, to the astonished and enthusiasticaudience.GounodhadconductedtheFuneralMarchofaMarionnette;Reyer,his beautiful overture to Siguar; Saint Saens, the Danse Macabre and aReverieOrientale;Massenet,anunpublishedHungarianmarch;Guiraud,hisCarnaval; Delibes, the Valse Lente from Sylvia and the Pizzicati fromCoppelia.Mlle.KrausshadsungthebolerointheVespriSiciliani;andMlle.DeniseBlochthedrinkingsonginLucreziaBorgia.

Butthereal triumphwasreservedforChristineDaae,whohadbegunbysingingafewpassagesfromRomeoandJuliet.Itwasthefirst timethat theyoungartistsanginthisworkofGounod,whichhadnotbeentransferredtothe Opera and which was revived at the Opera Comique after it had beenproducedattheoldTheatreLyriquebyMme.Carvalho.Thosewhoheardhersaythathervoice,inthesepassages,wasseraphic;butthiswasnothingtothesuperhumannotesthatshegaveforthintheprisonsceneandthefinaltrioinFAUST,whichshesangintheplaceofLaCarlotta,whowasill.Noonehadeverheardorseenanythinglikeit.

Daae revealed a newMargarita that night, aMargarita of a splendor, aradiancehithertounsuspected.Thewholehousewentmad,risingtoitsfeet,shouting,cheering,clapping,whileChristinesobbedandfaintedinthearmsof her fellow-singers and had to be carried to her dressing-room. A fewsubscribers,however,protested.Whyhadsogreatatreasurebeenkeptfromthem all that time? Till then, Christine Daae had played a good Siebel toCarlotta’s rather too splendidly material Margarita. And it had needed

Carlotta’sincomprehensibleandinexcusableabsencefromthisgalanightforthelittleDaae,atamoment’swarning,toshowallthatshecoulddoinapartof the program reserved for the Spanish diva! Well, what the subscriberswantedtoknowwas,whyhadDebienneandPolignyappliedtoDaae,whenCarlotta was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if theyknewof it,whyhad theykept it hidden?Andwhyhad shekept it hidden?Oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at thatmoment.Shehadoften said shemeant topractise alone for the future.Thewholethingwasamystery.

TheComtedeChagny, standingup inhisbox, listened toall this frenzyand tookpart in itby loudlyapplauding.PhilippeGeorgesMarieComtedeChagnywasjustforty-oneyearsofage.Hewasagreataristocratandagood-lookingman,abovemiddleheightandwithattractivefeatures,inspiteofhishard forehead and his rather cold eyes. He was exquisitely polite to thewomenanda littlehaughty to themen,whodidnotalwaysforgivehimforhis successes in society. He had an excellent heart and an irreproachableconscience.OnthedeathofoldCountPhilibert,hebecametheheadofoneoftheoldestandmostdistinguishedfamiliesinFrance,whosearmsdatedbacktothefourteenthcentury.TheChagnysownedagreatdealofproperty;and,whentheoldcount,whowasawidower,died,itwasnoeasytaskforPhilippeto accept the management of so large an estate. His two sisters and hisbrother,Raoul,wouldnothearofadivisionandwaived theirclaim to theirshares,leavingthemselvesentirelyinPhilippe’shands,asthoughtherightofprimogeniturehadneverceasedtoexist.Whenthetwosistersmarried,onthesame day, they received their portion from their brother, not as a thingrightfullybelongingtothem,butasadowryforwhichtheythankedhim.

TheComtessedeChagny,needeMoerogisdeLaMartyniere,haddiedingivingbirth toRaoul,whowasborntwentyyearsafterhiselderbrother.Atthe time of the old count’s death, Raoulwas twelve years of age. Philippebusied himself actively with the youngster’s education. He was admirablyassisted in this work first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, thewidowofanavalofficer,wholivedatBrestandgaveyoungRaoulatasteforthe sea. The lad entered the Borda training-ship, finished his course withhonors and quietly made his trip round the world. Thanks to powerfulinfluence,hehadjustbeenappointedamemberoftheofficialexpeditiononboardtheRequin,whichwastobesenttotheArcticCircleinsearchofthesurvivors of theD’Artoi’s expedition, ofwhomnothinghadbeenheard forthreeyears.Meanwhile,hewasenjoyingalongfurloughwhichwouldnotbeoverforsixmonths;andalreadythedowagersoftheFaubourgSaint-Germainwerepityingthehandsomeandapparentlydelicatestriplingforthehardworkinstoreforhim.

The shyness of the sailor-lad—Iwas almost saying his innocence—wasremarkable.Heseemedtohavebutjustleftthewomen’sapron-strings.Asamatter of fact, petted as hewasbyhis two sisters andhis old aunt, hehadretainedfromthispurelyfeminineeducationmannersthatwerealmostcandidandstampedwithacharmthatnothinghadyetbeenabletosully.Hewasalittleovertwenty-oneyearsofageandlookedeighteen.Hehadasmall,fairmustache,beautifulblueeyesandacomplexionlikeagirl’s.

Philippe spoiled Raoul. To begin with, he was very proud of him andpleasedtoforeseeagloriouscareerforhisjuniorinthenavyinwhichoneoftheir ancestors, the famous Chagny de La Roche, had held the rank ofadmiral.Hetookadvantageoftheyoungman’sleaveofabsencetoshowhimParis,withallitsluxuriousandartisticdelights.Thecountconsideredthat,atRaoul’sage, it isnotgood tobe toogood.Philippehimselfhadacharacterthatwas verywell-balanced inwork and pleasure alike; his demeanorwasalwaysfaultless;andhewasincapableofsettinghisbrotherabadexample.Hetookhimwithhimwhereverhewent.Heevenintroducedhimtothefoyeroftheballet.Iknowthatthecountwassaidtobe“onterms”withSorelli.Butit could hardly be reckoned as a crime for this nobleman, a bachelor,withplentyofleisure,especiallysincehissistersweresettled,tocomeandspendanhouror twoafterdinnerinthecompanyofadancer,who, thoughnotsovery,verywitty,hadthefinesteyesthateverwereseen!And,besides,thereare places where a true Parisian, when he has the rank of the Comte deChagny,isboundtoshowhimself;andatthattimethefoyeroftheballetattheOperawasoneofthoseplaces.

Lastly, Philippe would perhaps not have taken his brother behind thescenes of theOpera if Raoul had not been the first to ask him, repeatedlyrenewinghisrequestwithagentleobstinacywhichthecountrememberedatalaterdate.

Onthatevening,Philippe,afterapplaudingtheDaae,turnedtoRaoulandsawthathewasquitepale.

“Don’tyousee,”saidRaoul,“thatthewoman’sfainting?”

“Youlooklikefaintingyourself,”saidthecount.“What’sthematter?”

ButRaoulhadrecoveredhimselfandwasstandingup.

“Let’sgoandsee,”hesaid,“sheneversanglikethatbefore.”

The count gave his brother a curious smiling glance and seemed quitepleased. They were soon at the door leading from the house to the stage.Numbersofsubscriberswereslowlymakingtheirwaythrough.RaoultorehisgloveswithoutknowingwhathewasdoingandPhilippehadmuchtookinda

heart to laughathimforhis impatience.ButhenowunderstoodwhyRaoulwas absent-mindedwhen spoken to andwhy he always tried to turn everyconversationtothesubjectoftheOpera.

Theyreachedthestageandpushedthroughthecrowdofgentlemen,scene-shifters,supersandchorus-girls,Raoulleadingtheway,feelingthathisheartno longer belonged to him, his face setwith passion,whileCountPhilippefollowedhimwithdifficultyandcontinuedtosmile.Atthebackofthestage,Raoul had to stop before the inrush of the little troop of ballet-girls whoblocked the passagewhich hewas trying to enter.More than one chaffingphrasedartedfromlittlemade-uplips,towhichhedidnotreply;andatlasthewas able topass, anddived into the semi-darknessof a corridor ringingwiththenameof“Daae!Daae!”ThecountwassurprisedtofindthatRaoulknewtheway.HehadnevertakenhimtoChristine’shimselfandcametotheconclusion that Raoul must have gone there alone while the count stayedtalkinginthefoyerwithSorelli,whooftenaskedhimtowaituntilitwashertimeto“goon”andsometimeshandedhimthelittlegaitersinwhichsherandown from her dressing-room to preserve the spotlessness of her satindancing-shoesandherflesh-coloredtights.Sorellihadanexcuse;shehadlosthermother.

PostponinghisusualvisittoSorelliforafewminutes,thecountfollowedhisbrotherdownthepassagethatledtoDaae’sdressing-roomandsawthatithadneverbeensocrammedasonthatevening,whenthewholehouseseemedexcitedbyher success and also byher fainting fit. For the girl hadnot yetcome to;and thedoctorof the theaterhad justarrivedat themomentwhenRaoul entered at his heels.Christine, therefore, received the first aid of theone,while opening her eyes in the arms of the other. The count andmanymoreremainedcrowdinginthedoorway.

“Don’tyouthink,Doctor,thatthosegentlemenhadbettercleartheroom?”askedRaoulcoolly.“There’snobreathinghere.”

“You’requiteright,”saidthedoctor.

Andhe sent everyoneaway, exceptRaoul and themaid,who lookedatRaoulwith eyes of themost undisguised astonishment. Shehadnever seenhimbeforeandyetdarednotquestionhim;andthedoctorimaginedthattheyoung man was only acting as he did because he had the right to. Theviscount, therefore, remained in the roomwatchingChristine as she slowlyreturned to life,while even the jointmanagers,Debienne andPoligny,whohad come to offer their sympathy and congratulations, found themselvesthrust into thepassageamongthecrowdofdandies.TheComtedeChagny,whowasoneofthosestandingoutside,laughed:

“Oh, the rogue, the rogue!” And he added, under his breath: “Thoseyoungsterswiththeirschool-girlairs!Sohe’saChagnyafterall!”

He turned togo toSorelli’sdressing-room,butmetheron theway,withherlittletroopoftremblingballet-girls,aswehaveseen.

Meanwhile,ChristineDaaeutteredadeepsigh,whichwasansweredbyagroan.Sheturnedherhead,sawRaoulandstarted.Shelookedatthedoctor,onwhomshebestowedasmile,thenathermaid,thenatRaoulagain.

“Monsieur,” she said, in a voice not much above a whisper, “who areyou?”

“Mademoiselle,” replied the young man, kneeling on one knee andpressingaferventkissonthediva’shand,“IAMTHELITTLEBOYWHOWENTINTOTHESEATORESCUEYOURSCARF.”

Christineagain lookedat thedoctorand themaid;andall threebegan tolaugh.

Raoulturnedveryredandstoodup.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “since you are pleased not to recognizeme, Ishouldliketosaysomethingtoyouinprivate,somethingveryimportant.”

“WhenIambetter,doyoumind?”Andhervoiceshook.“Youhavebeenverygood.”

“Yes,youmustgo,”saidthedoctor,withhispleasantestsmile.“Leavemetoattendtomademoiselle.”

“Iamnot illnow,”saidChristinesuddenly,withstrangeandunexpectedenergy.

Sheroseandpassedherhandoverhereyelids.

“Thankyou,Doctor.Ishouldliketobealone.Pleasegoaway,allofyou.Leaveme.Ifeelveryrestlessthisevening.”

Thedoctortriedtomakeashortprotest,but,perceivingthegirl’sevidentagitation, he thought the best remedy was not to thwart her. And he wentaway,sayingtoRaoul,outside:

“Sheisnotherselfto-night.Sheisusuallysogentle.”

ThenhesaidgoodnightandRaoulwasleftalone.Thewholeofthispartofthetheaterwasnowdeserted.Thefarewellceremonywasnodoubttakingplaceinthefoyeroftheballet.RaoulthoughtthatDaaemightgotoitandhewaitedinthesilentsolitude,evenhidinginthefavoringshadowofadoorway.Hefeltaterriblepainathisheartanditwasofthisthathewantedtospeakto

Daaewithoutdelay.

Suddenly the dressing-room door opened and the maid came out byherself, carrying bundles.He stopped her and asked how hermistresswas.Thewoman laughed and said that shewas quitewell, but that hemust notdisturbher,forshewishedtobeleftalone.Andshepassedon.Oneideaalonefilled Raoul’s burning brain: of course, Daae wished to be left alone FORHIM!Hadhenottoldherthathewantedtospeaktoherprivately?

Hardlybreathing,hewentuptothedressing-roomand,withhiseartothedoor to catch her reply, prepared to knock. But his hand dropped. He hadheard A MAN’S VOICE in the dressing-room, saying, in a curiouslymasterfultone:

“Christine,youmustloveme!”

And Christine’s voice, infinitely sad and trembling, as thoughaccompaniedbytears,replied:

“Howcanyoutalklikethat?WHENISINGONLYFORYOU!”

Raoul leaned against the panel to ease his pain. His heart, which hadseemedgone for ever, returned tohisbreast andwas throbbing loudly.Thewhole passage echoed with its beating and Raoul’s ears were deafened.Surely,ifhisheartcontinuedtomakesuchanoise,theywouldhearitinside,they would open the door and the young man would be turned away indisgrace.WhatapositionforaChagny!Tobecaughtlisteningbehindadoor!Hetookhisheartinhistwohandstomakeitstop.

Theman’svoicespokeagain:“Areyouverytired?”

“Oh,to-nightIgaveyoumysoulandIamdead!”Christinereplied.

“Yoursoulisabeautifulthing,child,”repliedthegraveman’svoice,“andIthankyou.Noemperoreverreceivedsofairagift.THEANGELSWEPTTONIGHT.”

Raoulheardnothingafter that.Nevertheless,hedidnotgoaway,but,asthough he feared lest he should be caught, he returned to his dark corner,determinedtowaitforthemantoleavetheroom.Atoneandthesametime,he had learned what love meant, and hatred. He knew that he loved. Hewantedtoknowwhomhehated.Tohisgreatastonishment,thedooropenedandChristineDaaeappeared,wrappedinfurs,withherfacehiddeninalaceveil,alone.Sheclosedthedoorbehindher,butRaoulobservedthatshedidnotlockit.Shepassedhim.Hedidnotevenfollowherwithhiseyes,forhiseyeswerefixedonthedoor,whichdidnotopenagain.

Whenthepassagewasoncemoredeserted,hecrossedit,openedthedoor

ofthedressing-room,wentinandshutthedoor.Hefoundhimselfinabsolutedarkness.Thegashadbeenturnedout.

“There is some one here!” said Raoul, with his back against the closeddoor,inaquiveringvoice.“Whatareyouhidingfor?”

All was darkness and silence. Raoul heard only the sound of his ownbreathing. He quite failed to see that the indiscretion of his conduct wasexceedingallbounds.

“Youshan’tleavethisuntilIletyou!”heexclaimed.“Ifyoudon’tanswer,youareacoward!ButI’llexposeyou!”

Andhestruckamatch.Theblazelituptheroom.Therewasnooneintheroom!Raoul,firstturningthekeyinthedoor,litthegas-jets.Hewentintothedressing-closet, opened the cupboards, hunted about, felt thewallswith hismoisthands.Nothing!

“Lookhere!”hesaid,aloud.“AmIgoingmad?”

Hestoodfor tenminutes listening to thegas flaring in thesilenceof theemptyroom;loverthoughhewas,hedidnoteventhinkofstealingaribbonthatwouldhavegivenhimtheperfumeofthewomanheloved.Hewentout,notknowingwhathewasdoingnorwherehewasgoing.Atagivenmomentinhiswaywardprogress,anicydraftstruckhimintheface.Hefoundhimselfat the bottom of a staircase, down which, behind him, a procession ofworkmenwerecarryingasortofstretcher,coveredwithawhitesheet.

“Whichisthewayout,please?”heaskedofoneofthemen.

“Straightinfrontofyou,thedoorisopen.Butletuspass.”

Pointingtothestretcher,heaskedmechanically:“What’sthat?”

Theworkmenanswered:

“‘That’ is Joseph Buquet, who was found in the third cellar, hangingbetweenafarm-houseandascenefromtheROIDELAHORE.”

He tookoffhishat, fellback tomake roomfor theprocessionandwentout.

ChapterIIITheMysteriousReason

Duringthis time, thefarewellceremonywastakingplace.Ihavealready

said that thismagnificent functionwas being given on the occasion of theretirement of M. Debienne and M. Poligny, who had determined to “diegame,”aswesaynowadays.Theyhadbeenassistedintherealizationoftheirideal, though melancholy, program by all that counted in the social andartistic world of Paris. All these people met, after the performance, in thefoyer of the ballet, where Sorelli waited for the arrival of the retiringmanagerswithaglassofchampagneinherhandandalittlepreparedspeechat the tip of her tongue. Behind her, the members of the Corps de Ballet,young and old, discussed the events of the day in whispers or exchangeddiscreet signals with their friends, a noisy crowd of whom surrounded thesupper-tablesarrangedalongtheslantingfloor.

Afewofthedancershadalreadychangedintoordinarydress;butmostofthem wore their skirts of gossamer gauze; and all had thought it the rightthing to put on a special face for the occasion: all, that is, except littleJammes, whose fifteen summers—happy age!—seemed already to haveforgottentheghostandthedeathofJosephBuquet.Sheneverceasedtolaughandchatter, tohopabout andplaypractical jokes, untilMm.Debienne andPolignyappearedonthestepsof thefoyer,whenshewasseverelycalledtoorderbytheimpatientSorelli.

Everybodyremarkedthat theretiringmanagers lookedcheerful,as is theParisway.Nonewill everbea trueParisianwhohasnot learned towearamaskofgaietyoverhissorrowsandoneofsadness,boredomorindifferenceoverhisinwardjoy.Youknowthatoneofyourfriendsisintrouble;donottrytoconsolehim:hewill tellyouthathe isalreadycomforted;but,shouldhehavemetwithgoodfortune,becarefulhowyoucongratulatehim:hethinksitsonaturalthatheissurprisedthatyoushouldspeakofit.InParis,ourlivesareonemaskedball;andthefoyeroftheballetisthelastplaceinwhichtwomen so “knowing” asM. Debienne andM. Poligny would have made themistakeofbetrayingtheirgrief,howevergenuineitmightbe.AndtheywerealreadysmilingrathertoobroadlyuponSorelli,whohadbeguntoreciteherspeech,whenanexclamationfromthatlittlemadcapofaJammesbrokethesmileof themanagerssobrutally that theexpressionofdistressanddismaythatlaybeneathitbecameapparenttoalleyes:

“TheOperaghost!”

Jammesyelledthesewordsinatoneofunspeakableterror;andherfingerpointed,amongthecrowdofdandies,toafacesopallid,solugubriousandsougly,with two suchdeepblackcavitiesunder the straddlingeyebrows, thatthedeath’sheadinquestionimmediatelyscoredahugesuccess.

“TheOperaghost!TheOperaghost!”Everybodylaughedandpushedhisneighborandwanted tooffer theOperaghostadrink,buthewasgone.He

hadslipped through thecrowd;and theothersvainlyhunted forhim,whiletwo old gentlemen tried to calm little Jammes and while little Giry stoodscreaminglikeapeacock.

Sorelli was furious; she had not been able to finish her speech; themanagers, had kissed her, thanked her and run away as fast as the ghosthimself.Noonewassurprisedatthis,foritwasknownthattheyweretogothroughthesameceremonyonthefloorabove,inthefoyerofthesingers,andthatfinallytheywerethemselvestoreceivetheirpersonalfriends,forthelasttime,inthegreatlobbyoutsidethemanagers’office,wherearegularsupperwouldbeserved.

Here they found the new managers, M. Armand Moncharmin and M.FirminRichard,whom they hardly knew; nevertheless, theywere lavish inprotestationsoffriendshipandreceivedathousandflatteringcomplimentsinreply,sothatthoseoftheguestswhohadfearedthattheyhadarathertediouseveninginstoreforthematonceputonbrighterfaces.Thesupperwasalmostgayandaparticularlycleverspeechoftherepresentativeofthegovernment,mingling thegloriesof thepastwith thesuccessesof the future,caused thegreatestcordialitytoprevail.

Theretiringmanagershadalreadyhandedovertotheirsuccessorsthetwotiny master-keys which opened all the doors—thousands of doors—of theOperahouse.Andthoselittlekeys,theobjectofgeneralcuriosity,werebeingpassed from hand to hand, when the attention of some of the guests wasdivertedby theirdiscovery,at theendof the table,of thatstrange,wanandfantasticface,withtheholloweyes,whichhadalreadyappearedinthefoyeroftheballetandbeengreetedbylittleJammes’exclamation:

“TheOperaghost!”

Theresat theghost,asnaturalascouldbe,except thatheneitheratenordrank. Thosewho began by looking at himwith a smile ended by turningaway their heads, for the sight of him at once provoked themost funerealthoughts.Noonerepeatedthejokeofthefoyer,nooneexclaimed:

“There’stheOperaghost!”

Hehimself didnot speak aword andhis veryneighbors couldnot havestatedatwhatprecisemomenthehadsatdownbetweenthem;buteveryonefeltthatifthedeaddidevercomeandsitatthetableoftheliving,theycouldnot cut a more ghastly figure. The friends of Firmin Richard and ArmandMoncharminthought that this leanandskinnyguestwasanacquaintanceofDebienne’sorPoligny’s,whileDebienne’sandPoligny’sfriendsbelievedthatthe cadaverous individual belonged to Firmin Richard and ArmandMoncharmin’sparty.

Theresultwasthatnorequestwasmadeforanexplanation;nounpleasantremark;nojokeinbadtaste,whichmighthaveoffendedthisvisitorfromthetomb. A few of those present who knew the story of the ghost and thedescription of him given by the chief scene-shifter—they did not know ofJosephBuquet’sdeath—thought,intheirownminds,thatthemanattheendofthetablemighteasilyhavepassedforhim;andyet,accordingtothestory,theghosthadnonoseand theperson inquestionhad.ButM.Moncharmindeclares, in hisMemoirs, that the guest’s nosewas transparent: “long, thinandtransparent”arehisexactwords.I,formypart,willaddthatthismightvery well apply to a false nose. M. Moncharmin may have taken fortransparency what was only shininess. Everybody knows that orthopaedicscience provides beautiful false noses for those who have lost their nosesnaturallyorastheresultofanoperation.

Did theghost really take a seat at themanagers’ supper-table that night,uninvited?And canwe be sure that the figurewas that of theOpera ghosthimself?Whowouldventure toassertasmuch? Imention the incident,notbecause Iwish for a second tomake the reader believe—or even to try tomake him believe—that the ghost was capable of such a sublime piece ofimpudence;butbecause,afterall,thethingisimpossible.

M.ArmandMoncharmin,inchapterelevenofhisMemoirs,says:

“WhenIthinkofthisfirstevening,IcannotseparatethesecretconfidedtousbyMM.DebienneandPolignyintheirofficefromthepresenceatoursupperofthatGHOSTLYpersonwhomnoneofusknew.”

Whathappenedwasthis:Mm.DebienneandPoligny,sittingatthecenterofthetable,hadnotseenthemanwiththedeath’shead.Suddenlyhebegantospeak.

“The ballet-girls are right,” he said. “The death of that poor Buquet isperhapsnotsonaturalaspeoplethink.”

DebienneandPolignygaveastart.

“IsBuquetdead?”theycried.

“Yes,”repliedtheman,or theshadowofaman,quietly.“Hewasfound,this evening, hanging in the third cellar, between a farm-house and a scenefromtheRoideLahore.”

The two managers, or rather ex-managers, at once rose and staredstrangelyat thespeaker.Theyweremoreexcited than theyneedhavebeen,thatistosay,moreexcitedthananyoneneedbebytheannouncementofthesuicide of a chief scene-shifter. They looked at each other. They, had bothturned whiter than the table-cloth. At last, Debienne made a sign to Mm.

Richard andMoncharmin; Poligny muttered a few words of excuse to theguests;andallfourwentintothemanagers’office.IleaveM.Moncharmintocompletethestory.InhisMemoirs,hesays:

“Mm.DebienneandPolignyseemedtogrowmoreandmoreexcited,andtheyappearedtohavesomethingverydifficulttotellus.First,theyaskedusifweknewtheman,sittingattheendofthetable,whohadtoldthemofthedeathofJosephBuquet;and,whenweansweredinthenegative,theylookedstill more concerned. They took the master-keys from our hands, stared atthemforamomentandadvisedustohavenewlocksmade,withthegreatestsecrecy, for the rooms, closets and presses that we might wish to havehermeticallyclosed.TheysaidthissofunnilythatwebegantolaughandtoaskiftherewerethievesattheOpera.Theyrepliedthattherewassomethingworse, whichwas theGHOST.We began to laugh again, feeling sure thatthey were indulging in some joke that was intended to crown our littleentertainment.Then,attheirrequest,webecame‘serious,’resolvingtohumorthem and to enter into the spirit of the game. They told us that they neverwouldhavespokentousoftheghost,iftheyhadnotreceivedformalordersfromtheghosthimselftoaskustobepleasanttohimandtograntanyrequestthathemightmake.However, in their reliefat leavingadomainwhere thattyrannicalshadeheldsway,theyhadhesitateduntilthelastmomenttotellusthis curious story,whichour skepticalmindswerecertainlynotprepared toentertain. But the announcement of the death of JosephBuquet had servedthem as a brutal reminder that, whenever they had disregarded the ghost’swishes,somefantasticordisastrouseventhadbroughtthemtoasenseoftheirdependence.

“Duringtheseunexpectedutterancesmadeinatoneofthemostsecretandimportantconfidence, I lookedatRichard.Richard, inhisstudentdays,hadacquiredagreat reputation forpractical joking, andhe seemed to relish thedishwhichwasbeingserveduptohiminhisturn.Hedidnotmissamorselof it, though the seasoning was a little gruesome because of the death ofBuquet.Henoddedhis head sadly,while theothers spoke, andhis featuresassumedtheairofamanwhobitterlyregrettedhavingtakenovertheOpera,now that he knew that therewas a ghostmixedup in the business. I couldthinkofnothingbetterthantogivehimaservileimitationofthisattitudeofdespair.However,inspiteofallourefforts,wecouldnot,atthefinish,helpburstingoutlaughinginthefacesofMM.DebienneandPoligny,who,seeinguspassstraightfromthegloomieststateofmindtooneofthemostinsolentmerriment,actedasthoughtheythoughtthatwehadgonemad.

“The joke became a little tedious; and Richard asked half-seriously andhalfinjest:

“‘But,afterall,whatdoesthisghostofyourswant?’

“M. Poligny went to his desk and returned with a copy of thememorandum-book. The memorandum-book begins with the well-knownwords saying that ‘the management of the Opera shall give to theperformanceoftheNationalAcademyofMusicthesplendorthatbecomesthefirst lyric stage in France’ and ends with Clause 98, which says that theprivilegecanbewithdrawnifthemanagerinfringestheconditionsstipulatedinthememorandum-book.Thisisfollowedbytheconditions,whicharefourinnumber.

“ThecopyproducedbyM.Polignywaswritten inblack inkandexactlysimilar to that in our possession, except that, at the end, it contained aparagraph in red ink and in a queer, labored handwriting, as though it hadbeenproducedbydippingtheheadsofmatchesintotheink,thewritingofachildthathasnevergotbeyondthedown-strokesandhasnotlearnedtojoinitsletters.Thisparagraphran,wordforword,asfollows:

“‘5.Orif themanager, inanymonth,delayformorethanafortnightthepayment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera ghost, anallowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and fortythousandfrancsayear.’

“M.Polignypointedwithahesitatingfingertothislastclause,whichwecertainlydidnotexpect.

“‘Is this all? Does he not want anything else?’ asked Richard, with thegreatestcoolness.

“‘Yes,hedoes,’repliedPoligny.

“Andheturnedoverthepagesofthememorandum-bookuntilhecametothe clause specifying the days on which certain private boxes were to bereservedforthefreeuseofthepresidentoftherepublic,theministersandsoon.Attheendofthisclause,alinehadbeenadded,alsoinredink:

“‘BoxFiveon thegrand tiershallbeplacedat thedisposalof theOperaghostforeveryperformance.’

“Whenwesawthis,therewasnothingelseforustodobuttorisefromourchairs,shakeourtwopredecessorswarmlybythehandandcongratulatethemon thinking of this charming little joke, which proved that the old Frenchsense of humorwas never likely to become extinct. Richard added that henow understood why MM. Debienne and Poligny were retiring from themanagement of the National Academy ofMusic. Business was impossiblewithsounreasonableaghost.

“‘Certainly, twohundredand forty thousand francs arenotbepickedupfortheasking,’saidM.Poligny,withoutmovingamuscleofhisface.‘AndhaveyouconsideredwhatthelossoverBoxFivemeanttous?Wedidnotsellit once; and not only that, but we had to return the subscription: why, it’sawful!Wereallycan’tworktokeepghosts!Weprefertogoaway!’

“‘Yes,’echoedM.Debienne,‘weprefertogoaway.Letusgo.’”

“Andhestoodup.Richardsaid:‘But,afterallall,itseemstomethatyouweremuchtookindtotheghost.IfIhadsuchatroublesomeghostasthat,Ishouldnothesitatetohavehimarrested.’

“‘Buthow?Where?’theycried,inchorus.‘Wehaveneverseenhim!’

“‘Butwhenhecomestohisbox?’

“‘WEHAVENEVERSEENHIMINHISBOX.’

“‘Thensellit.’

“‘SelltheOperaghost’sbox!Well,gentlemen,tryit.’

“Thereuponweallfourlefttheoffice.RichardandIhad‘neverlaughedsomuchinourlives.’”

ChapterIVBoxFive

ArmandMoncharminwrote such voluminousMemoirs during the fairlylongperiodofhisco-managementthatwemaywellaskifheeverfoundtimetoattend to theaffairsof theOperaotherwise thanby tellingwhatwentonthere. M. Moncharmin did not know a note of music, but he called theministerofeducationandfineartsbyhisChristianname,haddabbledalittlein society journalismand enjoyed a considerable private income.Lastly, hewas a charming fellow and showed that hewas not lacking in intelligence,for,assoonashemadeuphismindtobeasleepingpartnerintheOpera,heselectedthebestpossibleactivemanagerandwentstraighttoFirminRichard.

FirminRichardwasaverydistinguishedcomposer,whohadpublishedanumberofsuccessfulpiecesofallkindsandwholikednearlyeveryformofmusicandeverysortofmusician.Clearly,therefore,itwasthedutyofeverysortofmusiciantolikeM.FirminRichard.Theonlythingstobesaidagainsthimwerethathewasrathermasterfulinhiswaysandendowedwithaveryhastytemper.

ThefirstfewdayswhichthepartnersspentattheOperaweregivenovertothe delight of finding themselves the head of somagnificent an enterprise;and they had forgotten all about that curious, fantastic story of the ghost,whenanincidentoccurredthatprovedtothemthatthejoke—ifjokeitwere—wasnotover.M.FirminRichardreachedhisofficethatmorningateleveno’clock.His secretary,M.Remy, showedhimhalf adozen letterswhichhehadnotopenedbecausetheyweremarked“private.”Oneofthelettershadatonce attracted Richard’s attention not only because the envelope wasaddressedinredink,butbecauseheseemedtohaveseenthewritingbefore.He soon remembered that it was the red handwriting in which thememorandum-book had been so curiously completed. He recognized theclumsychildishhand.Heopenedtheletterandread:

DEARMR.MANAGER:

Iamsorrytohavetotroubleyouatatimewhenyoumustbesoverybusy,renewingimportantengagements,signingfreshonesandgenerallydisplayingyourexcellenttaste.IknowwhatyouhavedoneforCarlotta,SorelliandlittleJammes and for a few otherswhose admirable qualities of talent or geniusyouhavesuspected.

Of course,when I use thesewords, I do notmean to apply them to LaCarlotta,whosingslikeasquirtandwhooughtnevertohavebeenallowedtoleave theAmbassadeurs and theCafe Jacquin;nor toLaSorelli,whoowes

her successmainly to the coach-builders; nor to little Jammes,who danceslikeacalfinafield.AndIamnotspeakingofChristineDaaeeither,thoughhergenius is certain,whereasyour jealousyprevents her fromcreating anyimportantpart.Whenallissaid,youarefreetoconductyourlittlebusinessasyouthinkbest,areyounot?

Allthesame,IshouldliketotakeadvantageofthefactthatyouhavenotyetturnedChristineDaaeoutofdoorsbyhearingherthiseveninginthepartofSiebel,asthatofMargaritahasbeenforbiddenhersincehertriumphoftheotherevening;andIwillaskyounottodisposeofmyboxto-daynorontheFOLLOWINGDAYS, for I can not end this letterwithout telling youhowdisagreeablysurprisedIhavebeenonceor twice, tohear,onarrivingat theOpera,thatmyboxhadbeensold,atthebox-office,byyourorders.

I did not protest, first, because I dislike scandal, and, second, because Ithoughtthatyourpredecessors,MM.DebienneandPoligny,whowerealwayscharming tome,hadneglected, before leaving, tomentionmy little fads toyou.Ihavenowreceivedareplyfromthosegentlementomyletteraskingforan explanation, and this reply proves that you know all about myMemorandum-Book and, consequently, that you are treating me withoutrageous contempt. IF YOUWISH TO LIVE IN PEACE, YOUMUSTNOTBEGINBYTAKINGAWAYMYPRIVATEBOX.

Believe me to be, dear Mr. Manager, without prejudice to these littleobservations,

YourMostHumbleandObedientServant,OPERAGHOST.

The letter was accompanied by a cutting from the agony-column of theRevueTheatrale,whichran:

O. G.—There is no excuse for R. and M. We told them and left yourmemorandum-bookintheirhands.Kindregards.

M.FirminRichardhadhardlyfinishedreadingthisletterwhenM.ArmandMoncharminentered,carryingoneexactlysimilar.Theylookedateachotherandburstoutlaughing.

“They are keeping up the joke,” said M. Richard, “but I don’t call itfunny.”

“Whatdoes itallmean?”askedM.Moncharmin.“Do they imagine that,becausetheyhavebeenmanagersoftheOpera,wearegoingtoletthemhaveaboxforanindefiniteperiod?”

“I am not in the mood to let myself be laughed at long,” said Firmin

Richard.

“It’sharmless enough,”observedArmandMoncharmin. “What is it theyreallywant?Aboxforto-night?”

M.FirminRichardtoldhissecretarytosendBoxFiveonthegrandtiertoMm.DebienneandPoligny, if itwasnotsold. Itwasnot. Itwassentoff tothem.DebiennelivedatthecorneroftheRueScribeandtheBoulevarddesCapucines;Poligny,intheRueAuber.O.Ghost’stwolettershadbeenpostedat theBoulevard desCapucines post-office, asMoncharmin remarked afterexaminingtheenvelopes.

“Yousee!”saidRichard.

They shrugged their shoulders and regretted that two men of that ageshouldamusethemselveswithsuchchildishtricks.

“Theymight have been civil, for all that!” saidMoncharmin. “Did younoticehowtheytreatuswithregardtoCarlotta,SorelliandLittleJammes?”

“Why,mydearfellow,thesetwoaremadwithjealousy!Tothinkthattheywenttotheexpenseof,anadvertisementintheRevueTheatrale!Havetheynothingbettertodo?”

“Bytheway,”saidMoncharmin,“theyseemtobegreatlyinterestedinthatlittleChristineDaae!”

“YouknowaswellasIdothatshehasthereputationofbeingquitegood,”saidRichard.

“Reputations are easily obtained,” replied Moncharmin. “Haven’t I areputation for knowing all about music? And I don’t know one key fromanother.”

“Don’tbeafraid:youneverhadthatreputation,”Richarddeclared.

Thereupon he ordered the artists to be shown in, who, for the last twohours, had beenwalking up anddownoutside the door behindwhich fameandfortune—ordismissal—awaitedthem.

Thewholedaywasspentindiscussing,negotiating,signingorcancellingcontracts; and the two overworkedmanagerswent to bed early,without somuch as casting a glance atBoxFive to seewhetherM.Debienne andM.Polignywereenjoyingtheperformance.

Nextmorning,themanagersreceivedacardofthanksfromtheghost:

DEAR,MR.MANAGER:

Thanks. Charming evening. Daae exquisite. Choruses want waking up.

Carlotta a splendid commonplace instrument. Will write you soon for the240,000francs,or233,424fr.70c.,tobecorrect.Mm.DebienneandPolignyhave sent me the 6,575 fr. 30 c. representing the first ten days of myallowanceforthecurrentyear;theirprivilegesfinishedontheeveningofthetenthinst.

Kindregards.O.G.

Ontheotherhand,therewasaletterfromMm.DebienneandPoligny:

GENTLEMEN:

We are much obliged for your kind thought of us, but you will easilyunderstand that theprospectofagainhearingFaust,pleasant though it is toex-managersof theOpera, cannotmakeus forget thatwehaveno right tooccupyBoxFiveonthegrandtier,whichistheexclusivepropertyofHIMofwhomwespoke toyouwhenwewent throughthememorandum-bookwithyouforthelasttime.SeeClause98,finalparagraph.

Accept,gentlemen,etc.

“Oh, thosefellowsarebeginningtoannoyme!”shoutedFirminRichard,snatchinguptheletter.

AndthateveningBoxFivewassold.

The next morning, Mm. Richard and Moncharmin, on reaching theiroffice,foundaninspector’sreportrelatingtoanincidentthathadhappened,thenightbefore,inBoxFive.Igivetheessentialpartofthereport:

Iwasobligedtocallinamunicipalguardtwice,thisevening,toclearBoxFiveon thegrand tier, onceat thebeginningandonce in themiddleof thesecondact.Theoccupants,whoarrivedasthecurtainroseonthesecondact,createda regularscandalby their laughterand their ridiculousobservations.There were cries of “Hush!” all around them and the whole house wasbeginningtoprotest,whenthebox-keepercametofetchme.Ienteredtheboxand saidwhat I thoughtnecessary.Thepeopledidnot seem tome tobe intheir rightmind;and theymadestupidremarks. Isaid that, if thenoisewasrepeated,Ishouldbecompelledtoclearthebox.ThemomentIleft,Iheardthe laughing again, with fresh protests from the house. I returned with amunicipalguard,whoturnedthemout.Theyprotested,stilllaughing,sayingtheywould not go unless they had theirmoney back.At last, they becamequiet and I allowed them to enter the box again. The laughter at oncerecommenced;and,thistime,Ihadthemturnedoutdefinitely.

“Send for the inspector,” saidRichard to his secretary,who had alreadyreadthereportandmarkeditwithbluepencil.

M.Remy,thesecretary,hadforeseentheorderandcalledtheinspectoratonce.

“Telluswhathappened,”saidRichardbluntly.

Theinspectorbegantosplutterandreferredtothereport.

“Well,butwhatwerethosepeoplelaughingat?”askedMoncharmin.

“Theymusthavebeendining,sir,andseemedmoreinclinedtolarkaboutthantolistentogoodmusic.Themomenttheyenteredthebox,theycameoutagain and called the box-keeper, who asked themwhat they wanted. Theysaid,‘Lookinthebox:there’snoonethere,isthere?’‘No,’saidthewoman.‘Well,’ said they, ‘when we went in, we heard a voice saying THAT THEBOXWASTAKEN!’”

M.MoncharmincouldnothelpsmilingashelookedatM.Richard;butM.Richarddidnotsmile.Hehimselfhaddonetoomuchinthatwayinhistimenot to recognize, in the inspector’s story, all the marks of one of thosepracticaljokeswhichbeginbyamusingandendbyenragingthevictims.Theinspector, tocurry favorwithM.Moncharmin,whowas smiling, thought itbesttogiveasmiletoo.Amostunfortunatesmile!M.Richardglaredathissubordinate,who thenceforthmade it hisbusiness todisplay a faceofutterconsternation.

“However,whenthepeoplearrived,”roaredRichard,“therewasnooneinthebox,wasthere?”

“Notasoul,sir,notasoul!Norintheboxontheright,norintheboxonthe left: not a soul, sir, I swear! The box-keeper told it me often enough,whichprovesthatitwasallajoke.”

“Oh,youagree,doyou?”saidRichard.“Youagree!It’sajoke!Andyouthinkitfunny,nodoubt?”

“Ithinkitinverybadtaste,sir.”

“Andwhatdidthebox-keepersay?”

“Oh,shejustsaidthatitwastheOperaghost.That’sallshesaid!”

Andtheinspectorgrinned.Buthesoonfoundthathehadmadeamistakeingrinning,forthewordshadnosoonerlefthismouththanM.Richard,fromgloomy,becamefurious.

“Sendfor thebox-keeper!”heshouted.“Sendforher!Thisminute!Thisminute!Andbringherintomehere!Andturnallthosepeopleout!”

Theinspectortriedtoprotest,butRichardclosedhismouthwithanangryordertoholdhistongue.Then,whenthewretchedman’slipsseemedshutfor

ever,themanagercommandedhimtoopenthemoncemore.

“Whoisthis‘Operaghost?’”hesnarled.

But the inspector was by this time incapable of speaking a word. Hemanagedtoconvey,byadespairinggesture,thatheknewnothingaboutit,orratherthathedidnotwishtoknow.

“Haveyoueverseenhim,haveyouseentheOperaghost?”

The inspector, by means of a vigorous shake of the head, denied everhavingseentheghostinquestion.

“Verywell!”saidM.Richardcoldly.

The inspector’s eyes started out of his head, as though to ask why themanagerhadutteredthatominous“Verywell!”

“Because I’m going to settle the account of any one who has not seenhim!” explained themanager. “Ashe seems to be everywhere, I can’t havepeople tellingme that they see him nowhere. I like people towork formewhenIemploythem!”

Having said this, M. Richard paid no attention to the inspector anddiscussed various matters of business with his acting-manager, who hadentered the room meanwhile. The inspector thought he could go and wasgently—oh,sogently!—sidlingtowardthedoor,whenM.Richardnailedthemantothefloorwithathundering:

“Staywhereyouare!”

M.Remyhadsentforthebox-keepertotheRuedeProvence,closetotheOpera,whereshewasengagedasaporteress.Shesoonmadeherappearance.

“What’syourname?”

“Mme.Giry.Youknowmewellenough,sir;I’mthemotheroflittleGiry,littleMeg,what!”

This was said in so rough and solemn a tone that, for a moment, M.Richard was impressed. He looked at Mme. Giry, in her faded shawl, herwornshoes,heroldtaffetadressanddingybonnet.Itwasquiteevidentfromthemanager’s attitude, that he either did not know or could not rememberhavingmetMme.Giry,norevenlittleGiry,noreven“littleMeg!”ButMme.Giry’s pride was so great that the celebrated box-keeper imagined thateverybodyknewher.

“Neverheardofher!”themanagerdeclared.“Butthat’snoreason,Mme.Giry,whyIshouldn’taskyouwhathappenedlastnighttomakeyouandtheinspectorcallinamunicipalguard.”

“Iwas justwanting to seeyou, sir, and talk toyou about it, so that youmightn’thavethesameunpleasantnessasM.DebienneandM.Poligny.Theywouldn’tlistentomeeither,atfirst.”

“I’mnotaskingyouaboutallthat.I’maskingwhathappenedlastnight.”

Mme.Giryturnedpurplewithindignation.Neverhadshebeenspokentolike that. She rose as though to go, gathering up the folds of her skirt andwavingthefeathersofherdingybonnetwithdignity,but,changinghermind,shesatdownagainandsaid,inahaughtyvoice:

“I’lltellyouwhathappened.Theghostwasannoyedagain!”

Thereupon, as M. Richard was on the point of bursting out, M.Moncharmin interferedandconducted the interrogatory,whence it appearedthatMme.Giry thought it quitenatural that avoice shouldbeheard to saythataboxwastaken,whentherewasnobodyinthebox.Shewasunabletoexplain this phenomenon, which was not new to her, except by theintervention of the ghost. Nobody could see the ghost in his box, buteverybodycouldhearhim.Shehadoftenheardhim;andtheycouldbelieveher, for she always spoke the truth. They could ask M. Debienne and M.Poligny,andanybodywhoknewher;andalsoM.IsidoreSaack,whohadhadalegbrokenbytheghost!

“Indeed!” saidMoncharmin, interrupting her. “Did the ghost break poorIsidoreSaack’sleg?”

Mme. Giry opened her eyes with astonishment at such ignorance.However,sheconsentedtoenlightenthosetwopoorinnocents.ThethinghadhappenedinM.DebienneandM.Poligny’s time,also inBoxFiveandalsoduringaperformanceofFAUST.Mme.Girycoughed,clearedherthroat—itsoundedasthoughshewerepreparingtosingthewholeofGounod’sscore—andbegan:

“Itwaslikethis,sir.Thatnight,M.Manieraandhislady,thejewelersintheRueMogador,weresittinginthefrontofthebox,withtheirgreatfriend,M. Isidore Saack, sitting behind Mme. Maniera. Mephistopheles wassinging”—Mme. Giry here burst into song herself—“‘Catarina, while youplayatsleeping,’andthenM.Manieraheardavoiceinhisrightear(hiswifewas on his left) saying, ‘Ha, ha! Julie’s not playing at sleeping!’ His wifehappenedtobecalledJulie.So.M.Manieraturnstotherighttoseewhowastalking tohim like that.Nobody there!He rubshis ear andaskshimself, ifhe’s dreaming. Then Mephistopheles went on with his serenade… But,perhapsI’mboringyougentlemen?”

“No,no,goon.”

“Youaretoogood,gentlemen,”withasmirk.“Well,then,Mephistopheleswent on with his serenade”—Mme. Giry, burst into song again—“‘Saint,unclosethyportalsholyandaccordthebliss,toamortalbendinglowly,ofapardon-kiss.’ And then M. Maniera again hears the voice in his right ear,saying, this time, ‘Ha,ha! Juliewouldn’tmindaccordingakiss to Isidore!’Thenheturnsroundagain,but,thistime,totheleft;andwhatdoyouthinkhesees?Isidore,whohadtakenhislady’shandandwascoveringitwithkissesthrough the little round place in the glove—like this, gentlemen”—rapturouslykissingthebitofpalmleftbareinthemiddleofherthreadgloves.“Then theyhada lively timebetween them!Bang!Bang!M.Maniera,whowas big and strong, like you, M. Richard, gave two blows to M. IsidoreSaack,whowas small andweak likeM.Moncharmin, savinghis presence.Therewas a great uproar. People in the house shouted, ‘Thatwill do!Stopthem!He’llkillhim!’Then,atlast,M.IsidoreSaackmanagedtorunaway.”

“Then theghosthadnotbrokenhis leg?”askedM.Moncharmin,a littlevexedthathisfigurehadmadesolittleimpressiononMme.Giry.

“Hedidbreakitforhim,sir,”repliedMme.Giryhaughtily.“Hebrokeitforhimonthegrandstaircase,whichherandowntoofast,sir,anditwillbelongbeforethepoorgentlemanwillbeabletogoupitagain!”

“DidtheghosttellyouwhathesaidinM.Maniera’srightear?”askedM.Moncharmin,withagravitywhichhethoughtexceedinglyhumorous.

“No,sir,itwasM.Manierahimself.So——”

“Butyouhavespokentotheghost,mygoodlady?”

“AsI’mspeakingtoyounow,mygoodsir!”Mme.Giryreplied.

“And,whentheghostspeakstoyou,whatdoeshesay?”

“Well,hetellsmetobringhimafootstool!”

Thistime,Richardburstoutlaughing,asdidMoncharminandRemy,thesecretary.Onlytheinspector,warnedbyexperience,wascarefulnottolaugh,whileMme.Giryventuredtoadoptanattitudethatwaspositivelythreatening.

“Insteadoflaughing,”shecriedindignantly,“you’ddobettertodoasM.Polignydid,whofoundoutforhimself.”

“Found out about what?” asked Moncharmin, who had never been somuchamusedinhislife.

“Abouttheghost,ofcourse!…Lookhere…”

Shesuddenlycalmedherself,feelingthatthiswasasolemnmomentinherlife:

“LOOKHERE,”sherepeated.“TheywereplayingLaJuive.M.Polignythoughthewouldwatchtheperformancefromtheghost’sbox…Well,whenLeopold cries, ‘Let us fly!’—you know—andEleazer stops them and says,‘Whithergoye?’…well,M.Poligny—Iwaswatchinghimfromthebackofthe next box, which was empty—M. Poligny got up and walked out quitestiffly, likeastatue,andbeforeIhadtimetoaskhim,‘Whithergoye?’likeEleazer,hewasdownthestaircase,butwithoutbreakinghisleg.

“Still,thatdoesn’tletusknowhowtheOperaghostcametoaskyouforafootstool,”insistedM.Moncharmin.

“Well,fromthatevening,noonetriedtotaketheghost’sprivateboxfromhim.Themanager gave orders that hewas to have it at each performance.And,wheneverhecame,heaskedmeforafootstool.”

“Tut, tut! A ghost asking for a footstool! Then this ghost of yours is awoman?”

“No,theghostisaman.”

“Howdoyouknow?”

“He has a man’s voice, oh, such a lovely man’s voice! This is whathappens:Whenhecomes to theopera, it’susually in themiddleof thefirstact.HegivesthreelittletapsonthedoorofBoxFive.ThefirsttimeIheardthosethreetaps,whenIknewtherewasnooneinthebox,youcanthinkhowpuzzledIwas!Iopenedthedoor,listened,looked;nobody!AndthenIheardavoicesay, ‘Mme.Jules’mypoorhusband’snamewasJules—‘afootstool,please.’ Saving your presence, gentlemen, it mademe feel all-overish like.But the voice went on, ‘Don’t be frightened, Mme. Jules, I’m the Operaghost!’AndthevoicewassosoftandkindthatIhardlyfeltfrightened.THEVOICEWAS SITTING IN THE CORNER CHAIR, ON THE RIGHT, INTHEFRONTROW.”

“Was there any one in the box on the right of Box Five?” askedMoncharmin.

“No;BoxSeven,andBoxThree,theoneontheleft,werebothempty.Thecurtainhadonlyjustgoneup.”

“Andwhatdidyoudo?”

“Well,Ibroughtthefootstool.Ofcourse,itwasn’tforhimselfhewantedit,butforhislady!ButIneverheardhernorsawher.”

“Eh?What?Sonowtheghostismarried!”Theeyesofthetwomanagerstraveled from Mme. Giry to the inspector, who, standing behind the box-keeper,waswavinghisarmstoattracttheirattention.Hetappedhisforehead

withadistressfulforefinger,toconveyhisopinionthatthewidowJulesGirywasmostcertainlymad,apieceofpantomimewhichconfirmedM.Richardin his determination to get rid of an inspector who kept a lunatic in hisservice.Meanwhile, theworthy ladywentonaboutherghost,nowpaintinghisgenerosity:

“Attheendoftheperformance,healwaysgivesmetwofrancs,sometimesfive,sometimeseventen,whenhehasbeenmanydayswithoutcoming.Only,sincepeoplehavebeguntoannoyhimagain,hegivesmenothingatall.

“Excuse me, my good woman,” said Moncharmin, while Mme. Girytossedthefeathersinherdingyhatatthispersistentfamiliarity,“excuseme,howdoestheghostmanagetogiveyouyourtwofrancs?”

“Why,heleavesthemonthelittleshelfinthebox,ofcourse.Ifindthemwiththeprogram,whichIalwaysgivehim.Someevenings,Ifindflowersinthebox,arosethatmusthavedroppedfromhislady’sbodice…forhebringsaladywithhimsometimes;oneday,theyleftafanbehindthem.”

“Oh,theghostleftafan,didhe?Andwhatdidyoudowithit?”

“Well,Ibroughtitbacktotheboxnextnight.”

Heretheinspector’svoicewasraised.

“You’vebrokentherules;Ishallhavetofineyou,Mme.Giry.”

“Holdyourtongue,youfool!”mutteredM.FirminRichard.

“Youbroughtbackthefan.Andthen?”

“Well,then,theytookitawaywiththem,sir;itwasnotthereattheendoftheperformance;andinitsplacetheyleftmeaboxofEnglishsweets,whichI’mveryfondof.That’soneoftheghost’sprettythoughts.”

“Thatwilldo,Mme.Giry.Youcango.”

When Mme. Giry had bowed herself out, with the dignity that neverdesertedher,themanagertoldtheinspectorthattheyhaddecidedtodispensewiththatoldmadwoman’sservices;and,whenhehadgoneinhisturn,theyinstructedtheacting-managertomakeuptheinspector’saccounts.Leftalone,themanagerstoldeachotheroftheideawhichtheybothhadinmind,whichwasthattheyshouldlookintothatlittlematterofBoxFivethemselves.

ChapterVTheEnchantedViolin

Christine Daae, owing to intrigues to which I will return later, did notimmediatelycontinuehertriumphattheOpera.Afterthefamousgalanight,shesangonceat theDuchessdeZurich’s;but thiswas the lastoccasiononwhich she was heard in private. She refused, without plausible excuse, toappear at a charity concert to which she had promised her assistance. Sheacted throughout as though she were no longer the mistress of her owndestinyandasthoughshefearedafreshtriumph.

Sheknew that theComtedeChagny, topleasehisbrother,haddonehisbestonherbehalfwithM.Richard;andshewrote to thankhimandalso toask him to cease speaking in her favor.Her reason for this curious attitudewas never known. Some pretended that it was due to overweening pride;others spoke of her heavenly modesty. But people on the stage are not somodestasallthat;andIthinkthatIshallnotbefarfromthetruthifIascribeheractionsimplytofear.Yes,IbelievethatChristineDaaewasfrightenedbywhathadhappenedtoher. Ihavea letterofChristine’s(it formspartof thePersian’s collection), relating to this period, which suggests a feeling ofabsolutedismay:

“Idon’tknowmyselfwhenIsing,”writesthepoorchild.

Sheshowedherselfnowhere;andtheVicomtedeChagnytriedinvaintomeether.Hewrotetoher,askingtocalluponher,butdespairedofreceivingareplywhen,onemorning,shesenthimthefollowingnote:

MONSIEUR:

Ihavenotforgottenthelittleboywhowentintotheseatorescuemyscarf.IfeelthatImustwritetoyouto-day,whenIamgoingtoPerros,infulfilmentofasacredduty.To-morrowistheanniversaryofthedeathofmypoorfather,whomyouknewandwhowasveryfondofyou.Heisburiedthere,withhisviolin,inthegraveyardofthelittlechurch,atthebottomoftheslopewherewe used to play as children, beside the roadwhere, whenwewere a littlebigger,wesaidgood-byforthelasttime.

TheVicomte deChagny hurriedly consulted a railway guide, dressed asquicklyashecould,wroteafewlinesforhisvalettotaketohisbrotherandjumpedintoacabwhichbroughthimtotheGareMontparnassejustintimetomissthemorningtrain.Hespentadismaldayintownanddidnotrecoverhisspirits until the evening, when he was seated in his compartment in theBrittanyexpress.He readChristine’snoteover andover again, smelling itsperfume, recalling thesweetpicturesofhischildhood,andspent the restofthat tedious night journey in feverish dreams that began and ended withChristineDaae.DaywasbreakingwhenhealightedatLannion.HehurriedtothediligenceforPerros-Guirec.Hewastheonlypassenger.Hequestionedthe

driverandlearnedthat,ontheeveningofthepreviousday,ayoungladywholookedlikeaParisianhadgonetoPerrosandputupattheinnknownastheSettingSun.

Thenearerhedrewtoher,themorefondlyherememberedthestoryofthelittleSwedishsinger.Mostofthedetailsarestillunknowntothepublic.

Therewasonce,inalittlemarket-townnotfarfromUpsala,apeasantwholivedtherewithhisfamily,diggingtheearthduringtheweekandsinginginthechoironSundays.Thispeasanthadalittledaughtertowhomhetaughtthemusical alphabet before she knew how to read. Daae’s father was a greatmusician,perhapswithoutknowingit.NotafiddlerthroughoutthelengthandbreadthofScandinaviaplayedashedid.Hisreputationwaswidespreadandhe was always invited to set the couples dancing at weddings and otherfestivals.HiswifediedwhenChristinewasenteringuponhersixthyear.Thenthe father,whocaredonly forhisdaughterandhismusic, soldhispatchofgroundandwenttoUpsalainsearchoffameandfortune.Hefoundnothingbutpoverty.

He returned to the country, wandering from fair to fair, strumming hisScandinavianmelodies,while his child,who never left his side, listened tohim in ecstasy or sang to his playing. One day, at Ljimby Fair, ProfessorValerius heard them and took them to Gothenburg. Hemaintained that thefatherwasthefirstviolinistintheworldandthatthedaughterhadthemakingofagreatartist.Hereducationand instructionwereprovidedfor.Shemaderapid progress and charmed everybody with her prettiness, her grace ofmannerandhergenuineeagernesstoplease.

WhenValeriusandhiswifewent tosettle inFrance, theytookDaaeandChristinewiththem.“Mamma”ValeriustreatedChristineasherdaughter.AsforDaae, he began to pine awaywith homesickness.Heneverwent out ofdoorsinParis,butlivedinasortofdreamwhichhekeptupwithhisviolin.Forhoursatatime,heremainedlockedupinhisbedroomwithhisdaughter,fiddling and singing, very, very softly. SometimesMamma Valerius wouldcomeandlistenbehindthedoor,wipeawayatearandgodown-stairsagainontiptoe,sighingforherScandinavianskies.

Daaeseemednottorecoverhisstrengthuntilthesummer,whenthewholefamilywenttostayatPerros-Guirec,inafar-awaycornerofBrittany,wheretheseawasofthesamecolorasinhisowncountry.Oftenhewouldplayhissaddest tunes on the beach and pretend that the sea stopped its roaring tolistentothem.AndthenheinducedMammaValeriustoindulgeaqueerwhimofhis.Atthetimeofthe“pardons,”orBretonpilgrimages,thevillagefestivalanddances,hewentoffwithhisfiddle,asintheolddays,andwasallowedtotakehisdaughterwithhimforaweek.Theygavethesmallesthamletsmusic

tolastthemforayearandsleptatnightinabarn,refusingabedattheinn,lyingclose togetheronthestraw,aswhentheyweresopoor inSweden.Atthesametime,theywereveryneatlydressed,madenocollection,refusedthehalfpence offered them; and the people around could not understand theconduct of this rustic fiddler,who tramped the roadswith that pretty childwho sang like an angel fromHeaven. They followed them from village tovillage.

One day, a little boy,whowas outwith his governess,made her take alongerwalkthanheintended,forhecouldnottearhimselffromthelittlegirlwhosepure,sweetvoiceseemedtobindhimtoher.Theycametotheshoreofan inletwhich is still calledTrestraou, butwhich now, I believe, harbors acasinoorsomethingof thesort.At that time, therewasnothingbutskyandseaanda stretchofgoldenbeach.Only, therewasalsoahighwind,whichblewChristine’sscarfout tosea.Christinegaveacryandputoutherarms,butthescarfwasalreadyfaronthewaves.Thensheheardavoicesay:

“It’sallright,I’llgoandfetchyourscarfoutofthesea.”

And she saw a little boy running fast, in spite of the outcries and theindignantprotestsofaworthy lady inblack.The littleboyran into thesea,dressedashewas,andbroughtherbackherscarf.Boyandscarfwerebothsoaked through.The lady inblackmadeagreat fuss,butChristine laughedmerrilyandkissedthelittleboy,whowasnoneotherthantheVicomteRaouldeChagny,stayingatLannionwithhisaunt.

Duringtheseason,theysaweachotherandplayedtogetheralmosteveryday.Attheaunt’srequest,secondedbyProfessorValerius,Daaeconsentedtogive the young viscount some violin lessons. In thisway,Raoul learned tolovethesameairsthathadcharmedChristine’schildhood.Theyalsobothhadthesamecalmanddreamylittlecastofmind.Theydelightedinstories,inoldBreton legends; and their favorite sport was to go and ask for them at thecottage-doors,likebeggars:

“Ma’am…” or, “Kind gentleman… have you a little story to tell us,please?”

And it seldom happened that they did not have one “given” them; fornearly every old Breton grandame has, at least once in her life, seen the“korrigans”dancebymoonlightontheheather.

Buttheirgreattreatwas,inthetwilight,inthegreatsilenceoftheevening,afterthesunhadsetinthesea,whenDaaecameandsatdownbythemontheroadside and, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should frighten theghostswhomheevoked,toldthemthelegendsofthelandoftheNorth.And,themomenthestopped,thechildrenwouldaskformore.

Therewasonestorythatbegan:

“Akingsatinalittleboatononeofthosedeep,stilllakesthatopenlikeabrighteyeinthemidstoftheNorwegianmountains…”

Andanother:

“LittleLottethoughtofeverythingandnothing.Herhairwasgoldenasthesun’s rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled hermother,waskind toher doll, tookgreat careof her frock andher little redshoesandherfiddle,butmostofallloved,whenshewenttosleep,toheartheAngelofMusic.”

While the oldman told this story,Raoul looked atChristine’s blue eyesandgoldenhair;andChristinethoughtthatLottewasveryluckytoheartheAngelofMusicwhenshewenttosleep.TheAngelofMusicplayedapartinallDaddyDaae’s tales; and hemaintained that every greatmusician, everygreatartistreceivedavisitfromtheAngelatleastonceinhislife.SometimestheAngelleansovertheircradle,ashappenedtoLotte,andthatishowtherearelittleprodigieswhoplaythefiddleatsixbetterthanmenatfifty,which,youmustadmit,isverywonderful.Sometimes,theAngelcomesmuchlater,becausethechildrenarenaughtyandwon’tlearntheirlessonsorpractisetheirscales.And,sometimes,hedoesnotcomeatall,becausethechildrenhaveabadheartorabadconscience.

NooneeverseestheAngel;butheisheardbythosewhoaremeanttohearhim. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad anddisheartened.Thentheirearssuddenlyperceivecelestialharmonies,adivinevoice,which they remember all their lives. Personswho are visited by theAngelquiverwithathrillunknowntotherestofmankind.Andtheycannottouchaninstrument,oropentheirmouthstosing,withoutproducingsoundsthatputallotherhumansoundstoshame.ThenpeoplewhodonotknowthattheAngelhasvisitedthosepersonssaythattheyhavegenius.

LittleChristineaskedherfather ifhehadheardtheAngelofMusic.ButDaddyDaaeshookhisheadsadly;andthenhiseyeslitup,ashesaid:

“Youwillhearhimoneday,mychild!WhenIaminHeaven,Iwillsendhimtoyou!”

Daddywasbeginningtocoughatthattime.

Three years later, Raoul and Christine met again at Perros. ProfessorValeriuswasdead,buthiswidowremainedinFrancewithDaddyDaaeandhis daughter, who continued to play the violin and sing, wrapping in theirdream of harmony their kind patroness, who seemed henceforth to live onmusic alone. The young man, as he now was, had come to Perros on the

chanceoffindingthemandwentstraighttothehouseinwhichtheyusedtostay.He first saw theoldman;and thenChristineentered,carrying the tea-tray.SheflushedatthesightofRaoul,whowentuptoherandkissedher.Sheaskedhimafewquestions,performedherdutiesashostessprettily, tookupthetrayagainandlefttheroom.Thensheranintothegardenandtookrefugeonabench,aprey to feelings thatstirredheryoungheart for thefirst time.Raoul followed her and they talked till the evening, very shyly. Theywerequite changed, cautious as twodiplomatists, and told eachother things thathad nothing to dowith their budding sentiments.When they took leave ofeach other by the roadside, Raoul, pressing a kiss onChristine’s tremblinghand,said:

“Mademoiselle,Ishallneverforgetyou!”

Andhewentawayregrettinghiswords,forheknewthatChristinecouldnotbethewifeoftheVicomtedeChagny.

AsforChristine,shetriednottothinkofhimanddevotedherselfwhollytoherart.Shemadewonderfulprogressandthosewhoheardherprophesiedthatshewouldbethegreatestsingerintheworld.Meanwhile,thefatherdied;and,suddenly,sheseemedtohavelost,withhim,hervoice,hersoulandhergenius. She retained just, but only just, enough of this to enter theCONSERVATOIRE,whereshedidnotdistinguishherselfatall,attendingtheclasses without enthusiasm and taking a prize only to please old MammaValerius,withwhomshecontinuedtolive.

Thefirst timethatRaoulsawChristineat theOpera,hewascharmedbythegirl’sbeautyandbythesweetimagesofthepastwhichitevoked,butwasrathersurprisedatthenegativesideofherart.Hereturnedtolistentoher.Hefollowedherinthewings.HewaitedforherbehindaJacob’sladder.Hetriedtoattractherattention.Morethanonce,hewalkedafterhertothedoorofherbox,butshedidnotseehim.Sheseemed,forthatmatter,toseenobody.Shewas all indifference.Raoul suffered, for shewasverybeautiful andhewasshy and dared not confess his love, even to himself. And then came thelightning-flash of the gala performance: the heavens torn asunder and anangel’s voice heard upon earth for the delight of mankind and the uttercaptureofhisheart.

Andthen…andthentherewasthatman’svoicebehindthedoor—“Youmustloveme!”—andnooneintheroom…

Whydidshelaughwhenheremindedheroftheincidentofthescarf?Whydidshenotrecognizehim?Andwhyhadshewrittentohim?…

Perroswas reachedat last.Raoulwalked into the smokysitting-roomoftheSettingSunandatoncesawChristinestandingbeforehim,smilingand

showingnoastonishment.

“Soyouhavecome,”shesaid.“IfeltthatIshouldfindyouhere,whenIcamebackfrommass.Someonetoldmeso,atthechurch.”

“Who?”askedRaoul,takingherlittlehandinhis.

“Why,mypoorfather,whoisdead.”

Therewasasilence;andthenRaoulasked:

“DidyourfathertellyouthatIloveyou,Christine,andthatIcannotlivewithoutyou?”

Christine blushed to the eyes and turned away her head. In a tremblingvoice,shesaid:

“Me?Youaredreaming,myfriend!”

Andsheburstoutlaughing,toputherselfincountenance.

“Don’tlaugh,Christine;Iamquiteserious,”Raoulanswered.

Andsherepliedgravely:“Ididnotmakeyoucometotellmesuchthingsasthat.”

“You ‘made me come,’ Christine; you knew that your letter would notleaveme indignant and that I should hasten to Perros. How can you havethoughtthat,ifyoudidnotthinkIlovedyou?”

“Ithoughtyouwouldrememberourgameshere,aschildren,inwhichmyfather so often joined. I really don’t knowwhat I thought…Perhaps Iwaswrongtowritetoyou…ThisanniversaryandyoursuddenappearanceinmyroomattheOpera,theotherevening,remindedmeofthetimelongpastandmademewritetoyouasthelittlegirlthatIthenwas…”

There was something in Christine’s attitude that seemed to Raoul notnatural. He did not feel any hostility in her; far from it: the distressedaffection shining in her e