“I fell back against the wall and he came up to me, grinding his teeth, and, as I fell upon my knees, he hissed mad, incoherent words and curses at me. Leaning over me, he cried, ‘Look! You want to see! See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik’s face! Now you know the face of the voice! You were not content to hear me, eh? You wanted to know what I looked like! Oh, you women are so inquisitive! Well, are you satisfied? I’m a very good-looking fellow, eh? ... When a woman has seen me, as you have, she belongs to me. She loves me for ever. I am a kind of Don Juan, you know!’ And, drawing himself up to his full height, with his hand on his hip, wagging the hideous thing that was his head on his shoulders, he roared, ‘Look at me! I am Don Juan triumphant!’ And, when I turned away my head and begged for mercy, he drew it to him, brutally, twisting his dead fingers into my hair.”
“Enough! Enough!” cried Raoul. “I will kill him. In Heaven’s name, Christine, tell me where the dining-room on the lake is! I must kill him!”
“Oh, be quiet, Raoul, if you want to know!”
“Yes, I want to know how and why you went back; I must know! ... But, in any case, I will kill him!”
“Oh, Raoul, listen, listen! ... He dragged me by my hair and then ... and then ... Oh, it is too horrible!”
“Well, what? Out with it!” exclaimed Raoul fiercely. “Out with it, quick!”
“Then he hissed at me. ‘Ah, I frighten you, do I? ... I dare say! ... Perhaps you think that I have another mask, eh, and that this ... this ... my head is a mask? Well,’ he roared, ‘tear it off as you did the other! Come! Come along! I insist! Your hands! Your hands! Give me your hands!’ And he seized my hands and dug them into his awful face. He tore his flesh with my nails, tore his terrible dead flesh with my nails! ... ‘Know,’ he shouted, while his throat throbbed and panted like a furnace, ‘know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse that loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you! ... Look, I am not laughing now, I am crying, crying for you, Christine, who have torn off my mask and who therefore can never leave me again! ... As long as you thought me handsome, you could have come back, I know you would have come back ... but, now that you know my hideousness, you would run away for good ... So I shall keep you here! ... Why did you want to see me? Oh, mad Christine, who wanted to see me! ... When my own father never saw me and when my mother, so as not to see me, made me a present of my first mask!’
“He had let go of me at last and was dragging himself about on the floor, uttering terrible sobs. And then he crawled away like a snake, went into his room, closed the door and left me alone to my reflections. Presently I heard the sound of the organ; and then I began to understand Erik’s contemptuous phrase when he spoke about Opera music. What I now heard was utterly different from what I had heard up to then. His Don Juan Triumphant (for I had not a doubt but that he had rushed to his masterpiece to forget the horror of the moment) seemed to me at first one long, awful, magnificent sob. But, little by little, it expressed every emotion, every suffering of which mankind is capable. It intoxicated me; and I opened the door that separated us. Erik rose, as I entered, but dared not turn in my direction. ‘Erik,’ I cried, ‘show me your face without fear! I swear that you are the most unhappy and sublime of men; and, if ever again I shiver when I look at you, it will be because I am thinking of the splendour of your genius!’ Then Erik turned round, for he believed me, and I also had faith in myself. He fell at my feet, with words of love ... with words of love in his dead mouth ... and the music had ceased ... He kissed the hem of my dress and did not see that I closed my eyes.
“What more can I tell you, dear? You now know the tragedy. It went on for a fortnight—a fortnight during which I lied to him. My lies were as hideous as the monster who inspired them; but they were the price of my liberty. I burned his mask; and I managed so well that, even when he was not singing, he tried to catch my eye, like a dog sitting by its master. He was my faithful slave and paid me endless little attentions. Gradually, I gave him such confidence that he ventured to take me walking on the banks of the lake and to row me in the boat on its leaden waters; toward the end of my captivity he let me out through the gates that closed the underground passages in the Rue Scribe. Here a carriage awaited us and took us to the Bois. The night when we met you was nearly fatal to me, for he is terribly jealous of you and I had to tell him that you were soon going away ... Then, at last, after a fortnight of that horrible captivity, during which I was filled with pity, enthusiasm, despair and horror by turns, he believed me when I said, ‘/ will come back !’”
“And you went back, Christine,” groaned Raoul.
“Yes, dear, and I must tell you that it was not his frightful threats when setting me free that helped me to keep my word, but the harrowing sob which he gave on the threshold of the tomb ... That sob attached me to the unfortunate man more than I myself suspected when saying goodbye to him. Poor Erik! Poor Erik!”
“Christine,” said Raoul, rising, “you tell me that you love me; but you had recovered your liberty hardly a few hours before you returned to Erik! Remember the masked ball!”
“Yes; and do you remember those hours which I passed with you, Raoul ... to the great danger of both of us?”
“I doubted your love for me, during those hours.”
“Do you doubt it still, Raoul? ... Then know that each of my visits to Erik increased my horror of him; for each of those visits, instead of calming him, as I hoped, made him mad with love! ... And I am so frightened, so frightened! ...”
“You are frightened ... but do you love me? If Erik were good-looking, would you love me, Christine?”
She rose in her turn, put her two trembling arms round the young man’s neck and said:
“Oh, my betrothed of a day, if I did not love you, I would not give you my lips! Take them, for the first time and the last.”
He kissed her lips; but the night that surrounded them was rent asunder, they fled as at the approach of a storm and their eyes, filled with dread of Erik, showed them, before they disappeared, high up above them, an immense night-bird that stared at them with its blazing eyes and seemed to cling to the string of Apollo’s lyre.
13
A MASTER-STROKE OF THE TRAP-DOOR LOVER
Raoul and Christine ran, eager to escape from the roof and the blazing eyes that showed only in the dark; and they did not stop before they came to the eighth floor on the way down.
There was no performance at the Opera that night and the passages were empty. Suddenly, a queer-looking form stood before them and blocked the road:
“No, not this way!”
And the form pointed to another passage by which they were to reach the wings. Raoul wanted to stop and ask for an explanation. But the form, which wore a sort of long frock-coat and a pointed cap, said:
“Quick! Go away quickly!”
Christine was already dragging Raoul, compelling him to start running again.
“But who is he? Who is that man?” he asked.
Christine replied: “It’s the Persian.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Nobody knows. He is always in the Opera.”
“You are making me run away, for the first time in my life. If we really saw Erik, what I ought to have done was to nail him to Apollo’s lyre, just as we nail the owls to the walls of our Breton farms; and there would have been no more question of him.”
“My dear Raoul, you would first have had to climb up to Apollo’s lyre: that is no easy matter.”
“The blazing eyes were there!”
“Oh, you are getting like me now, seeing him everywhere! What I took for blazing eyes was probably a couple of stars shining through the strings of the lyre.”
And Christine went down another floor, with Raoul following her.
“As you have quite made up your mind to go, Christine, I assure you it would be better to go at once. Why wait for tomorrow? He may have heard us tonight.”
“No, no, he is working, I tell you, at his Don Juan Triumphant and not thinking of us.”
“You’re so sure of that you keep on looking behind you!”
“Come to my dressing-room.”
“Hadn’t we better meet outside the Opera?”
“Never, till we go away for good! It would bring us bad luck, if I did not keep my word. I promised him to see you only here.”
“It’s a good thing for me that he allowed you even that. Do you know,” said Raoul bitterly, “that it was very plucky of you to let us play at being engaged?”
“Why, my dear, he knows all about it! He said, ‘I trust you, Christine. M. de Chagny is in love with you and is going abroad. Before he goes, I want him to be as happy as I am.’ Are people so unhappy when they love?”
“Yes, Christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved.”
They came to Christine’s dressing-room.
“Why do you think that you are safer in this room than on the stage?” asked Raoul. “You heard him through the walls here, therefore he can certainly hear us.”
“No. He gave me his word not to be behind the walls of my dressing-room again and I believe Erik’s word. This room and my bedroom on the lake are for me, exclusively, and not to be approached by him.”
“How can you have gone from this room into that dark passage, Christine? Suppose we try to repeat your movements; shall we?”
“It is dangerous, dear, for the glass might carry me off again; and, instead of running away, I should be obliged to go to the end of the secret passage to the lake and there call Erik.”
“Would he hear you?”
“Erik will hear me wherever I call him. He told me so. He is a very curious genius. You must not think, Raoul, that he is simply a man who amuses himself by living underground. He does things that no other man could do; he knows things which nobody in the world knows.”
“Take care, Christine, you are making a ghost of him again!”
“No, he is not a ghost; he is a man of Heaven and earth, that is all.”
“A man of Heaven and earth ... that is all! A nice way to speak of him! ... And are you still resolved to run away from him?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, you will have no resolve left!”
“Then, Raoul, you must run away with me in spite of myself; is that understood?”
“I shall be here at twelve tomorrow night; I shall keep my promise, whatever happens. You say that, after listening to the performance, he is to wait for you in the dining-room on the lake?”
“Yes.”
“And how are you to reach him, if you don’t know how to go out by the glass?”
“Why, by going straight to the edge of the lake.”
Christine opened a box, took out an enormous key and showed it to Raoul.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“The key of the gate to the underground passage in the Rue Scribe.”
“I understand, Christine. It leads straight to the lake. Give it to me, Christine, will you?”
“Never!” she said. “That would be treacherous!”
Suddenly Christine changed colour. A mortal pallor over-spread her features.
“Oh heavens!” she cried. “Erik! Erik! Have pity on me!”
“Hold your tongue!” said Raoul. “You told me he could hear you! ”
But the singer’s attitude became more and more inexplicable. She wrung her fingers, repeating, with a distraught air:
“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven!”
“But what is it? What is it?” Raoul implored.
“The ring ... the gold ring he gave me.”
“Oh, so Erik gave you that ring!”
“You know he did, Raoul! But what you don’t know is that, when he gave it to me, he said, ‘I give you back your liberty, Christine, on condition that this ring is always on your finger. As long as you keep it, you will be protected against all danger and Erik will remain your friend. But woe to you if you ever part with it, for Erik will have his revenge!’ ... My dear, my dear, the ring is gone! ... Woe to us both!”
They both looked for the ring, but could not find it. Christine refused to be pacified.
“It was while I gave you that kiss, up above, under Apollo’s lyre,” she said. “The ring must have slipped from my finger and dropped into the street! We can never find it. And what misfortunes are in store for us now! Oh, to run away!”
“Let us run away at once,” Raoul insisted, once more.
She hesitated. He thought that she was going to say yes ... Then her bright pupils became dimmed and she said:
“No! Tomorrow!”
And she left him hurriedly, still wringing and rubbing her fingers, as though she hoped to bring the ring back like that.
Raoul went home, greatly perturbed at all that he had heard.
“If I don’t save her from the hands of that humbug,” he said, aloud, as he went to bed, “she is lost. But I shall save her.”
He put out his lamp and felt a need to insult Erik in the dark. Thrice over, he shouted:
“Humbug! ... Humbug! ... Humbug!”
But, suddenly, he raised himself on his elbow. A cold sweat poured from his temples. Two eyes, like blazing coals, had appeared at the foot of his bed. They stared at him fixedly, terribly, in the darkness of the night.
Raoul was no coward; and yet he trembled. He put out a groping, hesitating hand toward the table by his bedside. He found the matches and lit his candle. The eyes disappeared.
Still uneasy in his mind, he thought to himself:
“She told me that his eyes only showed in the dark. His eyes have disappeared in the light, but he may be there still.”
And he rose, hunted about, went round the room. He looked under his bed, like a child. Then he thought himself absurd, got into bed again and blew out the candle. The eyes reappeared.
He sat up and stared back at them with all the courage he possessed. Then he cried:
“Is that you, Erik? Man, genius, or ghost, is it you?”
He reflected: “If it’s he, he’s on the balcony!”
Then he ran to the chest of drawers and groped for his revolver. He opened the balcony window, looked out, saw nothing and closed the window again. He went back to bed, shivering, for the night was cold, and put the revolver on the table within his reach.
The eyes were still there, at the foot of the bed. Were they between the bed and the window-pane or behind the pane, that is to say, on the balcony? That was what Raoul wanted to know. He also wanted to know if those eyes belonged to a human being ... He wanted to know everything.
Then, patiently, calmly, he seized his revolver and took aim. He aimed a little above the two eyes. Surely, if they were eyes and if above those two eyes there was a forehead and if Raoul was not too clumsy ...
The shot made a terrible din amid the silence of the slumbering house. And, while footsteps came hurrying along the passages, Raoul sat up with outstretched arm, ready to fire again, if need be.
This time, the two eyes had disappeared.
Servants appeared, carrying lights; Count Philippe, terribly anxious:
“What is it?”
“I think I have been dreaming,” replied the young man. “I fired at two stars that kept me from sleeping.”
“You’re raving! Are you ill? For God’s sake, tell me, Raoul: what happened?”
And the count seized hold of the revolver.
“No, no, I’m not raving ... Besides, we shall soon see ...”
He got out of bed, put on a dressing-gown and slippers, took a light from the hands of a servant and, opening the window, stepped out on the balcony.
The count saw that the window had been pierced by a bullet at a man’s height. Raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle:
“Aha!” he said. “Blood! ... Blood! ... Here, there, more blood! ... That’s a good thing! A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous !” he grinned.
“Raoul! Ra
oul! Raoul!”
The count was shaking him as though he were trying to waken a sleep-walker.
“But, my dear brother, I’m not asleep!” Raoul protested impatiently. “You can see the blood for yourself. I thought I had been dreaming and firing at two stars. It was Erik’s eyes ... and here is his blood! ... After all, perhaps I was wrong to shoot; and Christine is quite capable of never forgiving me ... All this would not have happened if I had drawn the curtains before going to bed.”
“Raoul, have you suddenly gone mad? Wake up!”
“What, still? You would do better to help me find Erik ... for, after all, a ghost who bleeds can always be found.”
The count’s valet said:
“That is so, sir; there is blood on the balcony.”
The other man-servant brought a lamp, by the light of which they examined the balcony carefully. The marks of blood followed the rail till they reached a gutter-spout; then they went up the gutter-spout.
“My dear fellow,” said Count Philippe, “you have fired at a cat.”
“The misfortune is,” said Raoul, with a grin, “that it’s quite possible. With Erik, you never know. Is it Erik? Is it the cat? Is it the ghost? No, with Erik, you can’t tell!”
Raoul went on making this strange sort of remarks which corresponded so intimately and logically with the preoccupation of his brain and which, at the same time, tended to persuade many people that his mind was unhinged. The count himself was seized with this idea; and, later, the examining-magistrate, on receiving the report of the commissary of police, came to the same conclusion.
“Who is Erik?” asked the count, pressing his brother’s hand.
Phantom of the Opera (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 16