Finally the dressing-room door opened and the maid came out by herself, carrying bundles. He stopped her and asked her how her mistress was. The woman laughed and said that she was quite well, but that he must not disturb her for she wished to be left alone. With that she went away. A single idea crossed Raoul's mind—of course, Christine wished to be left alone for him! Had he not told her that he wanted to speak to her privately?
Hardly breathing, he went up to the dressing-room, and, with his ear to the door, prepared to knock. Suddenly he heard a man's voice
in the dressing-room, saying in a curiously masterful tone, "Christine, you must love me!"
And Christine's voice, infinitely sad and trembling, replied, "How can you talk like that, when I sing only for you!"
The man's voice spoke again, "Are you very tired?"
"Tonight I gave you my soul and I am exhausted!"
"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child," replied the man's voice gravely, "and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. Even the angels wept tonight."
Raoul heard nothing after that. He leaned against the door, hating himself for what he had just heard. Nevertheless, he did not go away, but returned to his dark corner, determined to wait for the man to leave the room. He knew that he loved Christine with all his heart. Now he wanted to know his rival. To his great astonishment, the door opened and Christine Daae came out alone, wrapped in furs, with her face hidden in a lace veil. She closed the door behind her, but did not lock it. She passed him. He did not even follow her, for his eyes were fixed on the door, which remained firmly closed.
When the passage was once more deserted, he crossed it, opened the door of the dressing-room, went in and shut the door. He found himself in absolute darkness. The gas had been turned out. Raoul heard only the sound of his own breathing. He struck a match and its flame lit the room. There was no one there. Raoul searched the wardrobe, opened the cupboards and felt the walls but found no one at all.
During this time the farewell ceremony was taking place to mark the retirement of Monsieur Debienne and Monsieur Poligny. Everybody remarked that the retiring managers looked cheerful and they were already beaming lavishly upon Sorelli, who had begun to recite her speech, when all of a sudden little Jammes cried out, "The Opera ghost!"
Everyone turned in the direction where she was pointing, among the crowd of dandies, to a face so pale and horrible that they were convinced it was a joke. Everybody laughed and pushed his neighbour and wanted to offer the Opera ghost a drink but he was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.
The first few days which the new managers spent at the Opera were given over to the delight of finding themselves at the head of so magnificent an enterprise and they had forgotten all about that curious story of the ghost, when an incident occurred which proved to them that the joke—if joke it were—was not over. Monsieur Firmin Richard reached his office that morning at eleven o'clock. His secretary, Monsieur Remy, showed him half a dozen letters which he had not opened because they were marked "private". One of the letters at once attracted Richard's attention, not only because the envelope was addressed in red ink, but because he seemed to have seen the writing before. He soon remembered that it was the red handwriting which had appeared so curiously in the lease. He recognized the clumsy, childish hand. He opened the letter and read:
Cher Monsieur,
1 am sorry to have to trouble you at a time when you must he so very busy renewing important engagements, signing fresh contracts and generally displaying your excellent taste. 1 know what you have done for Carlotta, Sorelli and little Jammes, not to mention others whose admirable qualities of talent or genius you have suspected.
Of course, when 1 use these words, I do not mean to apply them to La Carlotta, who sings like a cockroach, nor to ha Sorelli, who owes her success mainly to the coach-builders; not to little Jammes, who dances like a calf in a field. And I am not speaking of Christine Daae either, though her genius is certain, whereas your jealousy prevents her from creating any important part.
All the same, I should like to hear Christine Daae this evening in the part of Siebel—as that of Margarita has been withheld from her since her triumph of the other night—and I must ask you not to dispose of my box today nor on the following days. For I cannot end this letter without telling you how disagreeably surprised I have been of late, on arriving at the Opera, to hear that my box had been sold at the box office by your orders.
1 did not protest, first because 1 dislike scandal and, secondly because 1 thought that your predecessors, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny, who were always charming to me, had neglected before leaving to mention my little privileges. 1 have now received a reply to my letter from these gentlemen asking for an explanation which proves that you know all about my clause in the lease and consequently that you are treating me with outrageous contempt. If you
wish to live in peace, you must not begin by taking away my private box.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
The Phantom of the Opera
Monsieur Firmin Richard had hardly finished reading this letter, when Monsieur Armand Moncharmin entered carrying another exactly the same. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"They are keeping up the joke," said Moncharmin.
"I am not in the mood to allow myself to be humbugged much longer," said his partner.
"It's harmless enough," Moncharmin observed. "They just want a box for tonight/'
Monsieur Firmin Richard told his secretary to give Box 5 on the grand tier to Messieurs Debienne and Poligny, provided it was not sold. It was not. It was sent round to them. Debienne lived at the corner of the rue Scribe and the boulevard des Capucines, Poligny in the Rue Auber. The Ghost's two letters had been posted at the boulevard des Capucines post office, as Moncharmin remarked after examining the envelopes.
"You see!" said Richard.
They shrugged their shoulders and regretted that two men of that age should amuse themselves with such childish tricks.
Next morning, the managers received a card of thanks from the ghost.
Cher Monsieur,
Thank you for a charming evening. Daae exquisite. Choruses want waking up. Will write you soon for the 240,000 francs, or 233,424 fr. yoc, to be correct. Messieurs Debienne and Poligny have sent me the 6$y$ fr. 30c. representing the first ten days of my allowance for the current year. Their privileges finished on the evening of the 10th inst.
With regards,
The Phantom
On the other hand, there was a letter from Messieurs Debienne and Poligny.
Gentlemen,
We are much obliged for your kind thought of us, hut you will easily understand that the prospect of again hearing Faust, pleasant though it may he to ex-managers of the Opera, cannot make us forget that we have no right to occupy Box 5 on the grand tier, which is the exclusive property of him of whom we spoke to you when we went through the lease with you last. See Clause 63, final paragraph.
"Oh, these fellows are beginning to annoy me!" exclaimed Firmin Richard, snatching up the letter.
Finally, the managers decided to look into the matter of Box 5 for themselves.
Christine Daae, owing to a series of intrigues to which I will return later, did not immediately continue her triumph at the Opera. After the famous gala night, she sang once for the Duchess de Durich but this was the last occasion on which she was heard in society. She refused, without plausible excuse, to appear at a charity concert to which she had promised her assistance. She acted throughout as though she were no longer the mistress of her own destiny and as though she dreaded a fresh triumph.
She showed herself nowhere and the Vicomte de Chagny tried in vain to meet her. He wrote to her, asking leave to call upon her, but had given up all hope of receiving a reply, when, one morning, she sent him the following note:
I have not forgotten the little hoy who went into the sea to rescue my scarf. 1 feel that I must write to you today, as 1 am goin
g to Per-ros. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the death of my father, whom you knew and who was very fond of you. He is buried there in the graveyard of the little church, at the bottom of the hill where we used to play as children and where later we said goodbye for the last time.
Raoul, ecstatic at the thought of seeing her again, immediately took the night train to Perros. The nearer he drew to her, the more fondly he remembered the story of the little Swedish singer . . .
Christine Daae's father was a natural musician, and there was not
a fiddler in all of Scandinavia who played as well as he did. His reputation was widespread and when his wife died the father-who cared only for his daughter and his music—sold his patch of ground and went to Upsala in search of fame and fortune. He found nothing but poverty.
He returned to the country, wandering from fair to fair, while Christine, who never left his side, sang to his playing. One day, a Professor Valerius heard them at Limby Fair and took them to Gothenburg. He believed that the daughter had the makings of a great artist. He provided for her education and she made rapid progress, charming everyone with her beauty and grace.
When Valerius and his wife went to settle in France they took Daae and Christine with them. Madame Valerius treated Christine as a daughter, but Daae began to pine away with home-sickness.
One day Christine was walking by the sea singing to herself in her usual fashion when the wind blew her scarf far out on the waves. Just then she heard a voice nearby say:
"Don't worry, I'll go and fetch your scarf."
She turned and saw a little boy running into the sea. The next minute he was back and both boy and scarf were soaked through. Christine laughed and kissed the little boy, who was none other than the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, staying at Lannion with his aunt.
That was the beginning of their friendship and during the season they saw each other almost every day. At the aunt's request, and seconded by Professor Valerius, Daae consented to give the young viscount some violin lessons. In this way, Raoul learned to love the same airs that had charmed Christine's childhood. Then autumn came and parted Raoul and Christine.
Christine tried not to think of him and devoted herself wholly to her art. She made wonderful progress and those who heard her prophesied that she would be the greatest singer in the world. But then her father died very suddenly, and with this loss she seemed also to lose her genius. She retained just enough to enter the Conservatoire, where she did not distinguish herself, attending the classes without enthusiasm and taking a prize only to please old Madame Valerius.
The first time that Raoul saw Christine at the Opera, he was charmed by the girl's beauty and by the sweet images of the past which it evoked, but at the same time he was puzzled by her sadness. She seemed to have lost touch with things. He tried to attract her attention. More than once, he walked after her to the door of her box, but she did not see him.
She appeared, for that matter, to see nobody. She was all indifference. Raoul suffered, for she was very beautiful, while he was shy and dared not confess his love, even to himself. And then came the revelation of that gala performance, when her angel's voice conquered his heart.
And then there was that man's voice behind the door—"You must love me!"—and no one in the room.
Why did she laugh when he reminded her of the incident of the scarf. Why did she not recognize him? And why had she now written to him?
Raoul reached Perros at last. He walked into the smoky parlour of the hotel and Christine stood smiling before him.
"You have come," she said. "I felt that I should find you here when I came back from Mass. Someone told me so at church."
"Who?" asked Raoul, taking her little hand in his.
"Why, my poor dead father!"
There was silence and then Raoul asked:
"Did your father tell you that I love you, Christine, and that I cannot live without you?"
Christine blushed to the eyes and turned away her head. In a trembling voice, she said, "I did not send for you to tell me such things as that."
"You sent for me, Christine; you knew that your letter would not leave me indifferent and that I would hasten to Perros. How can you have thought that, if you did not think I loved you?"
"I thought you would remember your games here, as children, in which my father so often joined. I really don't know what I thought. Perhaps I was wrong to write to you. This anniversary and your sudden appearance in my room at the Opera the other evening reminded me of the time long past and made me write to you."
There was something in Christine's attitude that struck Raoul as not quite natural. He did not feel any hostility in her, far from it. The sad tenderness shining in her eyes told him that. But why was this tenderness so sad? That was what he wished to know and what was irritating him.
"But why do you think I came to you, if not out of love?" continued Raoul, unburdening his heart to her, "When you saw me in your dressing-room, was that the first time you noticed me, Christine?"
She was incapable of lying. "No," she said, "I had often seen you in your brother's box. And also on the stage."
PHANTOM OF THE OPERA jc
"I thought so!" said Raoul, "but then why, when you saw me in your room, at your feet, why did you answer me as though you did not know me?
"You don't answer!" he said angrily and unhappily. "Well, I will answer for you. It was because there was someone else in the room, Christine, someone to whom you said, 'I sing only for you! Tonight, I gave you my soul. . .'"
Christine seized Raoul's arm:
"Then you were listening behind the door?"
"Yes, because I love you . . . And I heard everything."
"You heard what?"
"He said to you, 'Christine, you must love me!'"
At these words a deathly pallor spread over Christine's face, "Go on!" she commanded. "Go on! Tell me all you heard!"
At an utter loss to understand, Raoul answered:
"I heard him reply, when you said that you had given him your soul, Tour soul is a beautiful thing, child, and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight.'"
Christine gave a cry of grief and pain. Raoul was terror-stricken and tried to take her in his arms, but she escaped and fled in great disorder.
Raoul returned to the inn, feeling weary and very sad. He was told that Christine had gone to her bedroom, saying that she would not be down to dinner. Raoul dined alone, went to his room and tried to read, went to bed and tried to sleep. There was no sound in the next room.
The hours passed slowly. It was about half past eleven when he distinctly heard someone moving, with a light, stealthy step, in the room next to his. Without troubling for a reason, Raoul dressed, taking care not to make a sound, and waited. His heart gave a bound when he heard Christine's door turn slowly on its hinges. Softly opening the door, he saw Christine in the moonlight slip along the passage. She went down the stairs and he leant over the banister above her. Suddenly, he heard two voices in rapid conversation. He caught one sentence.
"Don't lose the key."
It was the landlady's voice. The door facing the sea was opened and locked again. Then all was still.
Raoul ran back to his room and threw open the window. He could just make out Christine's white form on the deserted quay.
The first floor of the Setting Sun was at no great height and a tree growing against the wall enabled Raoul to climb down, unknown to
y6 THE GHOULS
the landlady. The good woman's amazement, therefore, was great when the young man was brought back to her the next morning half-frozen and more dead than alive. When she learnt that he had been found stretched at full length on the steps of the high altar of the little church she ran at once to tell Christine, who hurried down and did her best to revive him. He soon opened his eyes and was not long in recovering when he saw his friend's charming face bent over him.
A few weeks later, when the tragedy at the Opera necessitated t
he intervention of the public prosecutor, Monsieur Mifroid, the com-missaire of police, examined the Vicomte de Chagny touching the events of the night at Perros. I quote the questions and answers as given in the official report (pp. 150 et seq) :
Q. Did Mademoiselle Daae not see you come down from your room by the curious road which you selected?
R. No, Monsieur, although when walking behind her I took no pains to deaden the sound of my footsteps. In fact I was anxious that she should turn round and see me. But she seemed not to hear me and acted exactly as though I were not there. She quietly left the quay and then suddenly turned quickly up the road. The church clock had struck a quarter to twelve and I thought that this must have made her hurry, for she began almost to run and continued at this pace till she came to the churchyard.
Q. Was the gate open?
R. Yes, Monsieur, and this surprised me, but it did not seem to surprise Mademoiselle Daae.
Q. Was there no one in the churchyard?
R. I did not see anyone and if there had been I must have seen him. The moon was shining on the snow and made the night quite light.
Q. Are you superstitious?
R. No, Monsieur, I am a practising Catholic.
Q. In what condition of mind were you?
R. Very sane, I assure you. Mademoiselle Daae's curious action in going out at that hour had worried me at first, but as soon as I saw her go to the churchyard I thought that she meant to fulfil some pious duty on her father's grave. She knelt down by the grave and began to pray. At that moment, it struck midnight. At the last stroke,
I saw her lift her eyes to the sky and stretch out her arms as though in ecstasy. I was wondering what the reason could be, when I myself raised my head and everything within me seemed drawn towards the Unseen, which was playing the most perfect music. Christine and I knew that music; we had heard it as children. But it had never been executed with such divine art, not even by her father. I remembered the story that Christine had told me about her Angel of Music. Her father used to say that when he died he would send his Angel of Music to protect her. If Christine's angel had existed, he could not have played more beautifully that night. When the music stopped, I seemed to hear a noise from the heap of bones—it was as though they were laughing, and I could not help shuddering.
The ghouls Page 8