Then I spoke:
‘Erik! It’s me! Do you recognize me?’
He answered at once in an extraordinarily calm voice:
‘So you didn’t die in there?… Never mind, just try and keep quiet.’
I tried to say something but he interrupted in such a glacial voice that I froze behind my wall:
‘Another word from you, Daroga, and I blow everything to blazes!’
And almost without pausing, he went on:
‘But that honour belongs to the young lady!… She hasn’t touched the scorpion (how coolly he spoke!), and she hasn’t touched the grasshopper (and with such frightening composure!), but it’s not too late to do the thing properly. There, I’ve opened the box without the key, for I am the king of traps… I can open and close whatever I like whenever I like… I can open little ebony boxes… Look inside them, Mademoiselle, look into my little ebony boxes… such pretty little creatures… so lifelike… they look so harmless!… But you can’t go by appearances!… (All this was said in an unemphatic monotone.) If you turn the grasshopper, Mademoiselle, we shall all be blown sky high… There’s enough explosive under our feet to blow up an entire quartier of Paris!… But if you turn the scorpion, the powder magazine will be flooded!… So on the occasion of our marriage, Christine, you are going to offer a great gift to several hundred Parisians who even as we speak are wildly applauding a miserable masterpiece by poor Meyerbeer… the gift of life… because you, Christine, with those pretty hands of yours (how weary the voice now sounded!) are about to turn the scorpion!… Then, joyfully and without impediment, we shall be married!…’
There was a silence and then he went on:
‘Christine, if in the next two minutes by my watch, which keeps excellent time, you have not turned the scorpion, I shall turn the grasshopper. And remember: grasshoppers jump explosively!…’
The silence which followed was more menacing than all previous silences put together. I knew of old that when Erik’s voice went quiet, calm and very weary, it was because he’d come to the end of the road and was capable of perpetrating the most colossal outrage or committing acts of the most fanatical devotion. I knew too that one word of opposition could unleash a storm! The Viscount realized that all he could do now was to get down on his knees and pray… For my part, the blood was coursing so fast through my veins that I had to put my hand on my heart lest it burst… For we could both imagine what must be going on in Christine’s mind in those last seconds… we could understand why she hesitated to turn the scorpion… for she must wonder if it was the scorpion which would blow us all to kingdom come… and Erik really had decided that we should all die with him!…
Then we heard Erik’s voice. It was now sweet and gentle, almost angelic:
‘The two minutes are up… Adieu, Christine!… Now grasshopper, jump to it!… Let the fireworks begin!…’
‘Erik!’ cried Christine, who must have stayed the monster’s hand, ‘swear to me, swear on your satanic love, that the scorpion is the one to turn…’
‘Yes, if you want fireworks for our wedding…’
‘I knew it! We’re all going to be blown up!’
‘Fireworks for our wedding, foolish girl!… The scorpion will open the ball!… But enough of this… Since you refuse to turn the scorpion, I’ll take the grasshopper!…’
‘Erik!’
‘Enough, I said!’
I added my voice to Christine’s. The Viscount, still kneeling, continued to pray.
‘There, Erik!… I’ve turned the scorpion!!…’
• • • • • • • • • • • •
For one second I seemed to live a lifetime.
I waited… waited to be reduced to atoms by the noise and devastation…
And then we heard a crack! under our feet… it came from the opening to the cellar… maybe it was the beginning… the start of the apotheosis of horror… for in the shadows, from the open trap, through the pitch blackness, rose an alarming hiss, as if a fuse had been lit…
At first it was low… then it swelled… until it was deafening…
But listen!… listen!… and hold both your hands over your heart which felt as if about to explode along with many of the human race!…
But it wasn’t the crackle of flames!…
Wasn’t it more like the hiss of water?…
‘Quick!… we must get to the trap!’
‘Listen!…’
Yes, definitely more like a gurgle!…
We scurry to the trap!…
Oh, it’s so cool!… Cool!… Cool!… Our thirst which had been driven out by fear now came back with a vengeance…
It is water!… and it’s rising… rising in the cellar below, over the barrels, the barrels full of gunpowder (any old barrels!… barrels!… any old barrels for sale?)… down we go in pursuit of that water, throats on fire… the water is up to our chins, it’s at our lips…
We drink… standing in the cellar we drink…
Then in the utter darkness we climb the steps one by one, climb back up the steps we’d gone down by, rising with the water as it rises with us…
So much gunpowder, and all wet, soaked, spoiled!… Such a wonderful waste!… No danger of running short of water in the house by the lake!… If this goes on, the entire lake will end up in the cellar!…
Who knows when it will stop… Now we’ve come back up from the cellar and it’s still rising!… It has followed us into the torture chamber too and is spreading across the floor!… If this goes on, the whole house will soon be flooded… The floor of the chamber of mirrors has turned into a small lake and we paddle in it. That’s more than enough water!… Erik has got to turn the tap off:
‘Erik! Erik! The gunpowder is sodden! Turn the tap off! Turn the scorpion!’
But Erik did not answer. All we could hear was the sound of the rising water which was now halfway up our legs!…
‘Christine! Christine!’ shouted the Viscount, ‘the water’s rising! It’s over our knees!’
But Christine did not answer either… all we could hear was the gurgle of water rising relentlessly.
Only the noise of rushing water! There was no sound from the next room… There was no one there! No one to turn off the tap! No one to turn the scorpion! We were alone, in the dark, left to the embrace of a creeping, icy tide.
‘Erik! Erik!’
‘Christine! Christine!’
By now we were out of our depth, turning in a circle, propelled by an irresistible current, for the water was whirling with us and smashing us against the mirrors from which we bounced back… barely keeping our heads above water we screamed…
Were we going to die like this?… were we going to drown in a torture chamber?… I’d never seen it happen back in the days of the Rosy Hours of Mazanderan… Erik had never shown me such a thing through the spyhole!…
‘Erik! I saved your life! You can’t have forgotten!… You were sentenced to death!… You were going to die!… I let you live!… Erik!…’
We were being spun round and round like pieces of flotsam!…
And then by chance my flailing hands grabbed the trunk of the iron tree!… I shouted to the Viscount and next thing the two of us were clinging to the branch of the iron tree…
But the water went on rising!
‘Think! Try to remember! How much space is there between the branch and the domed ceiling of the torture chamber?… Come on, think!… But maybe the water will stop rising… sooner or later it must find its own level… Yes! I think it’s stopping!… No, I was wrong!… Swim for it! Swim for your life!…’
As we swam, we got in each other’s way, we gasped for breath, we struggled in the black water!… we could hardly breathe the black air above the black water!… air which escaped… which we could hear escaping through some unseen ventilation shaft above our heads!…
‘Turn! Keep swimming round and round until we are taken up to that air-hole… we’ll be able to breathe there!…’
But
my strength began to fail, I tried to cling to the walls! But the smooth glass slipped under my searching hands!… Round and round… spinning!… sinking!… One last effort!… One last cry for help!…
‘Erik!… Christine!’
Sounds of water bubbling, fizzing in our ears!… gurgling, foaming… under the black water our ears rang, boiled with it!… And before losing consciousness, I seemed still to hear a voice calling above the swish and boil of water: any old barrels!… barrels!… any old barrels for sale?
CHAPTER 27
The End of the Phantom’s Love Story
AT this point, the Persian’s written account breaks off abruptly.
Despite their grim predicament which seemed to spell certain death for both of them, the Viscount de Chagny and his companion were saved by Christine Daaé with an act of supreme devotion. The rest of the story I had from the lips of the Daroga himself.
When I went to see him, he was still living in his small apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries. He was not a well man and it took all my persuasive powers as a reporter-cum-chronicler committed to uncovering truth to induce him to relive those incredible moments with me. His old and faithful retainer, Darius, was still in his service and showed me the way. The Daroga received me by a window overlooking the gardens of the Tuileries. He was sitting in a large armchair and, as he straightened up, revealed a physique which must at one time have been very handsome. His eyes were still magnetic but his gaunt face was lined and drawn. His head was completely shaved and on it he ordinarily wore an astrakhan fez. He had on an enormous, plain greatcoat with long sleeves inside which he was in the habit of twiddling his thumbs. But his mind was as clear as a bell.
He could not remember his old ordeal without becoming agitated and it was in bits and pieces that I got him to relate the amazing conclusion to this strange story. At times, it took a lot of coaxing to get him to answer my questions at all. At others, stirred by his memories, he would volunteer information without any prompting from me, and paint a startlingly vivid picture of the fearsome Erik and the terrifying hours he and the Viscount de Chagny had spent in the house by the lake. He still shook visibly when he described the moment when he woke up in the oppressive semi-darkness of the Louis-Philippe salon, after their trial by water.
What follows is his account of how their hair-raising adventure ended and thus completes the written narrative which he was kind enough to entrust to me.
When he opened his eyes, the Daroga realized he was lying on a bed… Raoul de Chagny was stretched out on a couch next to a mirror-fronted wardrobe. An angel and a demon were watching over them…
After all the mirages and illusions they had faced in the torture chamber, the orderly detail of that small, neat, civilized salon seemed like yet another trick designed to disorientate any mortal rash enough to venture into that place of living nightmares. The carved wooden bed, the gleaming mahogany chairs, the chest of drawers and the brasses, the antimacassars carefully arranged over the backs of chairs, the clock on the mantelpiece flanked by the two seemingly harmless ebony boxes, and not least the whatnot with its shelves full of pretty shells, red pincushions, little mother-of-pearl boats and a huge ostrich egg… all softly lit by a shaded lamp on a small round table… the whole room, furnished with such hideously prim respectability, was quiet and tidy. But to find it there, in the lower depths of the Opera House, was far more disturbing than all the fantastic things they had experienced.
And in that neat, prissy setting, the figure of a masked man seemed all the more unnerving. The man leaned forward and whispered in the Daroga’s ear:
‘Feeling better, Daroga?… You are wondering about the furniture? My wretched mother’s: it’s all I have left of her.’
Other things were said which the Persian could not remember. But for some reason which he found strange, he recalled very clearly that only Erik spoke in that salon which belonged more to the age of Louis-Philippe* than the present. Christine was there but she did not say anything. She moved about noiselessly, like a Sister of Charity who had taken a vow of silence… She brought a cup of cordial… a hot infusion. The man in the mask took it from her and held it out to the Persian.
Meanwhile, the Viscount slept on.
Erik poured a little rum into the cup and, gesturing towards the sleeping Raoul, said:
‘The boy there regained consciousness, Daroga, long before we knew if you’d live to see another day. He has come to no harm… He’s sleeping… We mustn’t wake him…’
Erik left the room for a moment. Raising himself on one elbow, the Persian looked all around him… At one side of the fireplace, he saw the white figure of Christine Daaé. He spoke to her… called her… but he was still very weak and fell back on his pillow… Christine came over and felt his brow with her hand, then turned and left him… The Persian recalled that as she moved away she did not even glance at Raoul who, it’s true, was sleeping peacefully… and went and sat back down in her armchair by the fireplace, exactly like that Sister of Charity who had taken a vow of silence.
Erik returned carrying several small phials which he arranged on the mantelpiece. He then sat by the Persian’s bedside, felt his pulse and in an even lower whisper, so that he would not wake the Viscount, he said:
‘You are both quite safe now. Soon I shall take you back up to the surface—a gesture to please my wife.’
Without any further explanation, he stood up and went out again.
The Persian stared at Christine’s serene face in the lamplight. She was reading a small volume with the gilt edges which you associate with religious books. Editions of the Imitation of Christ* often come in such a livery. He could still hear the natural, easy tone of voice with which Erik had said ‘to please my wife’.
The Daroga called Christine’s name again, softly, but she seemed deep in her book, for she did not hear…
Erik returned and gave the Daroga a potion to drink but not before telling him he mustn’t speak to ‘his wife’ again or to any other person because doing so might prove very dangerous for everyone’s health.
Thereafter, the Persian had confused memories of Erik’s black shadow and the white figure of Christine as they came and went silently in the room and sometimes bent over the Viscount’s sleeping form. The Persian was still very weak and the slightest sound—like the wardrobe door which creaked when opened—made his head ache… until he fell into a deep sleep, like Raoul.
This time, when he woke up he was in his own bed, being cared for by Darius who informed him that he had been found the previous night outside the door of his apartment where he had been deposited by someone who had rung the bell before absconding.
As soon as the Daroga had regained his strength and his senses, he wrote to Count Philippe asking for news of his brother.
He was told that Raoul was still missing and that the Count was dead. His body had been found on the bank of the lake under the Opera, on the Rue Scribe side. The Persian recalled the Requiem Mass he had heard when he was in the chamber of mirrors: he was sure the Count had been murdered and was in no doubt about the identity of the murderer! Knowing Erik, he had no difficulty reconstructing the crime. Convinced that his brother had eloped with Christine Daaé, Philippe had set off in hot pursuit along the Brussels road. He knew their route which had been meticulously planned. But failing to catch up with the pair, he had returned to the Opera. He recalled the strange tales Raoul had told about his superhuman rival. He learned that Raoul had hunted high and low for a way into the underground levels of the theatre and, finally, that he had disappeared, leaving his hat in the diva’s dressing room next to an empty pistol case. Firmly believing now that his brother was quite mad, the Count had gone after him into that infernal, subterranean labyrinth. For the Persian, this was enough to explain the discovery of the Count’s body on the banks of the lake which was so well guarded by the song of the Siren, Erik’s Siren, the gatekeeper of the Lake of the Dead.
The Persian hesitated no
longer. Appalled by this latest outrage and unable to stand not knowing what had finally happened to the Viscount and Christine Daaé, he decided to tell the police everything he knew.
An examining magistrate named Faure was now in charge of the case and it was on his door that the Persian knocked. It is not difficult to imagine what sort of reception so sceptical, dull, superficial (I speak as I find) and utterly impervious a mind gave to the kind of information the Persian brought him.
He was treated as if he was deranged.
Despairing of ever getting a fair hearing, the Persian then wrote letters. If the courts weren’t interested in his story, perhaps the press would be. One evening, just as he was writing the last few lines of the narrative which in earlier chapters I reprinted word for word, his man Darius announced a visitor who would not give his name, kept his face well hidden and declared bluntly that he would not leave until he had seen the Daroga.
The Persian was instantly convinced that he knew the identity of his mysterious visitor and told Darius to show the man up at once.
The Daroga was right.
It was Erik! The Phantom of the Opera!
He looked very weak and hung on to the walls as if he were afraid of falling… He removed his hat, exposing a forehead which was like yellow wax. The rest of his face was covered by a mask.
The Persian stood, drew himself up and said:
‘You murdered Count Philippe! What have you done with his brother and Christine Daaé?’
On hearing this opening salvo, Erik staggered, said nothing for a moment and then dragged himself to an armchair onto which he collapsed with a deep sigh. And there, in brief snatches and disjointed words between laboured breaths, he began to speak.
‘Daroga, do not talk to me of Count Philippe… He was already… dead… by the time I left my house… dead I tell you… before the Siren sang… an accident… a terrible… regrettably sad… accident… He was… clumsy… he fell into the lake… simply… naturally.’
The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics) Page 33