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Are people so unhappy when they love?” “Yes, Christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved.”
“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!”
“Ladies and gentlemen, an unprecedented event has taken place and thrown us into a state of the greatest alarm. Our sister-artist, Christine Daaé, has disappeared before our eyes and nobody can tell us how!”
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen. Could you tell me where Christine Daaé is?” In spite of the seriousness of the circumstances, the absurdity of the question would have made them roar with laughter, if they had not caught sight of a face so sorrow-stricken that they were at once seized with pity. It was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.
The hand that was laid on his shoulder was now placed on the lips of a person with an ebony skin, with eyes of jade and with an astrakhan cap on his head: the Persian!
“Thousand-franc notes!” she cried. “Yes, Mme. Giry, thousand-franc notes! And you knew it!” “I, sir? I? . . . I swear . . .” “Don’t swear, Mme. Giry! . . . And now I will tell you the second reason why I sent for you. Mme. Giry, I am going to have you arrested.”
For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost . . . in the ghost.”
“You know what I mean.” “Oh,” he sniggered, “I don’t mind telling you about the chandelier! . . . It wasn’t I! . . . The chandelier was very old and worn.” When Erik laughed, he was more terrible than ever. He jumped into the boat, chuckling so horribly that I could not help trembling.
This explains the disappearance of the rope. And now I discovered the lasso, at our feet, in the torture-chamber! . . . I am no coward, but a cold sweat covered my forehead as I moved the little red disk of my lantern over the walls.
“I tried to commit suicide! The monster went out last night, after carrying me here fainting and half chloroformed. He was going to his banker, so he said! . . . When he returned he found me with my face covered with blood. . . . I had tried to kill myself by striking my forehead against the walls.” “Christine!” groaned Raoul; and he began to sob.
you turn the grasshopper, mademoiselle, we shall all be blown up. There is enough gun-powder under our feet to blow up a whole quarter of Paris. If you turn the scorpion, mademoiselle, all that powder will be soaked and drowned.
And the cab drove off into the night. The Persian had seen the poor, unfortunate Erik for the last time. Three weeks later, the Époque published this advertisement: “Erik is dead.”
contained the large sum of money which he had succeeded in playfully extracting, for the time being, from the treasury. Richard was at once of the opinion that we must be content with that and drop the business. I agreed with Richard. All’s well that ends well. What do you say, O. G.?”
According to the Persian’s account, Erik was born in a small town not far from Rouen. He was the son of a master-mason. He ran away at an early age from his father’s house, where his ugliness was a subject of horror and terror to his parents.
an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar. Ah, yes, we must needs pity the Opera ghost. I have prayed over his
