Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “‘No, M. Longuet, no. I shan’t arrest you... It was my mission to arrest Cartouche. But Cartouche no longer exists! There is only M. Longuet; and M. Longuet is my friend!’

  “The eyes of Theophrastus filled with tears.

  “‘I have a strong feeling that I’m cured... if only I could be sure of it.’

  “‘What would you do if you were?’ said I.

  “‘I should go back to my wife, my dear Marceline,’ he said wistfully.

  “‘Well, you must go back to your wife, M. Longuet; you certainly must.’

  “‘You advise me to?’

  “‘Of course I do.’

  “‘No, M. Mifroid, no. She no longer expects me. Before falling through that hole in d’Enfer Street, I was careful to leave my clothes on the bank of a river. She believes me dead — drowned. She must be plunged in profound despair. My only satisfaction is that my dear friend, M. Lecamus, whom you know, has done everything possible for her in her affliction.’

  “‘That makes it all the more necessary for you to go back to her,’ I said.

  “‘I will,’ said Theophrastus; and his face brightened.

  “We were shaking hands with one another, with the reluctance to separate of bosom friends; and indeed our sojourn in the Catacombs had made us bosom friends, when suddenly Theophrastus smote his brow and said:

  “‘I must tell you a story of your youth!’

  “Now, if anyone, at such a time, with Mme. Mifroid in such a state of anxiety, had said to me, ‘I must tell you a story of my youth,’ I should have made some excuse and fled. But he said, ‘I must tell you a story of your youth.’ It was extremely curious; I stopped and listened; and this was what he told me:

  “‘The incident took place in this spot, the Buci Cross-roads,’ said Theophrastus.

  “‘Was I very young?’ I asked, smiling.

  “‘Well, you must have been between fifty and fifty-five.’

  “I gave a little jump. I am not quite forty. And you can understand my astonishment when M. Longuet spoke of an incident of my youth when I was between fifty and fifty-five. But he paid no heed to my movement, and went on:

  “‘At that time you had a greyish beard, cut into two long broad points which flowed gracefully down to your belt; and you were mounted — I can see it now — on a fine Spanish horse.’

  “‘Really? I was mounted on a Spanish horse?’ (I have never been mounted on anything but a bicycle.)

  “‘A Spanish horse, which you gave to one of your archers to hold.’

  “‘Ah, I was in command of archers, was I?’

  “‘Yes, of twenty mounted archers, and a hundred archers on foot. All this troop had come from the Palais de Justice; and when it reached the Buci Cross-roads, you dismounted, because you were thirsty, and wished before the ceremony to get outside a pint at the tavern kept by the Smacker.’

  “‘And for what ceremony had I come from the Palais de Justice with my hundred and twenty archers?’ said I, wishing to humour him, for I only wanted to get home.

  “‘It was the matter of summoning me by Public Proclamation for the murder of the workman Mondelot. Therefore on that day, March 28, 1721, the Clerks of Court, trumpeters, drummers, archers on horseback, and archers on foot, issued from the Palais de Justice in an imposing procession, and after having made the proclamation first in the Court de May, where everything passed quietly, and then again in Croix-Rouge Place, they came back here to the Buci Cross-roads. You had drunk your pint, M. Mifroid, and were mounting your Spanish horse, when this remarkable incident took place. The Clerk of Court read very solemnly: ‘In the name of the King, through the Lords of Parliament, the said Louis-Dominique Cartouche...’ when a voice, cried: ‘Present! Here’s Cartouche! Who wants Cartouche?’... On the instant the Clerks of Court, archers on foot, and archers on horseback, drummers and trumpeters, the whole procession broke up and fled in every direction.... Yes; there did not remain a single person at the Buci Cross-roads, not a single person except myself and the Spanish horse, after I cried:

  “‘Here’s Cartouche!’

  “Phenomenon more curious than all curious phenomena in the depths of the Catacombs!... M. Longuet had no sooner said, ‘Here’s Cartouche!’ than I started to fly from the Buci Cross-roads as fast as my legs could carry me, as if the fear of Cartouche had dwelt in the calves of the police at the Buci Cross-roads for nearly two hundred years!”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THEOPHRASTUS GOES INTO ETERNAL EXILE

  AT THIS POINT I leave the report of the Commissary of Police, M. Mifroid. The conclusion of it indeed is filled with the most profound and philosophic reflections on the effect of companionship in misfortune on the human heart; but they are not relevant to the story of Theophrastus.

  When the noise of the flying feet of M. Mifroid no longer came echoing down the empty street, the heart of that unfortunate man filled with the deepest melancholy. Here was that accursed Black Feather again! Behold him in the flickering light of a street lamp. He shakes his head. Ah! with what a lamentable air does he shake his miserable and dolorous head! Of what is he dreaming, unhappy wretch, that again and again he shakes his luckless head? Doubtless the idea he had had of going back to disturb the peace of his dear Marceline no longer appears to him reasonable. Plainly he rejects it, for his heavy, lagging feet do not carry him towards the heights of Gerando Street.

  Some minutes later, he finds himself in Saint-Andrew-des-Arts Place, and plunges into the dark passage of Suger Street. He rings at a door. The door opens. In the passage a man in a blouse, with a paper cap on his head and a lantern in his hand, asks him what he wants.

  “Good-evening, Ambrose. You are still awake, are you — as late as this?” said Theophrastus. “It’s me. Oh, a lot of things have happened since I last saw you!”

  It was true. A lot of things had happened to M. Longuet since he had last seen Ambrose, for he had not seen him since the day on which he had learned from him the date of the water-mark on the document found in the cellars of the Conciergerie.

  “Come in, and make yourself at home,” said Ambrose.

  “I will tell you all about it to-morrow,” said Theophrastus. “But to-night I want to sleep.”

  Ambrose took him up to bed, and he slept the dreamless sleep of a little child.

  During the next few days Ambrose tried to induce Theophrastus to speak; but, oddly enough, he preserved a complete silence. He spent his time writing and writing. Once or twice he went out at night. Once Ambrose asked him where he was going.

  “A Commissary of Police, M. Mifroid, is writing an account of a journey we took together,” said Theophrastus. “And I am going to ask him for a copy of it.”

  I am inclined to believe that one of these nights he must also have returned to the flat in Gerando Street, by his favourite chimney, and taken away from it the report, which M. Lecamus had written for the Pneumatic Club, of the operation of M. Eliphas de Saint-Elme de Taillebourg de la Nox. Also on one of those nights he must have acquired the sandalwood box inlaid with steel; and since Ambrose believes that he had but little money, it is not improbable that when he acquired it he had his Black Feather.

  One evening he came downstairs carrying a box, the sandalwood box, under his arm; and with an air of gloomy satisfaction, he said to Ambrose, “I have finished my literary labours; and I think I will go and see my wife.”

  “I did not like to speak to you about her,” said Ambrose quickly. “Your gloom and your inexplicable behaviour made me afraid that you had some domestic difficulties.”

  “She is as fond of me as ever!” cried Theophrastus with some heat.

  As he left the house, Ambrose said to him, “Be sure you remember me very kindly to Marceline.”

  Theophrastus said that he would; but to himself he said:

  “Marceline will never see me; she must never see me. Not even the Catacombs have torn out my fatal Black Feather. I must not trouble her peace. She shall never see me. But I — I wish to
see her once again, from afar, to see if she is happy.”

  He sobbed in the street.

  It is nine o’clock at night, a dark winter’s night. Theophrastus mounts the slope at the top of which rise the walls of Azure Waves Villa. With a trembling hand he draws back the bolt of the little door of the garden behind the house. He crosses the garden gently, noiselessly, one hand pressed against his heart, which is beating even more furiously than on the night of the purring of the little violet cat — his good heart, his great heart, still overflowing with love for the wife he wishes to see happy.

  There is a light in the drawing-room; and the window is a few inches open, for the night is muggy. You advance slowly, noiselessly to a screening shrub, set down the sandalwood box, and peer through the leafless branches into the cosy drawing-room.

  Ah! what have you seen in the drawing-room?... Why that deep groan? Why do you tear the white locks from your brow?... What have you seen?... After all, does it matter what you have seen, since you are dead? Did you not wish to see your wife happy? Well, you see her happy!

  She and M. Lecamus are sitting on the sofa. They are holding one another’s hand; they are gazing at one another with the eyes of lovers. He kisses her, with respect but with devotion. He is consoling her for the loss of you. You wished it. How can he better console her than by replacing you?

  Theophrastus, the gentle, kind-hearted manufacturer of rubber stamps, perceives this. He drops on his knees on the cold, wet grass, weeping tears of bitter resignation. He is reconciling himself to the necessity of the cruel fact that they are sitting in his comfortable drawing-room, and he is kneeling on his cold, wet grass. He is almost reconciled to it; but not quite. What is that that is thrusting, thrusting forth? The upward thrust of the Past — the Black Feather!

  The tears are drying in the eyes of Theophrastus. His eyes are gleaming through the dim winter night with an evil gleam. He springs to his feet; he grinds his teeth; he cries hoarsely:

  “By the throttle of Madame Phalaris!”

  The Past has him in its grip; he is racked by the pangs of the old-time jealousy, and the pangs of the new. In three seconds he is through the window and in the drawing-room. Wild screams of terror greet his entrance; but in ten seconds more M. Lecamus lies senseless in the big easy-chair, bound hand and foot with the bell-rope. When he recovers his senses, the hand of the clock has moved on ten minutes. Torn by fears and suspense, he listens with all his ears. He hears faint movements on the floor above. The minutes pass; twenty minutes pass. Then there is a sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Theophrastus enters, once more a changed Theophrastus: his eyes no longer gleam with an evil light; they are full of unshed tears. His face is working with intense emotion; and on his shoulder is a portmanteau.

  What does that portmanteau contain?

  Theophrastus, his face working with intense emotion, crosses the room to his old friend. He wrings his hand, wrings it for the last time; and in a broken voice, a voice full of tears, he says:

  “Good-bye, Adolphe! Good-bye, dear friend, for ever! I am going to the Seine near the Town Hall Bridge. I have to leave this portmanteau. And then I go into eternal exile!”

  He loosed his grip of his friend’s hand and, his face still working with intense emotion, he went through the window, bearing the portmanteau with astonishing ease.

  M. Lecamus has never seen him again; he has never seen Marceline again; he has never seen the portmanteau again. Does the unhappy Theophrastus, luckless exile from the Paris he loves, wander through the far East or the far West? Does he in the old eighteenth-century fashion police Bagdad, or does he build up a rubber stamp business in Chicago?

  The Phantom of the Opera (1909)

  Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos, 1910

  Original French Title: ‘Le Fantôme de l’Opéra’

  This famous novel was first published in serial form in Le Gaulois from 23 September 1909 to 8 January 1910. It was published as one volume by Pierre Lafitte. The plot is partly inspired by historical events at the Paris Opera during the nineteenth century, no doubt assisted by Leroux’s experiences as a theatre critic for the periodical L’Écho de Paris, a role that necessitated frequent visits to the theatre to assess a variety of plays and performances. Aspects of the plot are also said to have been inspired by a tour taken by Leroux of the opera house in Paris, where he was told of the complex flood control mechanisms beneath it.

  Leroux implied when the story was published that it was not fiction at all and he went out of his way to present it almost as a journalistic ‘dossier’ of events, using a variety of techniques such as flashbacks (similar to witness statements), letters and so on — as it might be known today, investigative journalism. The preface sets the scene for this structure, with the narrator apparently telling the tale thirty years after the events in the story and outlining the way in which he researched it — using archives at the opera house itself, studying the memoirs of one of the directors of the opera house and perusal of the building itself. Throughout the narrative, Leroux also uses footnotes to make the story look more factual, essentially referencing the ‘facts’ he relates.

  Le Fantôme de l’Opéra has variously been categorised as a gothic tale and a horror story and it continues to be widely read, although critics today are clear in their summary that the story is not great literature, even if it is a ‘good read’. It has been successfully adapted into various stage and film adaptations, most notable of which are the 1925 film depiction released by Universal Pictures and featuring Lon Chaney Snr and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1986 musical. However, the first film adaptation was a German production named Das Gespenst im Opernhaus, now lost. It was made in 1916 and was directed by Ernest Matray. Between 1987 and 1992, there were no less than seven film adaptations of the novel, one of which was an animated version. The novel has also inspired comic book versions, radio plays, short stories and an orchestral interpretation.

  The story opens in Paris in the 1880’s, at the Palais Garnier opera house. This particular evening, emotions are running high, as it is the last night before the retirement of M. Debienne and M. Poligny, managers at the Opera, so it is perhaps not surprising that six of the younger ballerinas are convinced that they have seen the Phantom (or Opera Ghost) that is reputed to haunt the building. They tell La Sorelli, the principal dancer, how the ghost seemed to materialise from a wall and that he was very ugly, but dressed in the formal attire of a gentleman. Joseph Buquet, a senior scene shifter and a sober and sensible man, has also seen the ghost and describes him more carefully:

  ‘“He is extraordinarily thin and his dress-coat hangs on a skeleton frame. His eyes are so deep that you can hardly see the fixed pupils…His skin, which is stretched across his bones like a drumhead, is…a nasty yellow. His nose is so little worth talking about that you can’t see it side-face…All the hair he has is three or four long dark locks on his forehead and behind his ears.’

  More sightings follow. The fire officer is terrified by a floating head, all in flames. Mysterious noises are heard in what turns out to be an empty corridor. The ghost is sighted by Gabriel, the chorus master. Then, the worst of all news: a popular stagehand named Joseph Buquet hangs himself, but when his colleagues go to cut him down, they are shocked to find that his noose has disappeared.

  Meanwhile, in true theatrical tradition, the gala performance for the two retiring managers has gone on unhindered and it is a triumph. A young little-known Swedish soprano, Christine Daae, is called upon to sing in place of the Opera’s leading soprano, Carlotta, who is indisposed and her performance is a huge success. In the audience, there is the Comte de Chagny and his younger brother, the charmingly innocent Raoul, who was Christine’s childhood playmate. Raoul is overwhelmed to see her again and he realises that his love for Christine has never really waned. He tries to visit her backstage, but overhears her having a fraught conversation with a man, in the privacy of her dressing room. Christine pleads with the man, saying she sang only for
him and that she had half killed herself with her efforts; the mysterious man responds that ‘The angels wept tonight’ at the beauty of her voice. Out of jealousy, Raoul investigates the room once Christine leaves, only to find it unaccountably empty.

  There is to be one more shock that night — the ghost appears in the midst of the corps de ballet as they stand listening to Sorelli’s speech to the retiring managers, causing hysteria and fear. There are further sightings that evening and the outgoing managers reveal to their successors that the ghost has demanded an allowance from the opera house and the exclusive use of Box 5 — although he is rarely seen in it. At first nonplussed, then sceptical, the new managers quickly forget about this ridiculous notion of a resident ghost, in the excitement of being the new proprietors of the opera house. They are soon brought back to reality, however, when they receive a clumsily penned letter from, apparently, the ghost. After a cutting critique of most of the resident performers, the ghost ends his letter with an expression of deep disapproval that his box has been booked to other people. He ends his letter with a threat: ‘…you are treating me with outrageous contempt. IF YOU WISH TO LIVE IN PEACE, YOU MUST NOT BEGIN BY TAKING AWAY MY PRIVATE BOX.’

  The opera house now seems to descend into a state of farce, rather than scale the heights of artistic endeavour. There are scuffles in Box 5 over its occupancy, with a ghostly voice frightening those who have booked it. More letters arrive in the now familiar sardonic tones of the ghost. It transpires that Mme Giry, who looks after the boxes, has almost a friendship with the ghost and does him little favours and he for her; the ghost sometimes has a lady friend in his box with him. Meanwhile, the gifted singer, Christine, renews her friendship with Raoul and tells him of her lessons with the mysterious Angel of Music, who visits her in her dressing room daily and who she hears, but has never seen; and the new managers of the opera house, determined to take a sceptical view of the whole affair, begin their own investigation of the strange events at their new place of work. However, the ghost continues the threats and in his next letter, the tone is more ominous than ever. He demands exclusive use of Box 5 in perpetuity; the services of Mme Giry, who had been dismissed, must be restored; his allowance, recently under threat, must be continued; and Christine must be given the leading part of Margarita in the forthcoming performance of Faust: ‘If you refuse, you will give FAUST to-night in a house with a curse upon it.’ It would seem that the ghost is assuming control of the opera house – and events are to escalate even further…