The ghouls

by Haining, Peter, comp

  Q. Did it not occur to you that the musician might be hiding behind that very heap of bones?

  R. It was the one thought that did occur to me, Monsieur, so much so that I omitted to follow Mademoiselle Daae when she stood up and walked slowly to the gate. She was so much absorbed just then that I am not surprised that she did not see me.

  Q. Then what happened, that you were found in the morning lying half-dead on the steps of the high altar?

  R. First a skull rolled to my feet, then another and suddenly I saw a shadow glide along the sacristy wall. I ran up. The shadow had already pushed open the door and entered the church. But I was quicker than the shadow and caught hold of a corner of its cloak. At that moment we were just in front of the high altar and the moonlight fell straight upon us through the stained-glass windows of the apse. As I did not let go of the cloak, the shadow turned round and I saw a terrible death's head which stared at me with a pair of scorching eyes. I felt as if I were face to face with Satan and in the presence of this unearthly apparition my heart gave way, my courage failed me . . . and I remember nothing more until I recovered consciousness at the Setting Sun . . .

  The next Saturday morning, on reaching their office, the joint managers found a letter from O.G., which said:

  My Dear Sirs,

  So is it to be war between us? If you still care for peace, here is my ultimatum. It consists of the four following conditions:

  i. You must give me back my private box and I shall expect to have it at my free disposal from this day forward.

  2. The part of Margarita shall he sung tonight by Christine Daae. Never mind about Carlotta: she will be ill.

  3. I absolutely insist upon the good and loyal services of Madame Giry, my box-keeper.

  4. Let me know by a letter handed to Madame Giry, who will see that it reaches me, that you accept, as did your predecessors, the terms of the lease relating to my monthly allowance. I will inform you later how you are to pay it to me.

  If you refuse, you will give Faust tonight in a house with a curse upon it.

  Take my advice and be warned in time.

  The Phantom

  That night the first act passed without incident.

  When Christine entered the stage, she raised her head and saw the Vicomte de Chagny in his box. From that moment, her voice seemed less sure, less crystal clear than usual.

  "What a queer girl she is!" said one of Carlotta's friends. "The other day she was divine and today she can't sing a note!"

  In the beginning of the third act Carlotta made her entrance and, certain of herself and her success, she flung herself into her part without the least modesty or restraint. She was applauded all the more and her duet with Faust seemed about to bring her a new success, when suddenly a terrible thing happened.

  Just as she sang, "Oh, how strange! Like a spell does the evening bind me!" Carlotta's voice fell and, "Co-ack!" She croaked like a toad!

  There was consternation on Carlotta's face and on the faces of all the audience. The uproar in the house was indescribable. If the thing had happened to anyone but Carlotta, she would have been hooted. But everyone knew how perfect her voice was, and there was no display of anger, but only horror and dismay.

  Meanwhile, in Box 5, Moncharmin and Richard had turned very pale. Leaning over the ledge of their box, they stared at Carlotta as though they did not recognize her. The ghost had told them it would come! The house had a curse upon it! Richard was calling to Carlotta, in a smothered voice, "Well, go on!"

  Bravely she started afresh on the fatal line at the end of which the toad had appeared.

  An awful silence succeeded the uproar. Again Carlotta's voice filled the house.

  "I feel without alarm . . . Co-ack!" The toad also had started afresh.

  The house broke into a wild tumult. The two managers collapsed in their chairs and dared not even turn round. They had not the strength, for the ghost was chuckling behind their backs. They distinctly heard his mouthless voice saying in their ears:

  "Tonight her singing will bring the chandelier down!"

  They raised their eyes to the ceiling and cried out in horror. The chandelier, the immense mass of the chandelier was slipping down, coming towards them, at the call of that fiendish voice. Released from its hook, it plunged from the ceiling and came smashing into the middle of the stalls amid a thousand shouts of terror and a wild rush for the doors.

  The papers of the day state that there were numbers wounded and one killed. The chandelier had crashed down upon the head of a wretched woman who had come to the Opera for the first time in her life, the woman whom Monsieur Richard had appointed to succeed Madame Giry, the ghost's box-keeper.

  That tragic evening was a bad one for all concerned. Carlotta fell ill. As for Christine Daae, she disappeared after the performance and was not seen for a fortnight.

  Raoul was grief-stricken and told his brother everything that had occurred. The count consoled him, without asking for explanations, and suggested taking him out to dinner. Overcome as he was with despair, Raoul would probably have refused any invitation that evening if the count had not, as an inducement, told him that the lady of his thoughts had been seen the night before with a man in the Bois. At first, the viscount refused to believe it, but he was given such exact details that he ceased protesting. She had been seen, it appeared, driving in a brougham, with the window down. There was a full moon shining, and she was recognized beyond a doubt. As for her companion, only his shadowy outline was seen, leaning back in the darkness. The carriage was going at a walking pace down a lonely drive behind the grandstand at Longchamp.

  Raoul dressed in frantic haste, prepared to forget his distress in flinging himself, as people say, into "the vortex of pleasure". Alas, he was but a dull guest and, leaving his brother early, found himself by ten o'clock in the evening in a cab behind the Longchamp race-course.

  It was freezing hard. The road lay deserted and very bright under

  the moonlight. He told the driver to wait for him at the corner of an avenue and, hiding as best he could stood stamping his feet to keep warm. He had remained like this for half an hour or so when a carriage turned into the road and came quietly in his direction, at a walking pace.

  As it approached, he saw that a woman was leaning her head from the window. And suddenly the moon shed a pale gleam over her features.

  "Christine!"

  The sacred name of his love had sprung from his heart, but the next minute he would have given anything to withdraw it, for his call threw Christine into confusion. The window was raised and the carriage dashed past him before he could leap in front of the horses' heads. In a moment the brougham was no more than a black spot on the white road . . .

  When his valet brought his letters the next morning he found Raoul sitting on his bed. He had not undressed and at the sight of his face the servant feared that some disaster had occurred. Raoul snatched the letters from the man's hands. He recognized Christine's paper and handwriting.

  My dear,

  Go to the masked ball at the Opera on the night after tomorrow. At twelve o'clock, he in the little room behind the chimney-piece of the big room. Stand near the door that leads to the Rotunda. Don't mention this appointment to a living soul. Wear a white domino and see that you are well masked. If you love me, do not let yourself be recognized.

  Christine

  The hour of the appointment came at last. With his face in a mask trimmed with long, thick lace, looking very foolish in his white wrap, the viscount thought himself most ridiculous. Men of the world do not go to the Opera ball in fancy dress. It was laughable. One thought, however, consoled the viscount: he would certainly never be recognized.

  This ball was an exceptional affair, given some little time before Shrovetide, and it was expected to be much gayer, noisier and more Bohemian than the ordinary masked ball. Numbers of artists had arranged to go, accompanied by a whole cohort of models and pupils,

  and by midnight they were creating a tr
emendous din. Raoul arrived at five minutes to twelve, but did not linger to look at the motley dresses displayed all the way up the marble staircase, replied to no one and shook off the bold familiarity of a number of couples who had already become a trifle too gay. Crossing the big room and escaping from a mad whirl of dancers in which he was momentarily caught, he at last entered the room mentioned in Christine's letter. He found it crammed, for this small space was the point where all those who were going to supper in the Rotunda converged with those who were returning and here the fun waxed fast and furious.

  Raoul leant against a door post and waited. He did not wait long. A black domino passed and made him a sign with her hand. He understood that it was she and followed her.

  "Is that you, Christine?" he asked, between his teeth.

  The black domino turned round promptly and raised her finger to her lips, no doubt to warn him not to mention her name again. Raoul continued to follow her in silence.

  The black domino turned back from time to time to see if he was still following.

  As Raoul once more passed through the great room, this time in the wake of his guide, he could not help noticing a group crowding round a person whose disguise, eccentric air and cadaverous appearance were causing a sensation. It was a man dressed all in scarlet, with a huge hat and feathers on the top of a wonderful death's-head. From his shoulders hung an immense red velvet cloak which trailed along the floor like a king's train; and on this cloak was embroidered, in gold letters, which everyone read and repeated aloud:

  "Touch me not! I am Red Death!"

  Then one, greatly daring, did try to touch him . . . but a skeleton hand shot out of a crimson sleeve and violently seized the rash one's wrist and he, feeling the knuckle-bone clutch of Death, uttered a cry of pain and terror. When Red Death released him at last, he ran away like a madman, pursued by the jeers of the bystanders. It was at this moment that Raoul passed in front of the funereal masquerader, who had just happened to turn in his direction. And he nearly exclaimed: "The death's-head of Perros-Guirec!"

  He had recognized him! He wanted to dart forward, forgetting Christine, but the black domino, who also seemed a prey to some strange excitement, caught him by the arm and dragged him from the room, far from the mad crowd through which Red Death was stalking.

  The black domino kept on looking back and on two occasions apparently saw something that startled her, for she hurried her pace and Raoul's as though they were being pursued.

  They went up two floors. Here the stairs and corridors were almost deserted. The black domino opened the door of a private box and beckoned Raoul to follow her. Then Christine, whom he now knew by the sound of her voice, closed the door behind them and warned him in a whisper to remain at the back of the box and on no account to show himself. Raoul took off his mask. Christine kept on hers. And when Raoul was about to ask her to remove it, he was surprised to see her put her ear to the partition and listen eagerly for a sound outside. Then she opened the door ajar, looked out into the corridor and in a low voice said, "He must have gone up higher."

  Suddenly she exclaimed: "He is coming down again!"

  She tried to close the door, but Raoul prevented her, for he had seen, on the top step of the staircase that led to the floor above, a red foot, followed by another . . . and slowly, majestically, the whole scarlet dress of Red Death met his eyes. And he once more saw the death's-head of Perros-Guirec:

  "It's he!" he exclaimed. "This time he shall not escape me!"

  But Christine had slammed the door at the moment when Raoul was on the point of rushing out. He tried to push her aside.

  "Who do you mean?" she asked, in a changed voice. "Who shall not escape you?"

  Raoul tried to overcome the girl's resistance by force, but she repelled him with a strength which he would not have suspected in her. He understood, or thought he understood, and at once lost his temper.

  "Who?" he repeated, angrily. "Why, he, the man who hides behind that hideous mask of death! The evil genius of the churchyard at Per-ros! Red Death! In a word, Madame, your friend . . . your Angel of Music! But I shall snatch off his mask, as I shall snatch off my own, and this time we shall look each other in the face, with no veil and no lies between us; and I shall know whom you love and who loves you!"

  He burst into a mad laugh, while Christine gave a disconsolate moan behind her velvet mask. With a tragic gesture, she flung herself against the door: "In the name of our love, Raoul, you shall not pass!"

  He stopped. What had she said? ... In the name of their love? Never before had she confessed that she loved him. And yet she had had opportunities enough! She wished to give the Red Death time to escape. And in accents of childish hatred he cried, "You lie, Madame,

  for you do not love me and you have never loved me. What a poor fellow I must be to let you mock and flout me as you have done. Why did you give me every reason for hope at Perros? ... for honest hope, Madame, for I am an honest man and I believed you to be an honest woman, when your only intention was to deceive me. You have taken a shameful advantage of the candid affection of your benefactress herself, who continues to believe in your sincerity, while you go about the Opera ball with Red Death! ... I despise you!"

  And he burst into tears. She allowed him to insult her. She thought of but one thing, to prevent him from leaving the box.

  "You will beg my pardon one day for all those ugly words, Raoul, and I shall forgive you!"

  He shook his head.

  "No, no, you have driven me mad! When I think that I had only one object in life—to give my name to an Opera wench!"

  "Raoul! . . . How can you?"

  "I shall die of shame!"

  "No, dear, live!" said Christine, in a grave and breaking voice. "And . . . goodbye. Goodbye, Raoul!"

  The boy stepped towards her, risking one more sarcasm.

  "Oh, but you must let me come and applaud you from time to time."

  "I shall never sing again, Raoul."

  "Really?" he replied, still more sarcastically. "So he is taking you off the stage, I congratulate you! But shall we meet in the Bois, one of these evenings?"

  "Not in the Bois nor anywhere, Raoul, you shall not see me again."

  "May one at least ask to what darkness you are returning? For what hell are you leaving, mysterious lady ... or for what paradise?"

  "I came to tell you, dear, but I cannot tell you now . . . you would not believe me. You have lost faith in me, Raoul. It is finished!"

  She spoke in such a despairing voice that the young man began to feel remorse for his cruelty.

  "But can't you tell me what all this means?" he cried. "You are free, explain yourself, Christine, I beg of you!"

  Christine simply took off her mask and said, "My dear, it is a tragedy!"

  Raoul now saw her face and could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and terror. The fresh complexion of former days was gone. A mortal pallor covered those features which he had known so charming and so gentle, and sorrow had traced dark and unspeakably sad shadows under her eyes.

  "My dearest!" he moaned, holding out his arms. "You promised to forgive me . . ."

  "Perhaps. Some day, perhaps," she said, resuming her mask; and she went away, forbidding him, with a gesture, to follow her.

  He tried to disobey her but she turned round and repeated her gesture of farewell with such authority that he dared not move a step.

  He watched her till she was out of sight. Then he also went down among the crowd with an aching heart.

  His footsteps took him to that room where he had first known suffering. He tapped at the door. There was no answer. He entered, as he had that night when he looked everywhere for the man's voice. The room was empty. A gas jet was burning, turned down low. He saw some letter paper on a little desk. He thought of writing to Christine, but he heard steps in the passage. He only just had time to hide in the inner room, which was separated from the dressing-room by a curtain.

  Christine entered, took off h
er mask with a weary gesture and flung it on the table. She sighed and let her pretty head fall into her two hands. What was she thinking of? Of Raoul? No, for Raoul heard her murmur, "Poor Erik!"

  What had this Erik to do with Christine's sighs and why was she pitying Erik when Raoul was so unhappy?

  Christine began to write, deliberately and calmly, filling two, three, four sheets. Suddenly she raised her head and hid the sheets in her bodice. She seemed to be listening. Raoul also listened. Whence came that strange sound, that distant rhythm? A faint singing seemed to issue from the walls. The song became plainer . . . now the words were distinguishable. He heard a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very captivating voice which came nearer and nearer. It came through the wall and now it was in the room, in front of Christine. Christine rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to someone beside her.

  "Here I am, Erik," she said. "I am ready. But you are late."

  Raoul, peeping from behind the curtain, could not believe his eyes, for they showed him nothing. Christine's face lit up. A smile of happiness appeared upon her bloodless lips, a smile like that of sick people when they receive the first hope of recovery.

  The voice was singing the Wedding Night Song from Romeo and Juliet. Raoul saw Christine stretch out her arms to the voice as she had done, in the churchyard at Perros, to the invisible violin playing the Resurrection of Lazarus. And nothing could describe the passion with which the voice sang, "Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!"

  The strains went through Raoul's heart. He managed to draw back the curtain that hid him and walked to where Christine stood. She herself was moving to the back of the room, the whole wall of which was occupied by a great mirror that reflected her image, but not his, for he was just behind and entirely concealed by her.