It came softly at first, then louder, then very loud . . .
But it was not the hiss of fire. It was more like the hiss of water. And now it became a gurgling sound.
We rushed to the trapdoor. All our thirst, which had vanished when the terror came, now returned with the sound of the water.
The water rose in the cellar, above the powder barrels and we went down to it with parched throats. The water spread over the floor of the room. If this went on the whole house on the lake would be swamped. Surely there was water enough now! Erik must stop it now!
"Erik! Erik! That is water enough for the gunpowder! Turn it off! Turn off the scorpion!"
But Erik did not reply. We heard nothing but the water rising, now half-way up to our waists!
"Christine!" cried Monsieur de Chagny. "Christine! The water is up to our knees!"
But Christine did not reply. We heard nothing but the water rising.
There was no one in the next room, no one to turn the tap, no one to turn the scorpion! We were alone, left to drown!
By this time we had lost our foothold and were carried away by the water, which dashed us against the dark mirrors, then thrust us back again. Our voices, raised above the roar of the whirlpool, shouted in vain for help. Our arms became entangled as we tried to swim, we choked, we struggled in the dark water. Already we could hardly breathe above the water, as the air was escaping through some hole or other in the ceiling.
I lost my strength, I tried in vain to lay hold of the glass walls! We whirled round again! We began to sink! One last effort! A last cry:
"Erik! . . . Christine! . . ."
Then I lost consciousness entirely.
That is the end of the story which the Persian left behind. Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed to abandon them to their deaths, Monsieur de Chagny and his companion
were saved by the sublime devotion of Christine Daae. I had the rest of the story from the lips of the Daroga himself.
When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries. He was very ill and it took all my persuasion as an historian pledged to tell the truth to persuade him to live the incredible tragedy over again for my benefit. His poor face looked very worn, but his mind was quite clear and he told me his story with perfect lucidity.
It seems that when he opened his eyes the Daroga found himself lying on a bed. Monsieur de Chagny was asleep on a sofa beside the wardrobe. An angel and a devil were watching over them.
After the fantastic deceptions and illusions of the torture-chamber, the normality of that quiet litde room seemed invented for the express purpose of once more puzzling the mind of the mortal rash enough to stray into that house of living nightmare. And the masked figure seemed all the more formidable in this old-fashioned setting. It bent down over the Persian and said in his ear:
"Are you better, Daroga?"
Christine Daae did not say a word; she moved about noiselessly, like a sister of charity who had taken a vow of silence. She brought a cup of cordial, or of hot tea, he did not remember which. The man in the mask took it from her hands and gave it to the Persian. Monsieur de Chagny was still sleeping.
Erik poured a drop of rum into the Daroga's cup and, pointing to the vicomte, said, "He came to himself long before we knew if you were still alive. He is quite well and sleeping."
Erik left the room for a moment and the Persian raised himself on his elbow, looked around and saw Christine sitting by the fireside. He called to her, but he was still very weak and fell back on his pillow. She came to him, laid her hand on his forehead and went away again. And the Persion remembered that, as she went, she did not so much as glance at Monsieur de Chagny, who was sleeping peacefully, and she sat down again in her chair by the chimney-corner.
Erik returned with some little bottles which he placed on the mantelpiece. And, again in a whisper so as not to wake Monsieur de Chagny, he said to the Persian, after feeling his pulse, "You are now saved, both of you. And soon I shall take you up to the surface of the earth again, to please my wife."
Thereupon he rose, without further explanation, and disappeared once more.
The Persian now looked at Christine's quiet profile under the lamp. She was reading a tiny book with gilt edges. Very gently, he called her again but Christine was rapt in her book and did not hear him.
Erik returned, mixed the Daroga a draught and advised him not to speak to "his wife" again nor to anyone, because it might be very dangerous to everybody.
Eventually, the Persian fell asleep, like Monsieur de Chagny, and did not wake until he was in his own room, nursed by his faithful servant, who told him that, on the night before, he had been found propped against the door of his flat, where he had been brought by a stranger who rang the bell before going away.
As soon as the Daroga recovered his strength and his wits, he sent to Count Philippe's house to enquire after the vicomte's health. The answer was that the young man had not been seen and that Count Philippe was dead. His body was found on the bank of the Opera lake, on the Rue Scribe side. The Persian remembered the requiem mass which he had heard from behind the wall of the torture-chamber and had no doubt regarding the crime and the criminal. Knowing Erik as he did, he easily reconstructed the tragedy. Thinking that his brother had run away with Christine Daae, Philippe must have dashed in pursuit of him along the Brussels road, where he knew that everything was prepared for the elopement. Failing to find the pair, he hurried back to the Opera. He remembered Raoul's strange confidence about his fantastic rival and learned that the vicomte had made every effort to enter the cellars of the theatre and that he had disappeared, leaving his hat in the prima donna's dressing-room beside an empty pistol-case. And the count, who no longer entertained any doubt of his brother's madness, in his turn darted into that infernal underground maze. This was enough, in the Persian's eyes, to explain the discovery of the Comte de Chagny's corpse on the shore of the lake, where the siren—Erik's siren —kept watch.
The Persian did not hesitate. He decided to inform the police. However, the case was in the hands of an unimaginative examining magistrate called Faure, who took down the Daroga's testimony and proceeded to treat him as a madman.
Despairing of ever obtaining a hearing, the Persian sat down to write. As the police did not want his evidence, he thought perhaps the press would be glad of it. He had just written the last line of the narrative which I have quoted in the preceding pages, when his servant
announced the visit of a stranger who refused his name, who would not show his face and who declared simply that he did not intend to leave the place until he had spoken to the Daroga.
The Persian guessed at once who his singular visitor was and ordered him to be shown in. It was Erik.
He looked extremely weak and leant against the wall, as though afraid of falling. Taking off his hat, he revealed a forehead white as wax. The rest of his face was hidden by the mask.
The Persian rose to his feet as Erik entered.
"Murderer of Count Philippe, what have you done with Monsieur de Chagny and Christine Daae?"
Erik staggered under this direct attack, dragged himself to a chair and heaved a deep sigh. Then, speaking in short phrases and gasping for breath between the words, he said, "Daroga, don't talk to me . . . about Count Philippe. He was dead ... by the time ... I left my house ... he was dead when , . . the siren sang. It was an accident, a very sad accident. He fell very awkwardly. . . into the lake!"
"You lie!" shouted the Persian.
Erik bowed his head and said:
"I have not come here ... to talk about Count Philippe . . . but to tell you that. . . I am going to die."
"Where are Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae?"
"I am going to die."
"Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae?"
"Daroga ... I am dying of love. I loved her so! And I love her still, Daroga. If you knew how beautiful she was . . . when she let me kiss her .
. . alive. It was the first time, Daroga, the first time I ever kissed a woman. I kissed her alive, and she looked as beautiful as if she had been dead!"
The Persian shook Erik by the arm.
'Will you tell me if she is alive or dead?"
"Why do you shake me like that?" asked Erik, making an effort to control himself. "I tell you I am going to die . . . Yes, I kissed her alive."
"And now she is dead?"
"I tell you I kissed her just like that, on her forehead, and she did not draw back her forehead from my lips! Oh, she is a good girl! As to her being dead, I don't think so, but it has nothing to do with me. No, no she is not dead! And no one shall touch a hair of her head! She
is a good honest girl and she saved your life, Daroga, at a moment when I would not have given twopence for your Persian skin. After all, who cared about you? But she had turned the scorpion and she had, through her own free will, become engaged to me!
'When you were drowning Christine came to me and swore that she would be my living wife! She said she would not kill herself. It was a bargain. A minute later, all the water was back in the lake, and I had a hard job carrying you, Daroga. Upon my honour, I thought you were dead! It was understood that I would take you both up to the surface of the earth."
"But what have you done with the Vicomte de Chagny?" interrupted the Persian.
"Ah, you see, Daroga, I couldn't carry him up like that at once. He was a hostage. But I could not keep him in the house on the lake either, because of Christine. So, I locked him up comfortably in the Communard's dungeon, which is in the most remote and deserted part of the Opera below the fifth cellar, where no one ever comes and no one ever hears you. Then I went back to Christine. She was waiting for me."
Erik rose solemnly. Then he continued, but as he spoke he trembled with emotion. "Yes, she was waiting for me ... a real, living bride. And, when I came forward, more timid than a little child, she did not run away. I even believe, Daroga, that she put out her forehead a little ... oh, not much . . . just a little, like a living bride. And . . . and ... I kissed her! And she did not die! Oh, how good it is, Daroga, to kiss a person! You can't tell, you can't! My mother, Daroga, my poor, unhappy mother would never ... let me kiss her. She used to run away! Nor any other woman . . . ever, ever! Ah, you can understand, my happiness was so great, I fell at her feet, crying . . . and I kissed her feet, her little feet, crying. You're crying too, Daroga . . . and she too . . . the angel cried!"
Erik sobbed aloud and the Persian himself could not restrain his tears.
"Yes, Daroga, I felt her tears on my forehead. They mingled with the tears in my eyes . . . they flowed between my lips. Listen, Daroga, listen to what I did. I tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her tears and she did not run away! And she did not die! She was alive, she wept with me. Ah, I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer!"
And Erik fell into a chair, gasping for breath, "Ah, I am not going to die yet. Presently I shall, but let me tell you! While I was at her feet, I heard her say, Toor, unhappy Erik!' And she took my hand! I had be-
come no more than a poor dog ready to die for her. I held out a ring, a plain gold ring which I had given her, which she had lost, and I had found again. I slipped it into her little hand and said, There! Take it for you, and him! It is my wedding present, to you both—a present from your poor, unhappy Erik. I know you love him, so don't cry any more!' Then she asked me, in a very soft voice, what I meant.
"I made her understand that I was ready to die for her and that she should marry the young man when she pleased, because she had wept with me and mingled her tears with mine!"
Erik's emotion was so great that he had to tell the Persian not to look at him, for he was choking and must take off his mask. The Daroga went to the window and opened it. His heart was full of pity, but he took care to keep his eyes fixed on the trees in the Tuileries gardens, lest he should see the monster's face.
"I went and released the young man," Erik continued, "and told him to come with me to Christine. They embraced before me in the Louis-Philippe room. Christine had my ring. I made her swear to come back one night when I was dead and bury me in the greatest secrecy with the gold ring, which she was to wear until that moment. I told her where she would find my body and what to do with it. Then Christine kissed me for the first time herself, here on the forehead—don't look, Daroga!
"They went off together. Christine had stopped crying. I alone cried . . . alone. Daroga, if Christine keeps her promise, she will come back soon!"
Erik stopped. The Persian asked him no questions. He believed every word of what Erik had just told him.
The monster put on his mask once again and collected his strength to leave. He told the Daroga that, when he felt his end to be close at hand, he would send him—in gratitude for the kindness which the Persian had once shown him—the things which he held most dear; all Christine Daae's letters to Raoul which she had left with Erik, together with a few objects belonging to her—a pair of gloves, a shoe-buckle and two pocket-handkerchiefs. Erik told him that the young people had resolved to go and look for a priest in some lonely spot where they could hide their happiness. Lastly, Erik relied on the Persian, as soon as he received the promised relics and papers, to inform the young couple of his death and to put a notice in the Epoque.
That was all. The Persian saw Erik to the door of his flat and the servant helped him down to the street. A carriage was waiting for him.
Erik stepped in, and the Persian, who had gone back to the window, heard him say to the driver:
"To the Opera."
With that the carriage drove off into the night.
Three weeks later, the Epoque published this announcement:
Erik is dead.
THE MAGICIAN
SOMERSET MAUGHAM
(Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer: 1926)
The history of the horror film is sadly dotted with examples of "lost" films—pictures which were made and then for some reason disappeared or were destroyed. Prohahly the most famous of these is The Magician, which was produced in 1926 by Rex Ingram, creator of such distinguished films as The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and Scaramouche.
The film of The Magician was based on the work of the same name by Somerset Maugham, which dealt in a thinly disguised fictional form with the activities of the notorious Black Magician Aleister Crowley, who performed ritual magic and animal sacrifice, indulged in drug taking and sex orgies and lived a life devoted to the premise of "evil for evil's sake". In Maugham's story, Oliver Haddo— as Crowley is called—has "magical powers of extraordinary character" and frequently conducts "the blasphemous ceremonies of the Black Mass". He is also said to be "attempting to create human beings" (shades of Frankenstein, no less).
Ingram had read the story shortly after its publication in 1908 and nurtured it in his mind for a film which he made in France in 1925-26. So much of the plot rang true for Ingram (Crowley was still active at this time and often made newspaper headlines) that he was able to bring a vivid realism to the finished picture, introducing some fine episodes of Satanism and necromancy. However these very elements caused the critics, almost to a man, to condemn the film as tasteless and vulgar. In a matter of a few years the three existing prints had disappeared and Ingram's career was on the decline.
Reports of the picture which still exist (plus a pathetic handful of stills') indicate that a high point of the film was the mesmeric sequence in which Haddo introduces a young girl to the "delights" of devil worship through hypnotism. It is this same dramatic episode from the story which is reproduced here, vividly demonstrating just what a loss Ingram's "missing" film is to the cinema. . . .
IT was a fine Paris afternoon and Margaret decided on a walk. As she set out across the courtyard she suddenly started nervously, for there before her was the mysterious man of whom she had heard so much, the man who was reputed to dabble in the Black Arts and who, at this very moment in time, was supposedly engaged in the search for some
still more terrible secret. Yes, it was indeed the magician Oliver Haddo who passed slowly by. He did not seem to see her. Suddenly he stopped, put his hand to his heart, and fell heavily to the ground. The concierge, the only person at hand, ran forward with a cry. She knelt down and, looking round with terror, caught sight of Margaret.
"Oh, mademoiselle, venez vite," she cried.
Margaret was obliged to go. Her heart beat horribly. She looked down at Oliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him. Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. He opened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his face.
"For the love of God, take me in for one moment," he sobbed. "I shall die in the street."
Her heart was moved towards him. He could not go into the poky den, evil-smelling and airless, of the concierge. But with her help Margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the studio. He sank painfully into a chair.
"Shall I fetch you some water?" asked Margaret.
"Can you get a pastille out of my pocket?"
He swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached to his watch-chain.
Tm very sorry to cause you this trouble," he gasped. "I suffer from a disease of the heart and sometimes I am very near death."
"I'm glad that I was able to help you," she said.
He seemed able to breathe more easily. She left him to himself for a while, so that he might regain his strength. She took up a book and began to read. Presently, without moving his chair, he spoke.
"You must hate me for intruding on you."
His voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. She answered with freezing indifference.
"I couldn't do any less for you than I did. I would have brought a dog into my room if it seemed hurt."
"I see that you wish me to go."
He got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with a groan tumbled to his knees. Margaret sprang forward to help him. She
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