Raoul stared at him in disbelief. Suddenly, with one gesture the Persian warned him to be quiet and with another pointed to the mirror… It trembled, their reflections shivered as if they were looking down at themselves in rippling water and then the glass was still once more.
‘See! It’s not turning! Let’s find another way!’
‘Tonight there’s no other way!’ said the Persian in a deeply brooding voice… ‘But stay alert! And be ready to fire!’
He pointed his pistol at the mirror. Raoul followed suit. The Persian held Raoul close against his chest with his free arm. Suddenly, the mirror gave way in a blaze of blinding, dazzling reflections!… It turned like one of those revolving doors which have lately been installed in many public buildings… it swivelled, sweeping up Raoul and the Persian in its irresistible motion, removing them from the light and plunging them into utter blackness.
CHAPTER 21
In the Belly of the Opera
‘KEEP your hand up, ready to shoot!’ Raoul’s companion said again.
Behind them, the wall completed one full turn on its axis then closed softly behind them.
For a few moments, both men remained where they were, holding their breath.
The darkness was full of unbroken silence.
Finally, the Persian decided to make a move. Raoul heard him get down on all fours and feel around for something in the dark.
Suddenly, the shadows were pierced by the cautious light of a small dark lantern. Raoul recoiled instinctively as if to evade the attack of a hidden enemy. Then he realized that the lamp, each one of whose movements he watched carefully, was the Persian’s. The small red circle wandered over the walls, up and down and all around them, missing nothing. The surfaces belonged, on the right, to a solid wall, and on the left to a wooden bulkhead which was also boarded overhead and underfoot. Raoul realized that Christine must have come this way on the night she had followed the voice of the Angel of Music. It had to be Erik’s usual route when he came to abuse her trusting, innocent heart. Remembering what the Persian had said, he assumed it had been mysteriously constructed by the Phantom himself. But later, he would learn that Erik had discovered that a secret passage had already been dug there, a hidden corridor whose existence had long remained unknown except to him. In fact, it had been made during the Paris Commune to allow jailers to take prisoners directly to the cells which had been built in the cellars, for the rebels had occupied the Opera House following the events of 18 March.* They had used its high roofs as a launching site for the hot-air balloons which were sent into départements throughout France to carry their revolutionary message, and its lower depths as a state prison.
The Persian, on his knees, had put his lantern on the ground. He seemed to be busy at some task connected with the wooden boards of the walkway. Suddenly, he shaded his light.
Raoul heard a faint click and a dim square of light appeared in the floor of the passage. It was as if a window had opened onto deeper levels of the Opera House which were kept lit. Raoul lost sight of the Persian, but suddenly he felt him at his side and could hear him breathing.
‘Follow me and do exactly as I do.’
Raoul was steered towards the square of light. He saw the Persian get down on his knees again and then, lowering himself into the hole, hung by his arms from the edge of the aperture and then, with his pistol between his teeth, he let himself fall.
Curiously enough, Raoul had absolute confidence in the Persian. Though he knew nothing about him and despite the fact that the little he’d said had only made a baffling situation even more mysterious, he had no hesitation in believing that at this critical juncture the Persian was on his side and against Erik. He had seemed to mean it when he’d called him a ‘monster’ and there was nothing suspicious about the interest his took in Raoul’s predicament. And if the Persian had been planning some sinister move against him, he would hardly have given him a weapon. Anyway, nothing else mattered next to the vital business of finding Christine. Raoul did not have much freedom of action. Even if he’d had valid doubts about the Persian’s motives, he would have considered himself the most despicable of cowards if he had hesitated for one instant.
Raoul too knelt, inserted himself into the trap and hung from it by both hands. He heard a voice say ‘Let go!’ and he dropped into the arms of the Persian who ordered him to lie down flat on the ground, closed the trap above their heads (though Raoul did not see how he managed it) and joined the Viscount on the ground. Raoul started to ask a question but the Persian put his hand over his mouth. Simultaneously he heard a voice which he recognized as belonging to Inspector Mifroid who had questioned him earlier.
Raoul and the Persian were now behind a slatted wall which hid them completely. A little further along, a flight of steps led up to a small room where the Inspector was walking up and down and asking questions, for they could hear the sound of his footsteps as well as his voice.
Their surroundings were barely visible in the faint light. But they had just emerged from the pitch black of the secret passage above them and Raoul had no difficulty making out the shape of things.
He was unable to hold back a half-gasp as he found himself looking at three dead bodies.
The first was lying on a landing of the narrow staircase which led up to the door behind which the Inspector could still be heard talking. The two others had rolled down to the foot of these stairs, arms spreadeagled. By slipping his fingers through the screen which concealed him, Raoul could have touched the hands of one of them.
‘Be quiet!’ hissed the Persian once more.
He too had seen the bodies and said one word in explanation:
‘Him!’
The Inspector’s voice was now much louder. He was asking the stage manager about the lighting system. That meant he must be in the ‘organ pipes’ or somewhere close by.
Contrary to what might be thought, especially in the context of an opera house, the ‘organ pipes’ has nothing to do with music-making.
In those days, the use of electricity was limited to specific stage effects and for warning bells. The enormous building, like the stage, was still lit by gas, and hydrogen was used to regulate and vary the lighting of sets. This was done by means of a special apparatus requiring a multiplicity of conduits, ducts and tubes. Hence the name: ‘organ pipes’.
A cubicle was made available just next to the prompter’s box for the chief lighting man who gave his subordinates orders from there and oversaw the results. It was in this cubbyhole that Mauclair sat at every performance.
But Mauclair was not at his post now and neither were his men.
‘Mauclair! Mauclair!’
The stage manager’s voice reverberated through the area under the stage as if it were a drum. But Mauclair did not reply.
As we said, a door opened on to the narrow flight of stairs leading down to the second level. The Inspector pushed it but it did not give: ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed then called to the stage manager. ‘I can’t open this door… is it always this stiff?’
The stage manager put his shoulder to it and forced it open. As he did so, he realized he was also pushing a human body and gave an involuntary cry: he recognized the body at once:
‘It’s Mauclair!’
The men who’d followed Inspector Mifroid on his visit to the ‘organ pipes’ stepped forward anxiously.
‘Poor devil! He’s dead!’ gasped the shocked stage manager.
It took a lot to surprise Mifroid who was already bending over the body.
‘No he isn’t,’ he said.
‘He’s drunk!
It’s not the same thing.’
‘It’s the first time,’ said the stage manager.
‘In that case, it’s very likely he’s been drugged.’
The Inspector stood up, went down a few steps and suddenly said:
‘Look!’
The light of a small red lamp revealed two more bodies at the foot of the stairs. The stage manager identified them as
Mauclair’s assistants… The Inspector went down to them and felt for a pulse.
‘Dead to the world,’ he said. ‘Very curious! Clearly an outsider has been tampering with the lights… and it is equally obvious that this unknown person was working with the kidnapper!… But what’s the point of abducting an opera singer on stage, in the middle of a performance?… Really, I’d say someone likes a challenge! You’d better send for the house doctor.’
And the Inspector repeated: ‘Very odd! A very odd business!’
Then he turned back and, facing into the small room, spoke to people whom neither Raoul nor the Persian could see from where they were placed.
‘What do you make of it all, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘You’re the only ones who haven’t said what you think. Come now! You must have an opinion?’
Raoul and the Persian watched as two faces appeared above the landing: only their faces were visible from that angle. They wore frightened expressions and belonged to Messrs Richard and Moncharmin. They heard Moncharmin say nervously:
‘Things are happening here, Inspector, which we cannot explain.’
The two faces disappeared.
‘Thank you for that information, gentlemen,’ said Mifroid ironically.
But the stage manager, his chin resting in the hollow of his right hand in the classic pose of the Thinker, said:
‘This isn’t the first time Mauclair has fallen asleep on the job. I remember finding him once snoring in his cubbyhole next to his snuffbox.’
‘Was that recently?’ asked Mifroid, carefully wiping the lenses of his spectacles, for he was short-sighted. The most beautiful eyes often are.
‘Let me think!’ said the stage manager. ‘Yes… not very long ago… I have it!… It was the night when La Carlotta, you know, Inspector, croaked!…’
‘Really? The night when La Carlotta got that toad in her throat?’
Mifroid put his newly cleaned spectacles back on his nose and peered at the stage manager intently, as if trying to read his thoughts.
‘So Mauclair takes snuff, does he?’ he asked casually.
‘Oh yes, Inspector… And there, on that ledge, is his snuffbox… He’s likes his snuff!…’
‘So do I!’ said Mifroid and he put the snuffbox in his pocket.
Raoul and the Persian, their presence unsuspected, watched while stagehands removed the bodies. The Inspector and the rest of the hangers-on followed them back upstairs. Several minutes later, they could be heard walking around on the stage above.
When they were alone, the Persian motioned to Raoul to stand, which he did. But when he did not hold his hand up level with his eyes, ready to shoot, as his companion was careful to do, the Persian told him sharply to keep his arm crooked and never drop his guard whatever happened.
‘But that puts a pointless strain on the arm!’ said Raoul, ‘so that if I fire my aim won’t be steady.’
‘If that’s a problem, change hands,’ suggested the Persian.
‘I can’t shoot with my left hand!’
To this, the Persian responded with a strange pronouncement which was hardly calculated to light the torch of understanding in the younger man’s brain.
‘It is not about firing with your right hand or your left but about keeping one hand up, with the arm at right angles, as if you are going to pull the trigger of your pistol. But the pistol isn’t important. If you prefer, keep it in your pocket.’
And he added: ‘You must understand this or I cannot be held responsible for what might happen! It’s a matter of life and death! Now, say nothing and follow me!’
They were then on the second level down. By the light of lamps fixed at distant intervals, their flames imprisoned in glass, Raoul was able to see only a tiny part of the colossal, fairyland grotto which lies beneath of the stage of the Paris Opera. It can be as enchanting as a child’s marionette show or as breath-stopping as a bottomless pit.
There are five levels in all and they are intimidating. They replicate all the stage sets and traps large and small. But sliders and cuts in the stage floor are replaced here by rails. Trapdoors are supported by a framework of cross timbers. Props and piles resting on cast-iron or stone dies, templates and pockets of hard core form a succession of trusses which allow clear passage for hoists and other kinds of stage machinery. They are given extra stability by linking them together and anchoring them to iron brackets or by improvised clamps. Winches, rollers and counterweights are widely distributed throughout these lower levels. They are used to move large pieces of scenery, handle transformation scenes or enable performers in spectacle plays to vanish as if by magic. According to Messrs X, Y and Z, in their absorbing study of Charles Garnier’s masterpiece, it is from these lower depths that mere mortals are changed into handsome knights and hideous old witches into fairy queens bursting with youth. Satan rises from these lower regions and returns hither by the same token. The flames of hell reach out of them and choirs of demons take up their abode there… and ghosts are in their natural element.
Raoul followed the Persian, doing everything he was told and making no effort to understand the actions he was expected to perform, for he kept telling himself that the Persian was his only hope.
What would he have done without him in this hellish labyrinth?
Would he not have been brought to a stop at every turn by this furious tangle of beams and ropes? Would he have been caught in this gigantic spider’s web with no chance of ever getting free?
And even if he had been able to find a way through the network of cords and counterweights which kept proliferating as he moved forward, did he not run the very real risk of falling into one of the apparently bottomless holes which suddenly opened under his feet?
Down they went… down and down.
Now they were on the third level and their progress was still lit by distant lamps.
The further they descended, the more cautious the Persian became… He kept turning round to check that Raoul was following orders and keeping one arm up. He showed him his own hand, which had no gun in it but was raised and ready to fire as if it had been holding his pistol.
Suddenly a loud voice rooted them to the spot. Someone somewhere above their heads was shouting:
‘All door-boys to the stage at once! The Inspector wants to see them!’
They heard the tramp of feet and shadows glided past them through the darkness. The Persian pulled Raoul behind a wooden beam… In front of them and over their heads, they saw stooped old men pass by, bent by the years and the accumulated weight of the opera scenery they had shifted. Some could hardly drag themselves along… others, bent over by force of habit and with their hands outstretched, reached in the half-light for doors to close.
They were the ‘door-boys… superannuated former stagehands on whom humane managements had taken pity. They had employed them as door-shutters below and above the stage. They came and went throughout the building, shutting traps and doors. They were also known as in those days (I believe they are all dead now) as ‘draught snuffers’. Draughts are very bad for the voice, wherever they come from.1
The Persian and Raoul greeted this development with nods of relief, for it removed the presence of unwelcome witnesses. Some of these aged door-boys, having little or nothing to do and often no homes to go to, never left the Opera House, through laziness or lack of money, and slept there. It would be all too easy to trip over them or wake them up thus inviting awkward questions. For the time being, Inspector Mifroid’s inquiries freed them from the danger of any such unwanted encounters.
But they were not allowed to enjoy their solitude for long…
Other shadows were now coming down by the same route the door-boys had gone up. They all carried small lamps which they swung high and low, examining everything they passed and clearly looking for something or someone.
‘Dammit!’ muttered the Persian, ‘I can’t think what they’re looking for but they might find us!… Quick!… Let’s move!… And keep your hand raised, ready
to shoot!… Bend your arm more, that’s it!… keep the hand level with the eyes, as if you are fighting a duel and waiting for the signal to fire!… Leave your pistol in your pocket!… Now come on, let’s go! (He was now leading Raoul down to the fourth level)… don’t forget, same height as the eyes, a matter of life and death!… Over there, those steps! (Down they went to the fifth level)… And a duel is what it is, sir, and what a duel!’
Having reached the bottom (and fifth level), the Persian breathed more freely… He seemed to feel safer now than only a few minutes before when they had halted on the third level. Even so, he still kept his arm well up!…
Raoul used the moment to wonder—though without adding any further comment, for this was hardly the time—to wonder, as I say, in silence at this strange version of self-defence which consisted of keeping your pistol in your pocket while your gun hand stayed free and ready to shoot as if you actually were holding the weapon in your hand at eye level, in the position required of duellists in those days as they waited for the signal to fire.
To which Raoul added this thought: ‘I clearly remember him saying: “These are the most accurate and reliable pistols I ever owned.”’ It seemed perfectly reasonable to ask therefore: ‘What is the point of having an accurate weapon you can rely on if you have no intention of using it?’
But the Persian interrupted his unfinished thoughts. Gesturing to him to remain where he was, he cautiously went back up several of the steps by which they had come down. He came back more quickly and rejoined Raoul.
‘We’re being stupid,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll soon be rid of those men with lamps… It’s just the firemen doing their rounds!…’1
They stayed where they were, on the alert, for at least five long minutes. Then the Persian motioned Raoul towards the steps they’d just come down. Suddenly, he brought him to a stop.
In front of them, the darkness seemed to stir.
‘Lie flat on the ground!’ whispered the Persian.
The two men lay face down and not a moment too soon.
A shadowy figure which was not carrying a lamp, a shadow among the shadows, was bearing down on them.
The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics) Page 26
