The Phantom of the Opera

by Gaston Leroux

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

  “Whom do you mean by ‘he’?” 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 Perros! … Red Death! … In a word, madam, 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, he and I, 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 out her two arms, which fixed a barrier of white flesh 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 … Pooh, her only object was to gain a few seconds! … She wished to give the Red Death time to escape … And, in accents of childish hatred, he said:

  “You lie, madam, 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, madam, for I am an honest man and I believed you to be an honest woman, when your only intention was to deceive me! Alas, you have deceived us all! 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 keep him from leaving the box.

  “You will beg my pardon, one day, for all those ugly words, Raoul, and when you do 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’s grave and changed voice. “And … good-by. Good-by, Raoul …”

  The boy stepped forward, staggering as he went. He risked one more sarcasm:

  “Oh, you must let me come and applaud you from time to time!”

  “I shall never sing again, Raoul! …”

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

  “Not in the Bois nor anywhere, Raoul: you shall not see me again …”

  “May one ask at least 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 can’t 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 lad began to feel remorse for his cruelty.

  “But look here!” he cried. “Can’t you tell me what all this means! … You are free, there is no one to interfere with you … You go about Paris … You put on a domino to come to the ball … Why do you not go home? … What have you been doing this past fortnight? … What is this tale about the Angel of Music, which you have been telling Mamma Valerius? Some one may have taken you in, played upon your innocence. I was a witness of it myself, at Perros … but you know what to believe now! You seem to me quite sensible, Christine. You know what you are doing … And meanwhile Mamma Valerius lies waiting for you at home and appealing to your ‘good genius!’ … Explain yourself, Christine, I beg of you! Any one might have been deceived as I was. What is this farce?”

  Christine simply took off her mask and said: “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 furrowed them with pitiless lines and traced dark and unspeakably sad shadows under her eyes.

  “My dearest! 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, hardly knowing what he was doing, with throbbing temples and an aching heart; and, as he crossed the dancing-floor, he asked if anybody had seen Red Death. Yes, every one had seen Red Death; but Raoul could not find him; and, at two o’clock in the morning, he turned down the passage, behind the scenes, that led to Christine Daae’s dressing-room.

  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 entered when he looked everywhere for “the man’s voice.” The room was empty. A gas-jet was burning, turned down low. He saw some writing-paper on a little desk. He thought of writing to Christine, but he heard steps in the passage. He had only time to hide in the inner room, which was separated from the dressing-room by a curtain.

  Christine entered, took off her mask with a weary movement 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!”

  At first, he thought he must be mistaken. To begin with, he was persuaded that, if any one was to be pitied, it was he, Raoul. It would have been quite natural if she had said, “Poor Raoul,” after what had happened between them. But, shaking her head, she repeated: “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, calmly and so placidly that Raoul, who was still trembling from the effects of the tragedy that separated them, was painfully impressed.

  “What coolness!” he said to himself.

  She wrote on, 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 … yes, it was as though the walls themselves were singing! … The song became plainer … the words were now distinguishable … he heard a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very captivating voice … but, for all its softness, it remained a male voice … The voice came nearer and nearer … it came through the wall … it approached … and now the voice was in the room, in front of Christine. Christine rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to some one:

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

  Raoul, peeping from behind the curtain, could not believe his eyes, which 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 without a body went on singing; and certainly Raoul had never in his life heard anything more absolutely and heroically sweet, more gloriously insidious, more delicate, more powerful, in short, more irresistibly triumphant. He listened to it in a fever and he now began to understand how Christine Daae was able to appear one evening, before the stupefied audience, with accents of a beauty hitherto unknown, of a superhuman exaltation, while doubtless still under the influ
ence of the mysterious and invisible master.

  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 Perros churchyard, 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. Struggling against the charm that seemed to deprive him of all his will and all his energy and of almost all his lucidity at the moment when he needed them most, he succeeded in drawing back the curtain that hid him and he 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 her and entirely covered by her.

  “Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

  Christine walked toward her image in the glass and the image came toward her. The two Christines—the real one and the reflection—ended by touching; and Raoul put out his arms to clasp the two in one embrace. But, by a sort of dazzling miracle that sent him staggering, Raoul was suddenly flung back, while an icy blast swept over his face; he saw, not two, but four, eight, twenty Christines spinning round him, laughing at him and fleeing so swiftly that he could not touch one of them. At last, everything stood still again; and he saw himself in the glass. But Christine had disappeared.

  He rushed up to the glass. He struck at the walls. Nobody! And meanwhile the room still echoed with a distant passionate singing:

  “Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

  Which way, which way had Christine gone? … Which way would she return? …

  Would she return? Alas, had she not declared to him that everything was finished? And was the voice not repeating:

  “Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

  To me? To whom?

  Then, worn out, beaten, empty-brained, he sat down on the chair which Christine had just left. Like her, he let his head fall into his hands. When he raised it, the tears were streaming down his young cheeks, real, heavy tears like those which jealous children shed, tears that wept for a sorrow which was in no way fanciful, but which is common to all the lovers on earth and which he expressed aloud:

  “Who is this Erik?” he said.

  Chapter X

  Forget the Name of the Man’s Voice

  THE DAY AFTER CHRISTINE had vanished before his eyes in a sort of dazzlement that still made him doubt the evidence of his senses, M. le Vicomte de Chagny called to inquire at Mamma Valerius’. He came upon a charming picture. Christine herself was seated by the bedside of the old lady, who was sitting up against the pillows, knitting. The pink and white had returned to the young girl’s cheeks. The dark rings round her eyes had disappeared. Raoul no longer recognized the tragic face of the day before. If the veil of melancholy over those adorable features had not still appeared to the young man as the last trace of the weird drama in whose toils that mysterious child was struggling, he could have believed that Christine was not its heroine at all.

  She rose, without showing any emotion, and offered him her hand. But Raoul’s stupefaction was so great that he stood there dumfounded, without a gesture, without a word.

  “Well, M. de Chagny,” exclaimed Mamma Valerius, “don’t you know our Christine? Her good genius has sent her back to us!”

  “Mamma!” the girl broke in promptly, while a deep blush mantled to her eyes. “I thought, mamma, that there was to be no more question of that! … You know there is no such thing as the Angel of Music!”

  “But, child, he gave you lessons for three months!”

  “Mamma, I have promised to explain everything to you one of these days; and I hope to do so but you have promised me, until that day, to be silent and to ask me no more questions whatever!”

  “Provided that you promised never to leave me again! But have you promised that, Christine?”

  “Mamma, all this can not interest M. de Chagny.”

  “On the contrary, mademoiselle,” said the young man, in a voice which he tried to make firm and brave, but which still trembled, “anything that concerns you interests me to an extent which perhaps you will one day understand. I do not deny that my surprise equals my pleasure at finding you with your adopted mother and that, after what happened between us yesterday, after what you said and what I was able to guess, I hardly expected to see you here so soon. I should be the first to delight at your return, if you were not so bent on preserving a secrecy that may be fatal to you … and I have been your friend too long not to be alarmed, with Mme. Valerius, at a disastrous adventure which will remain dangerous so long as we have not unraveled its threads and of which you will certainly end by being the victim, Christine.”

  At these words, Mamma Valerius tossed about in her bed.

  “What does this mean?” she cried. “Is Christine in danger?”

  “Yes, madame,” said Raoul courageously, notwithstanding the signs which Christine made to him.

  “My God!” exclaimed the good, simple old woman, gasping for breath. “You must tell me everything, Christine! Why did you try to reassure me? And what danger is it, M. de Chagny?”

  “An impostor is abusing her good faith.”

  “Is the Angel of Music an impostor?”

  “She told you herself that there is no Angel of Music.”

  “But then what is it, in Heaven’s name? You will be the death of me!”

  “There is a terrible mystery around us, madame, around you, around Christine, a mystery much more to be feared than any number of ghosts or genii!”

  Mamma Valerius turned a terrified face to Christine, who had already run to her adopted mother and was holding her in her arms.

  “Don’t believe him, mummy, don’t believe him,” she repeated.

  “Then tell me that you will never leave me again,” implored the widow.

  Christine was silent and Raoul resumed.

  “That is what you must promise, Christine. It is the only thing that can reassure your mother and me. We will undertake not to ask you a single question about the past, if you promise us to remain under our protection in future.”

  “That is an undertaking which I have not asked of you and a promise which I refuse to make you!” said the young girl haughtily. “I am mistress of my own actions, M. de Chagny: you have no right to control them, and I will beg you to desist henceforth. As to what I have done during the last fortnight, there is only one man in the world who has the right to demand an account of me: my husband! Well, I have no husband and I never mean to marry!”

  She threw out her hands to emphasize her words and Raoul turned pale, not only because of the words which he had heard, but because he had caught sight of a plain gold ring on Christine’s finger.

  “You have no husband and yet you wear a wedding-ring.”

  He tried to seize her hand, but she swiftly drew it back.

  “That’s a present!” she said, blushing once more and vainly striving to hide her embarrassment.

  “Christine! As you have no husband, that ring can only have been given by one who hopes to make you his wife! Why deceive us further? Why torture me still more? That ring is a promise; and that promise has been accepted!”

  “That’s what I said!” exclaimed the old lady.

  “And what did she answer, madame?”

  “What I chose,” said Christine, driven to exasperation. “Don’t you think, monsieur, that this cross-examination has lasted long enough? As far as I am concerned …”

  Raoul was afraid to let her finish her speech. He interrupted her:

  “I beg your pardon for speaking as I did, mademoiselle. You know the good intentions that make me meddle, just now, in matters which, you no doubt think, have nothing to do with me. But allow me to tell you what I have seen—and I have seen more than you suspect, Christine—or what I thought I saw, for,
to tell you the truth, I have sometimes been inclined to doubt the evidence of my eyes.”

  “Well, what did you see, sir, or think you saw?”

  “I saw your ecstasy at the sound of the voice, Christine: the voice that came from the wall or the next room to yours … yes, your ecstasy! And that is what makes me alarmed on your behalf. You are under a very dangerous spell. And yet it seems that you are aware of the imposture, because you say to-day that there is no angel of music! In that case, Christine, why did you follow him that time? Why did you stand up, with radiant features, as though you were really hearing angels? … Ah, it is a very dangerous voice, Christine, for I myself, when I heard it, was so much fascinated by it that you vanished before my eyes without my seeing which way you passed! Christine, Christine, in the name of Heaven, in the name of your father who is in Heaven now and who loved you so dearly and who loved me too, Christine, tell us, tell your benefactress and me, to whom does that voice belong? If you do, we will save you in spite of yourself. Come, Christine, the name of the man! The name of the man who had the audacity to put a ring on your finger!”

  “M. de Chagny,” the girl declared coldly, “you shall never know!”

  Thereupon, seeing the hostility with which her ward had addressed the viscount, Mamma Valerius suddenly took Christine’s part.

  “And, if she does love that man, Monsieur le Vicomte, even then it is no business of yours!”

  “Alas, madame,” Raoul humbly replied, unable to restrain his tears, “alas, I believe that Christine really does love him! … But it is not only that which drives me to despair; for what I am not certain of, madame, is that the man whom Christine loves is worthy of her love!”

  “It is for me to be the judge of that, monsieur!” said Christine, looking Raoul angrily in the face.

  “When a man,” continued Raoul, “adopts such romantic methods to entice a young girl’s affections …”

  “The man must be either a villain, or the girl a fool: is that it?”

  “Christine!”