The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕
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“When I die and am in Heaven,” Christine Daaé’s father said, “I will send the Angel of Music to you.” It is with these words still in her ears years later that Christine accepts the disembodied voice that speaks to her to claim that divine title, and to give her singing lessons within her dressing room at the Paris Opera, as the fulfillment of her beloved father’s promise. And when those lessons lead her to a performance that astonishes the whole city, who could doubt but that the Angel had indeed come?
Yet there is another, more sinister presence stalking about the Opéra Garnier: the Opera Ghost. A creature who not only makes inconvenient demands—such as the exclusive use of Box Five at every performance, as well as a sizable retainer paid monthly—but who also hangs a man for wandering into the wrong part of the Opera’s cavernous cellars, and sends a chandelier plunging down onto the heads of a packed house when his demands are not met.
But is the Opéra truly host to so many supernatural phenomena, or could it be that the Angel and the Opera Ghost are in fact one and the same? And could it be also that he is far less angel than demon? And if so, will Christine realize her peril before it is too late?
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- Author: Gaston Leroux
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When we reached the mirror, M. de Chagny licked it … and I also licked the glass.
It was burning hot!
Then we rolled on the floor with a hoarse cry of despair. M. de Chagny put the one pistol that was still loaded to his temple; and I stared at the Punjab lasso at the foot of the iron tree. I knew why the iron tree had returned, in this third change of scene! … The iron tree was waiting for me! …
But, as I stared at the Punjab lasso, I saw a thing that made me start so violently that M. de Chagny delayed his attempt at suicide. I took his arm. And then I caught the pistol from him … and then I dragged myself on my knees toward what I had seen.
I had discovered, near the Punjab lasso, in a groove in the floor, a black-headed nail of which I knew the use. At last I had discovered the spring! I felt the nail. … I lifted a radiant face to M. de Chagny. … The black-headed nail yielded to my pressure. …
And then. …
And then we saw not a door opened in the wall, but a cellar-flap released in the floor. Cool air came up to us from the black hole below. We stooped over that square of darkness as though over a limpid well. With our chins in the cool shade, we drank it in.
And we bent lower and lower over the trap-door. What could there be in that cellar which opened before us? Water? Water to drink?
I thrust my arm into the darkness and came upon a stone and another stone … a staircase … a dark staircase leading into the cellar. The viscount wanted to fling himself down the hole; but I, fearing a new trick of the monster’s, stopped him, turned on my dark lantern and went down first.
The staircase was a winding one and led down into pitchy darkness. But oh, how deliciously cool were the darkness and the stairs? The lake could not be far away.
We soon reached the bottom. Our eyes were beginning to accustom themselves to the dark, to distinguish shapes around us … circular shapes … on which I turned the light of my lantern.
Barrels!
We were in Erik’s cellar: it was here that he must keep his wine and perhaps his drinking-water. I knew that Erik was a great lover of good wine. Ah, there was plenty to drink here!
M. de Chagny patted the round shapes and kept on saying:
“Barrels! Barrels! … What a lot of barrels! …”
Indeed, there was quite a number of them, symmetrically arranged in two rows, one on either side of us. They were small barrels and I thought that Erik must have selected them of that size to facilitate their carriage to the house on the lake.
We examined them successively, to see if one of them had not a funnel, showing that it had been tapped at some time or another. But all the barrels were hermetically closed.
Then, after half lifting one to make sure it was full, we went on our knees and, with the blade of a small knife which I carried, I prepared to stave in the bunghole.
At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the streets of Paris:
“Barrels! … Barrels! … Any barrels to sell? …”
My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said:
“That’s funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!”
The song was renewed, farther away:
“Barrels! … Barrels! … Any barrels to sell? …”
“Oh, I swear,” said the viscount, “that the tune dies away in the barrel! …”
We stood up and went to look behind the barrel.
“It’s inside,” said M. de Chagny, “it’s inside!”
But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition of our senses. And we returned to the bunghole. M. de Chagny put his two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the bung.
“What’s this?” cried the viscount. “This isn’t water!”
The viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern. … I stooped to look … and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that it broke and went out, leaving us in utter darkness.
What I had seen in M. de Chagny’s hands … was gunpowder!
XXV The Scorpion or the Grasshopper: Which?The Persian’s Narrative Concluded
The discovery flung us into a state of alarm that made us forget all our past and present sufferings. We now knew all that the monster meant to convey when he said to Christine Daaé:
“Yes or no! If your answer is no, everybody will be dead and buried!”
Yes, buried under the ruins of the Paris Grand Opera!
The monster had given her until eleven o’clock in the evening. He had chosen his time well. There would be many people, many “members of the human race,” up there, in the resplendent theater. What finer retinue could be expected for his funeral? He would go down to the tomb escorted by the whitest shoulders in the world, decked with the richest jewels.
Eleven o’clock tomorrow evening!
We were all to be blown up in the middle of the performance … if Christine Daaé said no!
Eleven o’clock tomorrow evening! …
And what else could Christine say but no? Would she not prefer to espouse death itself rather than that living corpse? She did not know that on her acceptance or refusal depended the awful fate of many members of the human race!
Eleven o’clock tomorrow evening!
And we dragged ourselves through the darkness, feeling our way to the stone steps, for the light in the trap-door overhead that led to the room of mirrors was now extinguished; and we repeated to ourselves:
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow evening!”
At last, I found the staircase. But, suddenly I drew myself up on the first step, for a terrible thought had come to my mind:
“What is the time?”
Ah, what was the time? … For, after all, eleven o’clock tomorrow evening might be now, might be this very moment! Who could tell us the
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