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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The Persian did not hesitate. He determined to inform the police. Now the case was in the hands of an examining-magistrate called Faure, an incredulous, commonplace, superficial sort of person, (I write as I think), with a mind utterly unprepared to receive a confidence of this kind. M. Faure took down the daroga’s depositions 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, perhaps the press would be glad of it; and he had just written the last line of the narrative I have quoted in the preceding chapters, when Darius announced the visit of a stranger who refused his name, who would not show his face and declared simply that he did not intend to leave the place until he had spoken to the daroga.
The Persian at once felt who his singular visitor was and ordered him to be shown in. The daroga was right. It was the ghost, it was Erik!
He looked extremely weak and leaned against the wall, as though he were afraid of falling. Taking off his hat, he revealed a forehead white as wax. The rest of the horrible face was hidden by the mask.
The Persian rose to his feet as Erik entered.
“Murderer of Count Philippe, what have you done with his brother and Christine Daaé?”
Erik staggered under this direct attack, kept silent for a moment, dragged himself to a chair and heaved a deep sigh. Then, speaking in short phrases and gasping for breath between the words:
“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 sad … a very sad … accident. He fell very awkwardly … but simply and naturally … 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 Daaé?”
“I am going to die. …”
“Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daaé?”
“Of love … daroga … I am dying … of love. … That is how it is. … I loved her so! … And I love her still … daroga … and I am dying of love for her, I … I tell you! … 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. … Yes, alive. … 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 speak more connectedly. “I tell you that 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. As a matter of fact, nobody bothered about you. Why were you there with that little chap? You would have died as well as he! My word, how she entreated me for her little chap! But I told her that, as she had turned the scorpion, she had, through that very fact, and of her own free will, become engaged to me and that she did not need to have two men engaged to her, which was true enough.
“As for you, you did not exist, you had ceased to exist, I tell you, and you were going to die with the other! … Only, mark me, daroga, when you were yelling like the devil, because of the water, Christine came to me with her beautiful blue eyes wide open, and swore to me, as she hoped to be saved, that she consented to be my living wife! … Until then, in the depths of her eyes, daroga, I had always seen my dead wife; it was the first time I saw my living wife there. She was sincere, as she hoped to be saved. She would not kill herself. It was a bargain. … Half a minute later, all the water was back in the lake; and I had a hard job with you, daroga, for, upon my honor, I thought you were done for! … However! … There you were! … It was understood that I was to take you both up to the surface of the earth. When, at last, I cleared the Louis-Philippe room of you, I came back alone. …”
“What have you done with the Vicomte de Chagny?” asked the Persian, interrupting him.
“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, I chained him up nicely—a whiff of the Mazenderan scent had left him as limp as a rag—in the Communists’ dungeon, which is in the most deserted and remote part of the Opera, below the fifth cellar, where no one ever comes, and where no one ever hears you. Then I came back to Christine. She was waiting for me. …”
Erik here rose solemnly. Then he continued, but, as he spoke, he was overcome by all his former emotion and began to tremble like a leaf:
“Yes, she was waiting for me … waiting for me
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