The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux (book recommendations for teens TXT) 📕

And the child reverently touched the little coral finger-ring which she wore as a charm against bad luck, while Sorelli, stealthily, with the tip of her pink right thumb-nail, made a St. Andrew’s cross on the wooden ring which adorned the fourth finger of her left hand. She said to the little ballet-girls:

“Come, children, pull yourselves together! I dare say no one has ever seen the ghost.”

“Yes, yes, we saw him—we saw him just now!” cried the girls. “He had his death’s head and his dress-coat, just as when he appeared to Joseph Buquet!”

“And Gabriel saw him too!” said Jammes. “Only yesterday! Yesterday afternoon—in broad day-light----”

“Gabriel, the chorus-master?”

“Why, yes, didn’t you know?”

“And he was wearing his dress-clothes, in broad daylight?”

“Who? Gabriel?”

“Why, no, the ghost!”

“Certainly! Gabriel told me so himself. That’s what he knew him by. Gabriel was in the stage-manager’s office. Suddenly the door opened and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eye----”

“Oh, yes!” answered the little ballet-girls in chorus, warding off ill-luck by pointing their forefinger and little finger at the absent Persian, while their second and third fingers were bent on the palm and held down by the thumb.

“And you know how superstitious Gabriel is,” continued Jammes. “However, he is always polite. When he meets the Persian, he just puts his hand in his pocket and touches his keys. Well, the moment the Persian appeared in the doorway, Gabriel gave one jump from his chair to the lock of the cupboard, so as to touch iron! In doing so, he tore a whole skirt of his overcoat on a nail. Hurrying to get out of the room, he banged his forehead against a hat-peg and gave himself a huge bump; then, suddenly stepping back, he skinned his arm on the screen, near the piano; he tried to lean on the piano, but the lid fell on his hands and crushed his fingers; he rushed out of the office like a madman, slipped on the staircase and came down the whole of the first flight on his back. I was just passing with mother. We picked him up. He was covered with bruises and his face was all over blood. We were frightened out of our lives, but, all at once, he began to thank Providence that he had got off so cheaply. Then he told us what had frightened him. He had seen the ghost behind the Persian, THE GHOST WITH THE DEATH’S HEAD just like Joseph Buquet’s description!”

Jammes had told her story ever so quickly, as though the ghost were at her heels, and was quite out of breath at the finish. A silence followed, while Sorelli polished her nails in great excitement. It was broken by little Giry, who said:

“Joseph Buquet would do better to hold his tongue.”

“Why should he hold his tongue?” asked somebody.

“That’s mother’s opinion,” replied Meg, lowering her voice and looking all about her as though fearing lest other ears than those present might overhear.

“And why is it your mother’s opinion?”

“Hush! Mother says the ghost doesn’t like being talked about.”

“And why does your mother say so?”

“Because—because—nothing—”

This reticence exasperated the curiosity of the young ladies, who crowded round little Giry, begging her to explain herself. They were there, side by side, leaning forward simultaneously in one movement of entreaty and fear, communicating their terror to one another, taking a keen pleasure in feeling their blood freeze in their veins.

“I swore not to tell!” gasped Meg.

But they left her no peace and promised to keep the secret, until Meg, burning to say all she knew, began, with her eyes fixed on the door:

“Well, it’s because of the private box.”

“What private box?”

“The ghost’s box!”

“Has the ghost a box? Oh, do tell us, do tell us!”

“Not so loud!” said Meg. “It’s Box Five, you know, the box on the grand tier, next to the stage-box, on the left.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“I tell you it is. Mother has charge of it. But you swear you won’t say a word?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Well, that’s the ghost’s box. No one has had it for over a month, except the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it must never be sold.”

“And does the ghost really come there?”

“Yes.”

“Then somebody does come?”

“Why, no! The ghost comes, but there is nobody there.”

The little ballet-girls exchanged glances. If the ghost came to the box, he must be seen, because he wore a dress-coat and a death’s head. This was what they tried to make Meg understand, but she replied:

“That’s just it! The ghost is not seen. And he has no dress-coat and no head! All that talk about his death’s head and his head of fire is nonsense! There’s nothing in it. You only hear him when he is in the box. Mother has never seen him, but she has heard him. Mother knows, because she gives him his program.”

Sorelli interfered.

“Giry, child, you’re getting at us!”

Thereupon little Giry began to cry.

“I ought to have held my tongue—if mother ever came to know! But I was quite right, Joseph Buquet had no business to talk of things that don’t concern him—it will bring him bad luck— mother was saying so last night----”

There was a sound of hurried and heavy footsteps in the passage and a breathless voice cried:

“Cecile! Cecile! Are you there?”

“It’s mother’s voice,” said Jammes. “What’s the matter?”

She opened the door. A respectable lady, built on the lines of a Pomeranian grenadier, burst into the dressing-room and dropped groaning into a vacant arm-chair. Her eyes rolled madly in her brick-dust colored face.

“How awful!” she said. “How awful!”

“What? What?”

“Joseph Buquet!”

“What about him?”

“Joseph Buquet is dead!”

The room became filled with exclamations, with astonished outcries, with scared requests for explanations.

“Yes, he was found hanging in the third-floor cellar!”

“It’s the ghost!” little Giry blurted, as though in spite of herself; but she at once corrected herself, with her hands pressed to her mouth: “No, no!—I, didn’t say it!—I didn’t say it!----”

All around her, her panic-stricken companions repeated under their breaths:

“Yes—it must be the ghost!”

Sorelli was very pale.

“I shall never be able to recite my speech,” she said.

Ma Jammes gave her opinion, while she emptied a glass of liqueur that happened to be standing on a table; the ghost must have something to do with it.

The truth is that no one ever knew how Joseph Buquet met his death. The verdict at the inquest was “natural suicide.” In his Memoirs of Manager, M. Moncharmin, one of the joint managers who succeeded MM. Debienne and Poligny, describes the incident as follows:

“A grievous accident spoiled the little party which MM. Debienne and Poligny gave to celebrate their retirement. I was in the manager’s office, when Mercier, the acting-manager, suddenly came darting in. He seemed half mad and told me that the body of a scene-shifter had been found hanging in the third cellar under the stage, between a farm-house and a scene from the Roi de Lahore. I shouted:

“`Come and cut him down!’

“By the time I had rushed down the staircase and the Jacob’s ladder, the man was no longer hanging from his rope!”

So this is an event which M. Moncharmin thinks natural. A man hangs at the end of a rope; they go to cut him down; the rope has disappeared. Oh, M. Moncharmin found a very simple explanation! Listen to him:

“It was just after the ballet; and leaders and dancing-girls lost no time in taking their precautions against the evil eye.”

There you are! Picture the corps de ballet scuttling down the Jacob’s ladder and dividing the suicide’s rope among themselves in less time than it takes to write! When, on the other hand, I think of the exact spot where the body was discovered— the third cellar underneath the stage!—imagine that SOMEBODY must have been interested in seeing that the rope disappeared after it had effected its purpose; and time will show if I am wrong.

The horrid news soon spread all over the Opera, where Joseph Buquet was very popular. The dressing-rooms emptied and the ballet-girls, crowding around Sorelli like timid sheep around their shepherdess, made for the foyer through the ill-lit passages and staircases, trotting as fast as their little pink legs could carry them.

Chapter II The New Margarita

On the first landing, Sorelli ran against the Comte de Chagny, who was coming up-stairs. The count, who was generally so calm, seemed greatly excited.

“I was just going to you,” he said, taking off his hat. “Oh, Sorelli, what an evening! And Christine Daae: what a triumph!”

“Impossible!” said Meg Giry. “Six months ago, she used to sing like a CROCK! But do let us get by, my dear count,” continues the brat, with a saucy curtsey. “We are going to inquire after a poor man who was found hanging by the neck.”

Just then the acting-manager came fussing past and stopped when he heard this remark.

“What!” he exclaimed roughly. “Have you girls heard already? Well, please forget about it for tonight—and above all don’t let M. Debienne and M. Poligny hear; it would upset them too much on their last day.”

They all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. The Comte de Chagny was right; no gala performance ever equalled this one. All the great composers of the day had conducted their own works in turns. Faure and Krauss had sung; and, on that evening, Christine Daae had revealed her true self, for the first time, to the astonished and enthusiastic audience. Gounod had conducted the Funeral March of a Marionnette; Reyer, his beautiful overture to Siguar; Saint Saens, the Danse Macabre and a Reverie Orientale; Massenet, an unpublished Hungarian march; Guiraud, his Carnaval; Delibes, the Valse Lente from Sylvia and the Pizzicati from Coppelia. Mlle. Krauss had sung the bolero in the Vespri Siciliani; and Mlle. Denise Bloch the drinking song in Lucrezia Borgia.

But the real triumph was reserved for Christine Daae, who had begun by singing a few passages from Romeo and Juliet. It was the first time that the young artist sang in this work of Gounod, which had not been transferred to the Opera and which was revived at the Opera Comique after it had been produced at the old Theatre Lyrique by Mme. Carvalho. Those who heard her say that her voice, in these passages, was seraphic; but this was nothing to the superhuman notes that she gave forth in the prison scene and the final trio in FAUST, which she sang in the place of La Carlotta, who was ill. No one had ever heard or seen anything like it.

Daae revealed a new Margarita that night, a Margarita of a splendor, a radiance hitherto unsuspected. The whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, while Christine sobbed and fainted in the arms of her fellow-singers and had to be carried to her dressing-room. A