Anyone can contribute at standardebooks.org. Imprint This ebook is the product of many hours of hard work by volunteers for Standard Ebooks, and builds on the hard work of other literature lovers made possible by the public domain. This particular ebook is based on a transcription from Project Gutenberg and on digital scans from the Internet Archive. The source text and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. They may still be copyrighted in other countries, so users located outside of the United States must check their local laws before using this ebook. The creators of, and contributors to, this ebook dedicate their contributions to the worldwide public domain via the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication. For full license information, see the Uncopyright at the end of this ebook. Standard Ebooks is a volunteerdriven project that produces ebook editions of public domain literature using modern typography, technology, and editorial standards, and distributes them free of cost. You can download this and other ebooks carefully produced for true book lovers at standardebooks.org. The Midnight Guest By Fred M. White. Uncopyright May you do good and not evil. May you find forgiveness for yourself and forgive others. May you share freely, never taking more than you give. Copyright pages exist to tell you that you cant do something. Unlike them, this Uncopyright page exists to tell you that the writing and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. The United States public domain represents our collective cultural heritage, and items in it are free for anyone in the United States to do almost anything at all with, without having to get permission. Copyright laws are different all over the world, and the source text or artwork in this ebook may still be copyrighted in other countries. If youre not located in the United States, you must check your local laws before using this ebook. Standard Ebooks makes no representations regarding the copyright status of the source text or artwork in this ebook in any country other than the United States. Nonauthorship activities performed on items that are in the public domainsocalled sweat of the brow workdont create a new copyright. That means that nobody can claim a new copyright on an item that is in the public domain for, among other things, work like digitization, markup, or typography. Regardless, the contributors to this ebook release their contributions under the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication, thus dedicating to the worldwide public domain all of the work theyve done on this ebook, including but not limited to metadata, the titlepage, imprint, colophon, this Uncopyright, and any changes or enhancements to, or markup on, the original text and artwork. This dedication doesnt change the copyright status of the source text or artwork. We make this dedication in the interest of enriching our global cultural heritage, to promote free and libre culture around the world, and to give back to the unrestricted culture that has given all of us so much. Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint I At Whose Hand? II No. 1 Fitzjohn Square III The Mark of the Beast IV A Womans Face V Vera Rayne VI A Voice in the Dark VII The Yellow Handbill VIII The Mystery Deepens IX The Confidential Agent X Ropes of Sand XI The Express Letter XII A Speaking Likeness XIII A Striking Likness XIV Retrospection XV Dallas Makes a Discovery XVI Strong Measures XVII Looking Backwards XVIII After Many Years XIX Carlottas Story XX Valdo in a New Light XXI To Be in Time XXI The Worth of a Name XXIII The Next Move XXIV A Blood Relation XXV Bred in the Bone XXVI A Faithful Servant XXVII Flight! XXVIII Veras Warning XXIX The Message XXX Lost XXXI A Missing Link XXXI What Does It Mean? XXXII The Midnight Message XXXIV A Strange Homecoming XXXV Mother and Child XXXVI In the Dead of Night XXXVII An Unexpected Friend XXXVIII In the House XXXIX The Hound Again XL Broken Wings XLI A Ray of Light XLII Run to Earth XLIII The Whole Truth XLIV The Story of a Crime XLV Count Flavios Diary XLVI A Womans Heart XLVII The Passing of the Vengeance Colophon Uncopyright Landmarks The Midnight Guest


I Is It the Ghost? It was the evening on which MM. Debienne and Poligny, the managers of the Opera, were giving a last gala performance to mark their retirement. Suddenly the dressingroom of La Sorelli, one of the principal dancers, was invaded by halfadozen young ladies of the ballet, who had come up from the stage after dancing Polyeucte. They rushed in amid great confusion, some giving vent to forced and unnatural laughter, others to cries of terror. Sorelli, who wished to be alone for a moment to run through the speech which she was to make to the resigning managers, looked around angrily at the mad and tumultuous crowd. It was little Jammesthe girl with the tiptilted nose, the forgetmenot eyes, the rosered cheeks and the lilywhite neck and shoulderswho gave the explanation in a trembling voice Its the ghost! And she locked the door. Sorellis dressingroom was fitted up with official, commonplace elegance. A pierglass, a sofa, a dressingtable and a cupboard or two provided the necessary furniture. On the walls hung a few engravings, relics of the mother, who had known the glories of the old Opera in the Rue le Peletier; portraits of Vestris, Gardel, Dupont, Bigottini. But the room seemed a palace to the brats of the corps de ballet, who were lodged in common dressingrooms where they spent their time singing, quarreling, smacking the dressers and hairdressers and buying one another glasses of cassis, beer, or even rum, until the callboys bell rang. Sorelli was very superstitious. She shuddered when she heard little Jammes speak of the ghost, called her a silly little fool and then, as she was the first to believe in ghosts in general, and the Opera ghost in particular, at once asked for details Have you seen him? As plainly as I see you now! said little Jammes, whose legs were giving way beneath her, and she dropped with a moan into a chair. Thereupon little Girythe girl with eyes black as sloes, hair black as ink, a swarthy complexion and a poor little skin stretched over poor little boneslittle Giry added If thats the ghost, hes very ugly! Oh, yes! cried the chorus of balletgirls. And they all began to talk together. The ghost had appeared to them in the shape of a gentleman in dressclothes, who had suddenly stood before them in the passage, without their knowing where he came from. He seemed to have come straight through the wall. Pooh! said one of them, who had more or less kept her head. You see the ghost everywhere! And it was true. For several months, there had been nothing discussed at the Opera but this ghost in dressclothes who stalked about the building, from top to bottom, like a shadow, who spoke to nobody, to whom nobody dared speak and who vanished as soon as he was seen, no one knowing how or where. As became a real ghost, he made no noise in walking. People began by laughing and making fun of this specter dressed like a man of fashion or an undertaker; but the ghost legend soon swelled to enormous proportions among the corps de ballet. All the girls pretended to have met this supernatural being more or less often. And those who laughed the loudest were not the most at ease. When he did not show himself, he betrayed his presence or his passing by accident, comic or serious, for which the general superstition held him responsible. Had anyone met with a fall, or suffered a practical joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powderpuff, it was at once the fault of the ghost, of the Opera ghost. After all, who had seen him? You meet so many men in dressclothes at the Opera who are not ghosts. But this dresssuit had a peculiarity of its own. It covered a skeleton. At least, so the balletgirls said. And, of course, it had a deaths head. Was all this serious? The truth is that the idea of the skeleton came from the description of the ghost given by Joseph Buquet, the chief sceneshifter, who had really seen the ghost. He had run up against the ghost on the little staircase, by the footlights, which leads to the cellars. He had seen him for a secondfor the ghost had fledand to anyone who cared to listen to him he said He is extraordinarily thin and his dresscoat hangs on a skeleton frame. His eyes are so deep that you can hardly see the fixed pupils. You just see two big black holes, as in a dead mans skull. His skin, which is stretched across his bones like a drumhead, is not white, but a nasty yellow. His nose is so little worth talking about that you cant see it sideface; and the absence of that nose is a horrible thing to look at. All the hair he has is three or four long dark locks on his forehead and behind his ears. This chief sceneshifter was a serious, sober, steady man, very slow at imagining things. His words were received with interest and amazement; and soon there were other people to say that they too had met a man in dressclothes with a deaths head on his shoulders. Sensible men who had wind of the story began by saying that Joseph Buquet had been the victim of a joke played by one of his assistants. And then, one after the other, there came a series of incidents so curious and so inexplicable that the very shrewdest people began to feel uneasy. For instance, a fireman is a brave fellow! He fears nothing, least of all fire! Well, the fireman in question, who had gone to make a round of inspection in the cellars and who, it seems, had ventured a little farther than usual, suddenly reappeared on the stage, pale, scared, trembling, with his eyes starting out of his head, and practically fainted in the arms of the proud mother of little Jammes.1 And why? Because he had seen coming toward him, at the level of his head, but without a body attached to it, a head of fire! And, as I said, a fireman is not afraid of fire. The firemans name was Pampin. The corps de ballet was flung into consternation. At first sight, this fiery head in no way corresponded with Joseph Buquets description of the ghost. But the young ladies soon persuaded themselves that the ghost had several heads, which he changed about as he pleased. And, of course, they at once imagined that they were in the greatest danger. Once a fireman did not hesitate to faint, leaders and frontrow and backrow girls alike had plenty of excuses for the fright that made them quicken their pace when passing some dark corner or illlighted corridor. Sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the fireman, placed a horseshoe on the table in front of the stagedoorkeepers box, which everyone who entered the Opera otherwise than as a spectator must touch before setting foot on the first tread of the staircase. This horseshoe was not invented by meany more than any other part of this story, alas!and may still be seen on the table in the passage outside the stagedoorkeepers box, when you enter the Opera through the court known as the Cour de lAdministration. To return to the evening in question. Its the ghost! little Jammes had cried. An agonizing silence now reigned in the dressingroom. Nothing was heard but the hard breathing of the girls. At last, Jammes, flinging herself upon the farthest corner of the wall, with every mark of real terror on her face, whispered Listen! Everybody seemed to hear a rustling outside the door. There was no sound of footsteps. It was like light silk sliding over the panel. Then it stopped. Sorelli tried to show more pluck than the others. She went up to the door and, in a quavering voice, asked Whos there? But nobody answered. Then feeling all eyes upon her, watching her last movement, she made an effort to show courage, and said very loudly Is there anyone behind the door? Oh, yes, yes! Of course there is! cried that little dried plum of a Meg Giry, heroically holding Sorelli back by her gauze skirt. Whatever you do, dont open the door! Oh, Lord, dont open the door! But Sorelli, armed with a dagger that never left her, turned the key and drew back the door, while the balletgirls retreated to the inner dressingroom and Meg Giry sighed Mother! Mother! Sorelli looked into the passage bravely. It was empty; a gasflame, in its glass prison, cast a red and suspicious light into the surrounding darkness, without succeeding in dispelling it. And the dancer slammed the door again, with a deep sigh. No, she said, there is no one there. Still, we saw him! Jammes declared, returning with timid little steps to her place beside Sorelli. He must be somewhere prowling about. I shant go back to dress. We had better all go down to the foyer together, at once, for the speech, and we will come up again together. And the child reverently touched the little coral fingerring which she wore as a charm against bad luck, while Sorelli, stealthily, with the tip of her pink right thumbnail, made a St. Andrews cross on the wooden ring which adorned the fourth finger of her left hand. She said to the little balletgirls Come, children, pull yourselves together! I dare say no one has ever seen the ghost. Yes, yes, we saw himwe saw him just now! cried the girls. He had his deaths head and his dresscoat, just as when he appeared to Joseph Buquet! And Gabriel saw him too! said Jammes. Only yesterday! Yesterday afternoonin broad daylight Gabriel, the chorusmaster? Why, yes, didnt you know? And he was wearing his dressclothes, in broad daylight? Who? Gabriel? Why, no, the ghost! Certainly! Gabriel told me so himself. Thats what he knew him by. Gabriel was in the stagemanagers office. Suddenly the door opened and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eye Oh, yes! answered the little balletgirls in chorus, warding off illluck 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 hatpeg 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 deaths head, just like Joseph Buquets 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. Thats mothers 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 mothers opinion? Hush! Mother says the ghost doesnt like being talked about. And why does your mother say so? Becausebecausenothing 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, its because of the private box. What private box? The ghosts box! Has the ghost a box? Oh, do tell us, do tell us! Not so loud! said Meg. Its Box Five, you know, the box on the grand tier, next to the stagebox, on the left. Oh, nonsense! I tell you it is. Mother has charge of it. But you swear you wont say a word? Of course, of course. Well, thats the ghosts box. No one has had it for over a month, except the ghost, and orders have been given at the boxoffice 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 balletgirls exchanged glances. If the ghost came to the box, he must be seen, because he wore a dresscoat and a deaths head. This was what they tried to make Meg understand, but she replied Thats just it! The ghost is not seen. And he has no dresscoat and no head! All that talk about his deaths head and his head of fire is nonsense! Theres 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, youre getting at us! Thereupon little Giry began to cry. I ought to have held my tongueif mother ever came to know! But I was quite right, Joseph Buquet had no business to talk of things that dont concern himit will bring him bad luckmother 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? Its mothers voice, said Jammes. Whats the matter? She opened the door. A respectable lady, built on the lines of a Pomeranian grenadier, burst into the dressingroom and dropped groaning into a vacant armchair. Her eyes rolled madly in her brickdust 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 thirdfloor cellar! Its 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 didnt say it!I didnt say it! All around her, her panicstricken companions repeated under their breaths Yesit 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 a 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 managers office, when Mercier, the actingmanager, suddenly came darting in. He seemed half mad and told me that the body of a sceneshifter had been found hanging in the third cellar under the stage, between a farmhouse 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 Jacobs 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 dancinggirls lost no time in taking their precautions against the evil eye. There you are! Picture the corps de ballet scuttling down the Jacobs ladder and dividing the suicides 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 discoveredthe third cellar underneath the stageI 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 dressingrooms emptied and the balletgirls, crowding around Sorelli like timid sheep around their shepherdess, made for the foyer through the illlit passages and staircases, trotting as fast as their little pink legs could carry them. II The New Margarita On the first landing, Sorelli ran against the Comte de Chagny, who was coming upstairs. 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 Daa 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 actingmanager 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 tonightand above all dont 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 Daa 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 Sans, the Danse Macabre and a Rverie 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 Daa, 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 Opra 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. Daa 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 fellowsingers and had to be carried to her dressingroom. A few subscribers, however, protested. Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all that time? Till then, Christine Daa had played a good Siebel to Carlottas rather too splendidly material Margarita. And it had needed Carlottas incomprehensible and inexcusable absence from this gala night for the little Daa, at a moments warning, to show all that she could do in a part of the program reserved for the Spanish diva! Well, what the subscribers wanted to know was, why had Debienne and Poligny applied to Daa, when Carlotta was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if they knew of it, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at that moment. She had often said she meant to practise alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery. The Comte de Chagny, standing up in his box, listened to all this frenzy and took part in it by loudly applauding. Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny was just fortyone years of age. He was a great aristocrat and a goodlooking man, above middle height and with attractive features, in spite of his hard forehead and his rather cold eyes. He was exquisitely polite to the women and a little haughty to the men, who did not always forgive him for his successes in society. He had an excellent heart and an irreproachable conscience. On the death of old Count Philibert, he became the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France, whose arms dated back to the fourteenth century. The Chagnys owned a great deal of property; and, when the old count, who was a widower, died, it was no easy task for Philippe to accept the management of so large an estate. His two sisters and his brother, Raoul, would not hear of a division and waived their claim to their shares, leaving themselves entirely in Philippes hands, as though the right of primogeniture had never ceased to exist. When the two sisters married, on the same day, they received their portion from their brother, not as a thing rightfully belonging to them, but as a dowry for which they thanked him. The Comtesse de Chagny, ne de Moerogis de La Martyniere, had died in giving birth to Raoul, who was born twenty years after his elder brother. At the time of the old counts death, Raoul was twelve years of age. Philippe busied himself actively with the youngsters education. He was admirably assisted in this work first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer, who lived at Brest and gave young Raoul a taste for the sea. The lad entered the Borda trainingship, finished his course with honors and quietly made his trip round the world. Thanks to powerful influence, he had just been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the Requin, which was to be sent to the Arctic Circle in search of the survivors of the DArtois expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years. Meanwhile, he was enjoying a long furlough which would not be over for six months; and already the dowagers of the Faubourg SaintGermain were pitying the handsome and apparently delicate stripling for the hard work in store for him. The shyness of the sailorladI was almost saying his innocencewas remarkable. He seemed to have but just left the womens apronstrings. As a matter of fact, petted as he was by his two sisters and his old aunt, he had retained from this purely feminine education manners that were almost candid and stamped with a charm that nothing had yet been able to sully. He was a little over twentyone years of age and looked eighteen. He had a small, fair mustache, beautiful blue eyes and a complexion like a girls. Philippe spoiled Raoul. To begin with, he was very proud of him and pleased to foresee a glorious career for his junior in the navy in which one of their ancestors, the famous Chagny de La Roche, had held the rank of admiral. He took advantage of the young mans leave of absence to show him Paris, with all its luxurious and artistic delights. The count considered that, at Raouls age, it is not good to be too good. Philippe himself had a character that was very wellbalanced in work and pleasure alike; his demeanor was always faultless; and he was incapable of setting his brother a bad example. He took him with him wherever he went. He even introduced him to the foyer of the ballet. I know that the count was said to be on terms with Sorelli. But it could hardly be reckoned as a crime for this nobleman, a bachelor, with plenty of leisure, especially since his sisters were settled, to come and spend an hour or two after dinner in the company of a dancer, who, though not so very, very witty, had the finest eyes that ever were seen! And, besides, there are places where a true Parisian, when he has the rank of the Comte de Chagny, is bound to show himself; and at that time the foyer of the ballet at the Opera was one of those places. Lastly, Philippe would perhaps not have taken his brother behind the scenes of the Opera if Raoul had not been the first to ask him, repeatedly renewing his request with a gentle obstinacy which the count remembered at a later date. On that evening, Philippe, after applauding the Daa, turned to Raoul and saw that he was quite pale. Dont you see, said Raoul, that the womans fainting? You look like fainting yourself, said the count. Whats the matter? But Raoul had recovered himself and was standing up. Lets go and see, he said, she never sang like that before. The count gave his brother a curious smiling glance and seemed quite pleased. They were soon at the door leading from the house to the stage. Numbers of subscribers were slowly making their way through. Raoul tore his gloves without knowing what he was doing and Philippe had much too kind a heart to laugh at him for his impatience. But he now understood why Raoul was absentminded when spoken to and why he always tried to turn every conversation to the subject of the Opera. They reached the stage and pushed through the crowd of gentlemen, sceneshifters, supers and chorusgirls, Raoul leading the way, feeling that his heart no longer belonged to him, his face set with passion, while Count Philippe followed him with difficulty and continued to smile. At the back of the stage, Raoul had to stop before the inrush of the little troop of balletgirls who blocked the passage which he was trying to enter. More than one chaffing phrase darted from little madeup lips, to which he did not reply; and at last he was able to pass, and dived into the semidarkness of a corridor ringing with the name of Daa! Daa! The count was surprised to find that Raoul knew the way. He had never taken him to Christines himself and came to the conclusion that Raoul must have gone there alone while the count stayed talking in the foyer with Sorelli, who often asked him to wait until it was her time to go on and sometimes handed him the little gaiters in which she ran down from her dressingroom to preserve the spotlessness of her satin dancingshoes and her fleshcolored tights. Sorelli had an excuse; she had lost her mother. Postponing his usual visit to Sorelli for a few minutes, the count followed his brother down the passage that led to Daas dressingroom and saw that it had never been so crammed as on that evening, when the whole house seemed excited by her success and also by her fainting fit. For the girl had not yet come to; and the doctor of the theater had just arrived at the moment when Raoul entered at his heels. Christine, therefore, received the first aid of the one, while opening her eyes in the arms of the other. The count and many more remained crowding in the doorway. Dont you think, Doctor, that those gentlemen had better clear the room? asked Raoul coolly. Theres no breathing here. Youre quite right, said the doctor. And he sent everyone away, except Raoul and the maid, who looked at Raoul with eyes of the most undisguised astonishment. She had never seen him before and yet dared not question him; and the doctor imagined that the young man was only acting as he did because he had the right to. The viscount, therefore, remained in the room watching Christine as she slowly returned to life, while even the joint managers, Debienne and Poligny, who had come to offer their sympathy and congratulations, found themselves thrust into the passage among the crowd of dandies. The Comte de Chagny, who was one of those standing outside, laughed Oh, the rogue, the rogue! And he added, under his breath Those youngsters with their schoolgirl airs! So hes a Chagny after all! He turned to go to Sorellis dressingroom, but met her on the way, with her little troop of trembling balletgirls, as we have seen. Meanwhile, Christine Daa uttered a deep sigh, which was answered by a groan. She turned her head, saw Raoul and started. She looked at the doctor, on whom she bestowed a smile, then at her maid, then at Raoul again. Monsieur, she said, in a voice not much above a whisper, who are you? Mademoiselle, replied the young man, kneeling on one knee and pressing a fervent kiss on the divas hand, I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf. Christine again looked at the doctor and the maid; and all three began to laugh. Raoul turned very red and stood up. Mademoiselle, he said, since you are pleased not to recognize me, I should like to say something to you in private, something very important. When I am better, do you mind? And her voice shook. You have been very good. Yes, you must go, said the doctor, with his pleasantest smile. Leave me to attend to mademoiselle. I am not ill now, said Christine suddenly, with strange and unexpected energy. She rose and passed her hand over her eyelids. Thank you, Doctor. I should like to be alone. Please go away, all of you. Leave me. I feel very restless this evening. The doctor tried to make a short protest, but, perceiving the girls evident agitation, he thought the best remedy was not to thwart her. And he went away, saying to Raoul, outside She is not herself tonight. She is usually so gentle. Then he said good night and Raoul was left alone. The whole of this part of the theater was now deserted. The farewell ceremony was no doubt taking place in the foyer of the ballet. Raoul thought that Daa might go to it and he waited in the silent solitude, even hiding in the favoring shadow of a doorway. He felt a terrible pain at his heart and it was of this that he wanted to speak to Daa without delay. Suddenly the dressingroom door opened and the maid came out by herself, carrying bundles. He stopped her and asked how her mistress was. The woman laughed and said that she was quite well, but that he must not disturb her, for she wished to be left alone. And she passed on. One idea alone filled Raouls burning brain of course, Daa wished to be left alone for him! Had he not told her that he wanted to speak to her privately? Hardly breathing, he went up to the dressingroom and, with his ear to the door to catch her reply, prepared to knock. But his hand dropped. He had heard a mans voice in the dressingroom, saying, in a curiously masterful tone Christine, you must love me! And Christines voice, infinitely sad and trembling, as though accompanied by tears, replied How can you talk like that? When I sing only for you! Raoul leaned against the panel to ease his pain. His heart, which had seemed gone forever, returned to his breast and was throbbing loudly. The whole passage echoed with its beating and Raouls ears were deafened. Surely, if his heart continued to make such a noise, they would hear it inside, they would open the door and the young man would be turned away in disgrace. What a position for a Chagny! To be caught listening behind a door! He took his heart in his two hands to make it stop. The mans voice spoke again Are you very tired? Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead! Christine replied. Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, replied the grave mans voice, and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight. Raoul heard nothing after that. Nevertheless, he did not go away, but, as though he feared lest he should be caught, he returned to his dark corner, determined to wait for the man to leave the room. At one and the same time, he had learned what love meant, and hatred. He knew that he loved. He wanted to know whom he hated. To his great astonishment, the door opened and Christine Daa appeared, wrapped in furs, with her face hidden in a lace veil, alone. She closed the door behind her, but Raoul observed that she did not lock it. She passed him. He did not even follow her with his eyes, for his eyes were fixed on the door, which did not open again. When the passage was once more deserted, he crossed it, opened the door of the dressingroom, went in and shut the door. He found himself in absolute darkness. The gas had been turned out.


There is someone here! said Raoul, with his back against the closed door, in a quivering voice. What are you hiding for? All was darkness and silence. Raoul heard only the sound of his own breathing. He quite failed to see that the indiscretion of his conduct was exceeding all bounds. You shant leave this until I let you! he exclaimed. If you dont answer, you are a coward! But Ill expose you! And he struck a match. The blaze lit up the room. There was no one in the room! Raoul, first turning the key in the door, lit the gasjets. He went into the dressingcloset, opened the cupboards, hunted about, felt the walls with his moist hands. Nothing! Look here! he said, aloud. Am I going mad? He stood for ten minutes listening to the gas flaring in the silence of the empty room; lover though he was, he did not even think of stealing a ribbon that would have given him the perfume of the woman he loved. He went out, not knowing what he was doing nor where he was going. At a given moment in his wayward progress, an icy draft struck him in the face. He found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which, behind him, a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher, covered with a white sheet. Which is the way out, please? he asked of one of the men. Straight in front of you, the door is open. But let us pass. Pointing to the stretcher, he asked mechanically Whats that? The workmen answered  That is Joseph Buquet, who was found in the third cellar, hanging between a farmhouse and a scene from the Roi de Lahore. He took off his hat, fell back to make room for the procession and went out. III The Mysterious Reason During this time, the farewell ceremony was taking place. I have already said that this magnificent function was being given on the occasion of the retirement of M. Debienne and M. Poligny, who had determined to die game, as we say nowadays. They had been assisted in the realization of their ideal, though melancholy, program by all that counted in the social and artistic world of Paris. All these people met, after the performance, in the foyer of the ballet, where Sorelli waited for the arrival of the retiring managers with a glass of champagne in her hand and a little prepared speech at the tip of her tongue. Behind her, the members of the corps de ballet, young and old, discussed the events of the day in whispers or exchanged discreet signals with their friends, a noisy crowd of whom surrounded the suppertables arranged along the slanting floor. A few of the dancers had already changed into ordinary dress; but most of them wore their skirts of gossamer gauze; and all had thought it the right thing to put on a special face for the occasion all, that is, except little Jammes, whose fifteen summershappy age!seemed already to have forgotten the ghost and the death of Joseph Buquet. She never ceased to laugh and chatter, to hop about and play practical jokes, until MM. Debienne and Poligny appeared on the steps of the foyer, when she was severely called to order by the impatient Sorelli. Everybody remarked that the retiring managers looked cheerful, as is the Paris way. None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom or indifference over his inward joy. You know that one of your friends is in trouble; do not try to console him he will tell you that he is already comforted; but, should he have met with good fortune, be careful how you congratulate him he thinks it so natural that he is surprised that you should speak of it. In Paris, our lives are one masked ball; and the foyer of the ballet is the last place in which two men so knowing as M. Debienne and M. Poligny would have made the mistake of betraying their grief, however genuine it might be. And they were already smiling rather too broadly upon Sorelli, who had begun to recite her speech, when an exclamation from that little madcap of a Jammes broke the smile of the managers so brutally that the expression of distress and dismay that lay beneath it became apparent to all eyes The Opera ghost! Jammes yelled these words in a tone of unspeakable terror; and her finger pointed, among the crowd of dandies, to a face so pallid, so lugubrious and so ugly, with two such deep black cavities under the straddling eyebrows, that the deaths head in question immediately scored a huge success. The Opera ghost! The Opera ghost! Everybody laughed and pushed his neighbor and wanted to offer the Opera ghost a drink, but he was gone. He had slipped through the crowd; and the others vainly hunted for him, while two old gentlemen tried to calm little Jammes and while little Giry stood screaming like a peacock. Sorelli was furious; she had not been able to finish her speech; the managers had kissed her, thanked her and run away as fast as the ghost himself. No one was surprised at this, for it was known that they were to go through the same ceremony on the floor above, in the foyer of the singers, and that finally they were themselves to receive their personal friends, for the last time, in the great lobby outside the managers office, where a regular supper would be served. Here they found the new managers, M. Armand Moncharmin and M. Firmin Richard, whom they hardly knew; nevertheless, they were lavish in protestations of friendship and received a thousand flattering compliments in reply, so that those of the guests who had feared that they had a rather tedious evening in store for them at once put on brighter faces. The supper was almost gay and a particularly clever speech of the representative of the government, mingling the glories of the past with the successes of the future, caused the greatest cordiality to prevail. The retiring managers had already handed over to their successors the two tiny masterkeys which opened all the doorsthousands of doorsof the Opera house. And those little keys, the object of general curiosity, were being passed from hand to hand, when the attention of some of the guests was diverted by their discovery, at the end of the table, of that strange, wan and fantastic face, with the hollow eyes, which had already appeared in the foyer of the ballet and been greeted by little Jammes exclamation The Opera ghost! There sat the ghost, as natural as could be, except that he neither ate nor drank. Those who began by looking at him with a smile ended by turning away their heads, for the sight of him at once provoked the most funereal thoughts. No one repeated the joke of the foyer, no one exclaimed Theres the Opera ghost! He himself did not speak a word and his very neighbors could not have stated at what precise moment he had sat down between them; but everyone felt that if the dead did ever come and sit at the table of the living, they could not cut a more ghastly figure. The friends of Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin thought that this lean and skinny guest was an acquaintance of Debiennes or Polignys, while Debiennes and Polignys friends believed that the cadaverous individual belonged to Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmins party. The result was that no request was made for an explanation; no unpleasant remark; no joke in bad taste, which might have offended this visitor from the tomb. A few of those present who knew the story of the ghost and the description of him given by the chief sceneshifterthey did not know of Joseph Buquets deaththought, in their own minds, that the man at the end of the table might easily have passed for him; and yet, according to the story, the ghost had no nose and the person in question had. But M. Moncharmin declares, in his Memoirs, that the guests nose was transparent long, thin and transparent are his exact words. I, for my part, will add that this might very well apply to a false nose. M. Moncharmin may have taken for transparency what was only shininess. Everybody knows that orthopaedic science provides beautiful false noses for those who have lost their noses naturally or as the result of an operation. Did the ghost really take a seat at the managers suppertable that night, uninvited? And can we be sure that the figure was that of the Opera ghost himself? Who would venture to assert as much? I mention the incident, not because I wish for a second to make the reader believeor even to try to make him believethat the ghost was capable of such a sublime piece of impudence; but because, after all, the thing is impossible. M. Armand Moncharmin, in chapter eleven of his Memoirs, says When I think of this first evening, I can not separate the secret confided to us by MM. Debienne and Poligny in their office from the presence at our supper of that ghostly person whom none of us knew. What happened was this MM. Debienne and Poligny, sitting at the center of the table, had not seen the man with the deaths head. Suddenly he began to speak. The balletgirls are right, he said. The death of that poor Buquet is perhaps not so natural as people think. Debienne and Poligny gave a start. Is Buquet dead? they cried. Yes, replied the man, or the shadow of a man, quietly. He was found, this evening, hanging in the third cellar, between a farmhouse and a scene from the Roi de Lahore. The two managers, or rather exmanagers, at once rose and stared strangely at the speaker. They were more excited than they need have been, that is to say, more excited than anyone need be by the announcement of the suicide of a chief sceneshifter. They looked at each other. They had both turned whiter than the tablecloth. At last, Debienne made a sign to MM. Richard and Moncharmin; Poligny muttered a few words of excuse to the guests; and all four went into the managers office. I leave M. Moncharmin to complete the story. In his Memoirs, he says MM. Debienne and Poligny seemed to grow more and more excited, and they appeared to have something very difficult to tell us. First, they asked us if we knew the man, sitting at the end of the table, who had told them of the death of Joseph Buquet; and, when we answered in the negative, they looked still more concerned. They took the masterkeys from our hands, stared at them for a moment and advised us to have new locks made, with the greatest secrecy, for the rooms, closets and presses that we might wish to have hermetically closed. They said this so funnily that we began to laugh and to ask if there were thieves at the Opera. They replied that there was something worse, which was the ghost. We began to laugh again, feeling sure that they were indulging in some joke that was intended to crown our little entertainment. Then, at their request, we became serious, resolving to humor them and to enter into the spirit of the game. They told us that they never would have spoken to us of the ghost, if they had not received formal orders from the ghost himself to ask us to be pleasant to him and to grant any request that he might make. However, in their relief at leaving a domain where that tyrannical shade held sway, they had hesitated until the last moment to tell us this curious story, which our skeptical minds were certainly not prepared to entertain. But the announcement of the death of Joseph Buquet had served them as a brutal reminder that, whenever they had disregarded the ghosts wishes, some fantastic or disastrous event had brought them to a sense of their dependence. During these unexpected utterances made in a tone of the most secret and important confidence, I looked at Richard. Richard, in his student days, had acquired a great reputation for practical joking, and he seemed to relish the dish which was being served up to him in his turn. He did not miss a morsel of it, though the seasoning was a little gruesome because of the death of Buquet. He nodded his head sadly, while the others spoke, and his features assumed the air of a man who bitterly regretted having taken over the Opera, now that he knew that there was a ghost mixed up in the business. I could think of nothing better than to give him a servile imitation of this attitude of despair. However, in spite of all our efforts, we could not, at the finish, help bursting out laughing in the faces of MM. Debienne and Poligny, who, seeing us pass straight from the gloomiest state of mind to one of the most insolent merriment, acted as though they thought that we had gone mad. The joke became a little tedious; and Richard asked halfseriously and half in jest But, after all, what does this ghost of yours want? M. Poligny went to his desk and returned with a copy of the memorandumbook. The memorandumbook begins with the wellknown words saying that the management of the Opera shall give to the performance of the National Academy of Music the splendor that becomes the first lyric stage in France and ends with Clause 98, which says that the privilege can be withdrawn if the manager infringes the conditions stipulated in the memorandumbook. This is followed by the conditions, which are four in number. The copy produced by M. Poligny was written in black ink and exactly similar to that in our possession, except that, at the end, it contained a paragraph in red ink and in a queer, labored handwriting, as though it had been produced by dipping the heads of matches into the ink, the writing of a child that has never got beyond the downstrokes and has not learned to join its letters. This paragraph ran, word for word, as follows 5. Or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year. M. Poligny pointed with a hesitating finger to this last clause, which we certainly did not expect. Is this all? Does he not want anything else? asked Richard, with the greatest coolness. Yes, he does, replied Poligny. And he turned over the pages of the memorandumbook until he came to the clause specifying the days on which certain private boxes were to be reserved for the free use of the president of the republic, the ministers and so on. At the end of this clause, a line had been added, also in red ink Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera ghost for every performance. When we saw this, there was nothing else for us to do but to rise from our chairs, shake our two predecessors warmly by the hand and congratulate them on thinking of this charming little joke, which proved that the old French sense of humor was never likely to become extinct. Richard added that he now understood why MM. Debienne and Poligny were retiring from the management of the National Academy of Music. Business was impossible with so unreasonable a ghost. Certainly, two hundred and forty thousand francs are not to be picked up for the asking, said M. Poligny, without moving a muscle of his face. And have you considered what the loss over Box Five meant to us? We did not sell it once; and not only that, but we had to return the subscription why, its awful! We really cant work to keep ghosts! We prefer to go away! Yes, echoed M. Debienne, we prefer to go away. Let us go. And he stood up. Richard said But, after all, it seems to me that you were much too kind to the ghost. If I had such a troublesome ghost as that, I should not hesitate to have him arrested But how? Where? they cried, in chorus. We have never seen him! But when he comes to his box? We have never seen him in his box. Then sell it. Sell the Opera ghosts box! Well, gentlemen, try it. Thereupon we all four left the office. Richard and I had never laughed so much in our lives. IV Box Five Armand Moncharmin wrote such voluminous Memoirs during the fairly long period of his comanagement that we may well ask if he ever found time to attend to the affairs of the Opera otherwise than by telling what went on there. M. Moncharmin did not know a note of music, but he called the minister of education and fine arts by his Christian name, had dabbled a little in society journalism and enjoyed a considerable private income. Lastly, he was a charming fellow and showed that he was not lacking in intelligence, for, as soon as he made up his mind to be a sleeping partner in the Opera, he selected the best possible active manager and went straight to Firmin Richard. Firmin Richard was a very distinguished composer, who had published a number of successful pieces of all kinds and who liked nearly every form of music and every sort of musician. Clearly, therefore, it was the duty of every sort of musician to like M. Firmin Richard. The only things to be said against him were that he was rather masterful in his ways and endowed with a very hasty temper. The first few days which the partners spent at the Opera were given over to the delight of finding themselves the head of so magnificent an enterprise; and they had forgotten all about that curious, fantastic story of the ghost, when an incident occurred that proved to them that the jokeif joke it werewas not over. M. Firmin Richard reached his office that morning at eleven oclock. His secretary, M. Rmy, showed him half a dozen letters which he had not opened because they were marked private. One of the letters had at once attracted Richards attention not only because the envelope was addressed in red ink, but because he seemed to have seen the writing before. He soon remembered that it was the red handwriting in which the memorandumbook had been so curiously completed. He recognized the clumsy childish hand. He opened the letter and read Dear Mr. Manager I am sorry to have to trouble you at a time when you must be so very busy, renewing important engagements, signing fresh ones and generally displaying your excellent taste. I know what you have done for Carlotta, Sorelli and little Jammes and for a few others whose admirable qualities of talent or genius you have suspected. Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them to La Carlotta, who sings like a squirt and who ought never to have been allowed to leave the Ambassadeurs and the Caf Jacquin; nor to La Sorelli, who owes her success mainly to the coachbuilders; nor to little Jammes, who dances like a calf in a field. And I am not speaking of Christine Daa either, though her genius is certain, whereas your jealousy prevents her from creating any important part. When all is said, you are free to conduct your little business as you think best, are you not? All the same, I should like to take advantage of the fact that you have not yet turned Christine Daa out of doors by hearing her this evening in the part of Siebel, as that of Margarita has been forbidden her since her triumph of the other evening; and I will ask you not to dispose of my box today nor on the following days, for I can not end this letter without telling you how disagreeably surprised I have been once or twice, to hear, on arriving at the Opera, that my box had been sold, at the boxoffice, by your orders. I did not protest, first, because I dislike scandal, and, second, because I thought that your predecessors, MM. Debienne and Poligny, who were always charming to me, had neglected, before leaving, to mention my little fads to you. I have now received a reply from those gentlemen to my letter asking for an explanation, and this reply proves that you know all about my memorandumbook and, consequently, that you are treating me with outrageous contempt. If you wish to live in peace, you must not begin by taking away my private box. Believe me to be, dear Mr. Manager, without prejudice to these little observations, Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, Opera Ghost. The letter was accompanied by a cutting from the agonycolumn of the Revue Thtrale, which ran O. G.There is no excuse for R. and M. We told them and left your memorandumbook in their hands. Kind regards. M. Firmin Richard had hardly finished reading this letter when M. Armand Moncharmin entered, carrying one exactly similar. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. They are keeping up the joke, said M. Richard, but I dont call it funny. What does it all mean? asked M. Moncharmin. Do they imagine that, because they have been managers of the Opera, we are going to let them have a box for an indefinite period? I am not in the mood to let myself be laughed at long, said Firmin Richard. Its harmless enough, observed Armand Moncharmin. What is it they really want? A box for tonight? M. Firmin Richard told his secretary to send Box Five on the grand tier to MM. Debienne and Poligny, if it was not sold. It was not. It was sent off to them. Debienne lived at the corner of the Rue Scribe and the Boulevard des Capucines; Poligny, in the Rue Auber. O. Ghosts two letters had been posted at the Boulevard des Capucines postoffice, as Moncharmin remarked after examining the envelopes. You see! said Richard. They shrugged their shoulders and regretted that two men of that age should amuse themselves with such childish tricks. They might have been civil, for all that! said Moncharmin. Did you notice how they treat us with regard to Carlotta, Sorelli and Little Jammes? Why, my dear fellow, these two are mad with jealousy! To think that they went to the expense of an advertisement in the Revue Thtrale! Have they nothing better to do? By the way, said Moncharmin, they seem to be greatly interested in that little Christine Daa! You know as well as I do that she has the reputation of being quite good, said Richard. Reputations are easily obtained, replied Moncharmin. Havent I a reputation for knowing all about music? And I dont know one key from another. Dont be afraid you never had that reputation, Richard declared. Thereupon he ordered the artists to be shown in, who, for the last two hours, had been walking up and down outside the door behind which fame and fortuneor dismissalawaited them. The whole day was spent in discussing, negotiating, signing or cancelling contracts; and the two overworked managers went to bed early, without so much as casting a glance at Box Five to see whether M. Debienne and M. Poligny were enjoying the performance. Next morning, the managers received a card of thanks from the ghost Dear Mr. Manager Thanks. Charming evening. Daa exquisite. Choruses want waking up. Carlotta a splendid commonplace instrument. Will write you soon for the 240,000 francs, or 233,424 fr. 70 c., to be correct. MM. Debienne and Poligny have sent me the 6,575 fr. 30 c. representing the first ten days of my allowance for the current year; their privileges finished on the evening of the tenth inst. Kind regards. O. G. On the other hand, there was a letter from MM. Debienne and Poligny Gentlemen We are much obliged for your kind thought of us, but you will easily understand that the prospect of again hearing Faust, pleasant though it is to exmanagers of the Opera, can not make us forget that we have no right to occupy Box Five on the grand tier, which is the exclusive property of him of whom we spoke to you when we went through the memorandumbook with you for the last time. See Clause 98, final paragraph. Accept, gentlemen, etc. Oh, those fellows are beginning to annoy me! shouted Firmin Richard, snatching up the letter. And that evening Box Five was sold. The next morning, MM. Richard and Moncharmin, on reaching their office, found an inspectors report relating to an incident that had happened, the night before, in Box Five. I give the essential part of the report I was obliged to call in a municipal guard twice, this evening, to clear Box Five on the grand tier, once at the beginning and once in the middle of the second act. The occupants, who arrived as the curtain rose on the second act, created a regular scandal by their laughter and their ridiculous observations. There were cries of Hush! all around them and the whole house was beginning to protest, when the boxkeeper came to fetch me. I entered the box and said what I thought necessary. The people did not seem to me to be in their right mind; and they made stupid remarks. I said that, if the noise was repeated, I should be compelled to clear the box. The moment I left, I heard the laughing again, with fresh protests from the house. I returned with a municipal guard, who turned them out. They protested, still laughing, saying they would not go unless they had their money back. At last, they became quiet and I allowed them to enter the box again. The laughter at once recommenced; and, this time, I had them turned out definitely. Send for the inspector, said Richard to his secretary, who had already read the report and marked it with blue pencil. M. Rmy, the secretary, had foreseen the order and called the inspector at once. Tell us what happened, said Richard bluntly. The inspector began to splutter and referred to the report. Well, but what were those people laughing at? asked Moncharmin. They must have been dining, sir, and seemed more inclined to lark about than to listen to good music. The moment they entered the box, they came out again and called the boxkeeper, who asked them what they wanted. They said, Look in the box theres no one there, is there? No, said the woman. Well, said they, when we went in, we heard a voice saying that the box was taken!  M. Moncharmin could not help smiling as he looked at M. Richard; but M. Richard did not smile. He himself had done too much in that way in his time not to recognize, in the inspectors story, all the marks of one of those practical jokes which begin by amusing and end by enraging the victims. The inspector, to curry favor with M. Moncharmin, who was smiling, thought it best to give a smile too. A most unfortunate smile! M. Richard glared at his subordinate, who thenceforth made it his business to display a face of utter consternation. However, when the people arrived, roared Richard, there was no one in the box, was there? Not a soul, sir, not a soul! Nor in the box on the right, nor in the box on the left not a soul, sir, I swear! The boxkeeper told it me often enough, which proves that it was all a joke. Oh, you agree, do you? said Richard. You agree! Its a joke! And you think it funny, no doubt? I think it in very bad taste, sir. And what did the boxkeeper say? Oh, she just said that it was the Opera ghost. Thats all she said! And the inspector grinned. But he soon found that he had made a mistake in grinning, for the words had no sooner left his mouth than M. Richard, from gloomy, became furious. Send for the boxkeeper! he shouted. Send for her! This minute! This minute! And bring her in to me here! And turn all those people out! The inspector tried to protest, but Richard closed his mouth with an angry order to hold his tongue. Then, when the wretched mans lips seemed shut forever, the manager commanded him to open them once more. Who is this Opera ghost?  he snarled. But the inspector was by this time incapable of speaking a word. He managed to convey, by a despairing gesture, that he knew nothing about it, or rather that he did not wish to know. Have you ever seen him, have you seen the Opera ghost? The inspector, by means of a vigorous shake of the head, denied ever having seen the ghost in question. Very well! said M. Richard coldly. The inspectors eyes started out of his head, as though to ask why the manager had uttered that ominous Very well! Because Im going to settle the account of anyone who has not seen him! explained the manager. As he seems to be everywhere, I cant have people telling me that they see him nowhere. I like people to work for me when I employ them! Having said this, M. Richard paid no attention to the inspector and discussed various matters of business with his actingmanager, who had entered the room meanwhile. The inspector thought he could go and was gentlyoh, so gently!sidling toward the door, when M. Richard nailed the man to the floor with a thundering Stay where you are! M. Rmy had sent for the boxkeeper to the Rue de Provence, close to the Opera, where she was engaged as a porteress. She soon made her appearance. Whats your name? Mame Giry. You know me well enough, sir; Im the mother of little Giry, little Meg, what! This was said in so rough and solemn a tone that, for a moment, M. Richard was impressed. He looked at Mame Giry, in her faded shawl, her worn shoes, her old taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. It was quite evident from the managers attitude, that he either did not know or could not remember having met Mame Giry, nor even little Giry, nor even little Meg! But Mame Girys pride was so great that the celebrated boxkeeper imagined that everybody knew her. Never heard of her! the manager declared. But thats no reason, Mame Giry, why I shouldnt ask you what happened last night to make you and the inspector call in a municipal guard  I was just wanting to see you, sir, and talk to you about it, so that you mightnt have the same unpleasantness as M. Debienne and M. Poligny. They wouldnt listen to me either, at first. Im not asking you about all that. Im asking what happened last night. Mame Giry turned purple with indignation. Never had she been spoken to like that. She rose as though to go, gathering up the folds of her skirt and waving the feathers of her dingy bonnet with dignity, but, changing her mind, she sat down again and said, in a haughty voice Ill tell you what happened. The ghost was annoyed again! Thereupon, as M. Richard was on the point of bursting out, M. Moncharmin interfered and conducted the interrogatory, whence it appeared that Mame Giry thought it quite natural that a voice should be heard to say that a box was taken, when there was nobody in the box. She was unable to explain this phenomenon, which was not new to her, except by the intervention of the ghost. Nobody could see the ghost in his box, but everybody could hear him. She had often heard him; and they could believe her, for she always spoke the truth. They could ask M. Debienne and M. Poligny, and anybody who knew her; and also M. Isidore Saack, who had had a leg broken by the ghost! Indeed! said Moncharmin, interrupting her. Did the ghost break poor Isidore Saacks leg? Mame Giry opened her eyes with astonishment at such ignorance. However, she consented to enlighten those two poor innocents. The thing had happened in M. Debienne and M. Polignys time, also in Box Five and also during a performance of Faust. Mame Giry coughed, cleared her throatit sounded as though she were preparing to sing the whole of Gounods scoreand began It was like this, sir. That night, M. Maniera and his lady, the jewelers in the Rue Mogador, were sitting in the front of the box, with their great friend, M. Isidore Saack, sitting behind Mme. Maniera. Mephistopheles was singingMame Giry here burst into song herself Catarina, while you play at sleeping, and then M. Maniera heard a voice in his right ear (his wife was on his left) saying, Ha, ha! Julies not playing at sleeping! His wife happened to be called Julie. So M. Maniera turns to the right to see who was talking to him like that. Nobody there! He rubs his ear and asks himself if hes dreaming. Then Mephistopheles went on with his serenade.  But, perhaps Im boring you gentlemen? No, no, go on. You are too good, gentlemen, with a smirk. Well, then, Mephistopheles went on with his serenadeMame Giry burst into song again Saint, unclose thy portals holy and accord the bliss, to a mortal bending lowly, of a pardonkiss. And then M. Maniera again hears the voice in his right ear, saying, this time, Ha, ha! Julie wouldnt mind according a kiss to Isidore! Then he turns round again, but, this time, to the left; and what do you think he sees? Isidore, who had taken his ladys hand and was covering it with kisses through the little round place in the glovelike this, gentlemenrapturously kissing the bit of palm left bare in the middle of her thread gloves. Then they had a lively time between them! Bang! Bang! M. Maniera, who was big and strong, like you, M. Richard, gave two blows to M.