Chapter XIII

Raoul and Christine ran, eager to escape from the roof and the blazing eyes. There was no performance at the Opera that night and the passages were empty. Suddenly, a queer-looking form stood before them and blocked the road:

“No, not this way!”

And the form pointed to another passage by which they were to reach the wings. Raoul wanted to stop and ask for an explanation. But the form said:

“Quick! Go away quickly!”

Christine was already dragging Raoul, compelling him to start running again.

“But who is he? Who is that man?” he asked.

Christine replied: “It’s the Persian.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Nobody knows. He is always in the Opera.”

“You are making me run away, for the first time in my life. Christine, why wait for tomorrow? He may have heard us tonight.”

“No, no, he is working, I tell you, at his Don Juan Triumphant and not thinking of us. Come to my dressing-room.”

“Why do you think that you are safer in this room than on the stage?” asked Raoul. “You heard him through the walls here, therefore he can certainly hear us.”

“No. He gave me his word not to be behind the walls of my dressing-room again and I believe Erik’s word. This room and my bedroom on the lake are for me, exclusively, and not to be approached by him.”

“How can you have gone from this room into that dark passage, Christine? Suppose we try to repeat your movements; shall we?”

“It is dangerous, dear, for the glass might carry me off again; and, instead of running away, I should be obliged to go to the end of the secret passage to the lake and there call Erik.”

“Would he hear you?”

“Erik will hear me wherever I call him. He told me so. He is a very curious genius. You must not think, Raoul, that he is simply a man who amuses himself by living underground. He does things that no other man could do; he knows things which nobody in the world knows.”

“Take care, Christine, you are making a ghost of him again!”

“No, he is not a ghost; he is a man, that is all.”

“A man! And are you still resolved to run away from him?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“I shall be here at twelve tomorrow night; I shall keep my promise, whatever happens. You say that, after listening to the performance, he is to wait for you in the dining-room on the lake?”

“Yes.”

“And how will you reach him?”

Christine opened a box, took out an enormous key and showed it to Raoul.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The key of the gate to the underground passage, to a gate opening into the Rue Scribe.”

“I understand, Christine. It leads straight to the lake. Give it to me, Christine, will you?”

“Never!” she said. “That would be treacherous!”

Suddenly Christine changed color.

“Oh heavens!” she cried. “Erik! Erik! Have pity on me! Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven!”

“But what is it? What is it?” Raoul asked.

“The ring… the gold ring he gave me.”

“Oh, so Erik gave you that ring!”

“You know he did, Raoul! But what you don’t know is that, when he gave it to me, he said, ‘I give you back your liberty, Christine, on condition that this ring is always on your finger. As long as you keep it, you will be protected against all danger and Erik will remain your friend. But woe to you if you ever part with it!’ My dear, my dear, the ring is gone! Woe to us both!”

They both looked for the ring, but could not find it.

“It was while I gave you that kiss,” she said. “The ring must have slipped from my finger and dropped into the street! We can never find it. Oh, we must run away!”

“Let us run away at once,” Raoul insisted, once more.

She hesitated. He thought that she was going to say yes. Then she said:

“No! Tomorrow!”

And she left him hurriedly. Raoul went home, greatly perturbed at all that he had heard.

“If I don’t save her from the hands of that humbug,” he said, aloud, as he went to bed, “she is lost. But I shall save her.”

He put out his lamp and felt a need to insult Erik in the dark. Thrice over, he shouted:

“Humbug! Humbug! Humbug!”

But, suddenly, he raised himself on his elbow. A cold sweat poured from his temples. Two eyes, like blazing coals, had appeared at the foot of his bed. They stared at him fixedly, terribly, in the darkness of the night.

Raoul was no coward; and yet he trembled. He found the matches and lit his candle. The eyes disappeared.

Still uneasy in his mind, he thought to himself:

“His eyes have disappeared in the light, but he may be there still.”

And he rose, went round the room. He looked under his bed, like a child. Then he thought himself absurd, got into bed again and blew out the candle. The eyes reappeared.

He sat up and stared back at them with all the courage he possessed.

Then he cried:

“Is that you, Erik? Man, genius, or ghost, is it you?”

He reflected: “If it’s he, he’s on the balcony!”

Then he ran to the chest of drawers and took his revolver. He opened the balcony window, looked out, saw nothing and closed the window again. He went back to bed, shivering, for the night was cold, and put the revolver on the table.

The eyes were still there, at the foot of the bed. Raoul wanted to know if those eyes belonged to a human being. Then, patiently, calmly, he seized his revolver and took aim. He aimed a little above the two eyes. The shot made a terrible din amid the silence of the slumbering house.

This time, the two eyes had disappeared.

Servants appeared, carrying lights; Count Philippe, terribly anxious:

“What is it?”

“I think I have been dreaming,” replied the young man. “I fired at two stars that kept me from sleeping.”

“You are raving! Are you ill? For God’s sake, tell me, Raoul: what happened?”

“No, no, I’m not raving. Besides, we shall soon see…”

He got out of bed, put on a dressing-gown and slippers, took a light from the hands of a servant and, opening the window, stepped out on the balcony.

The count saw that the window had been pierced by a bullet at a man’s height. Raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle: “Aha!” he said. “Blood! Blood! Here, there, more blood! That’s a good thing! A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!” he grinned.

“Raoul! Raoul! Raoul!”

The count was shaking him as though he were trying to waken a sleep-walker.

“But, my dear brother, I’m not asleep!” Raoul protested impatiently.

“You can see the blood for yourself. I thought I had been dreaming and firing at two stars. It was Erik’s eyes, and here is his blood!”

“Raoul, have you suddenly gone mad? Wake up!”

“What? You would do better to help me find Erik. After all, a ghost who bleeds can always be found.”

The count’s valet said:

“That is so, sir; there is blood on the balcony.”

The other servant brought a lamp, by the light of which they examined the balcony carefully. The marks of blood followed the rail till they reached a gutter-spout; then they went up the gutter-spout.

“My dear fellow,” said Count Philippe, “you have fired at a cat.”

“It’s quite possible,” said Raoul, with a grin. “With Erik, you never know. Is it Erik? Is it the cat? Is it the ghost? No, with Erik, you can’t tell!”

“Who is Erik?” asked the count, pressing his brother’s hand.

“He is my rival. And, if he’s not dead, it’s a pity.”

Then Raoul say, distinctly and emphatically:

“I shall carry off Christine Daae tonight.”

Raoul, in fact, devoted the whole day to his preparations for the flight. The horses, the carriage, the coachman, the provisions, the luggage, the money required for the journey, the road to be taken (he had resolved not to go by train): all this occupied him until nine o’clock at night.

They were giving Faust. The singer noticed the unfavorable attitude of a portion of the house and was confused by it. Christine lost her self-assurance more and more. She trembled. And suddenly Carlotta made her entrance in a box facing the stage. Poor Christine raised her eyes and recognized her rival. She thought she saw a sneer on her lips. That saved her. She forgot everything, in order to triumph once more.

From that moment the prima donna sang with all her heart and soul. In the center of the amphitheater a man stood up and remained standing, facing the singer. It was Raoul.

“Holy angel, in Heaven blessed…”

It was at that moment that the stage was suddenly plunged in darkness. It happened so quickly that the spectators hardly had time to utter a sound, for the stage was lit up again. But Christine Daae was no longer there!

What had become of her? What was that miracle? The performance was interrupted amid the greatest disorder. Where had Christine gone? What witchcraft had snatched her? It was as though the angels had really carried her up.

Raoul, still standing up in the amphitheater, had uttered a cry. People looked at the stage, at the count, at Raoul. Every one spoke at once. Every one tried to suggest an explanation of the extraordinary incident.

At last, the curtain rose slowly and the chorus-master stepped to the conductor’s desk and, in a sad and serious voice, said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, an unprecedented event has taken place. Our artist, Christine Daae, has disappeared before our eyes and nobody can tell us how!”

Behind the curtain, there was an indescribable crowd. Artists, scene-shifters, dancers, choristers, were all asking questions, shouting and hustling one another.

“What became of her?”

“She’s run away.”

“With the Vicomte de Chagny, of course!”

“No, with the count!”

“Ah, here’s Carlotta! Carlotta did the trick!”

“No, it was the ghost!”

Raoul’s first thought, after Christine Daae’s fantastic disappearance, was to accuse Erik. He no longer doubted the almost supernatural powers of the Angel of Music, in this domain of the Opera in which he had set up his empire. And Raoul rushed on the stage.

“Christine! Christine!” he moaned, calling to her as he felt that she must be calling to him from the depths of that dark pit to which the monster had carried her. “Christine! Christine!”

And he seemed to hear the girl’s screams through the frail boards that separated him from her. He bent forward, he listened, he wandered over the stage like a madman.

“Christine! Christine! Why don’t you answer? Are you alive?”

Of course, Erik must have discovered their secret. What a vengeance would be his!

And Raoul ran to the singer’s dressing-room.

“Christine! Christine!”

Raoul, his throat filled with sobs, oaths and insults, fumbled awkwardly at the great mirror that had opened one night, before his eyes, to let Christine pass to the murky dwelling below. He pushed, pressed, groped about, but the glass apparently obeyed no one but Erik. Perhaps actions were not enough with a glass of the kind? Perhaps he was expected to utter certain words?

Suddenly, Raoul remembered something about a gate opening into the Rue Scribe, an underground passage running straight to the Rue Scribe from the lake. Yes, Christine had told him about that. And, when he found that the key was no longer in the box, he nevertheless ran to the Rue Scribe. Outside, in the street, he passed his trembling hands over the huge stones, felt for outlets. Were those they? Or these? He listened. All was silence!

Raoul rushed into the doorkeeper’s lodge.

“I beg your pardon, madame, could you tell me where to find a gate or door, made of bars, iron bars, opening into the Rue Scribe and leading to the lake? You know the lake I mean? Yes, the underground lake under the Opera.”

“Yes, sir, I know there is a lake under the Opera, but I don’t know which door leads to it. I have never been there!”

“And the Rue Scribe, madame, the Rue Scribe? Have you never been to the Rue Scribe?”

The woman laughed! Raoul darted away, roaring with anger, ran upstairs. He saw a group of men and asked:

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen. Could you tell me where Christine Daae is?”

And somebody laughed.