I sprang to my feet.I was in the middle of a drawing-room that seemed to me to be decorated, adorned and furnished with nothing but flowers, flowers both magnificent and stupid, because of the silk ribbons that tied them to baskets, like those which they sell in the shops on the boulevards.They were much too civilized flowers, like those which I used to find in my dressing-room after a first night.And, in the midst of all these flowers, stood the black shape of the man in the mask, with arms crossed, and he said, `Don't be afraid, Christine; you are in no danger.'
IT WAS THE VOICE!
"My anger equaled my amazement.I rushed at the mask and tried to snatch it away, so as to see the face of the voice.The man said, `You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask.'
And, taking me gently by the wrists, he forced me into a chair and then went down on his knees before me and said nothing more!
His humility gave me back some of my courage; and the light restored me to the realties of life.However extraordinary the adventure might be, I was now surrounded by mortal, visible, tangible things.
The furniture, the hangings, the candles, the vases and the very flowers in their baskets, of which I could almost have told whence they came and what they cost, were bound to confine my imagination to the limits of a drawing-room quite as commonplace as any that, at least, had the excuse of not being in the cellars of the Opera.
I had, no doubt, to do with a terrible, eccentric person, who, in some mysterious fashion, had succeeded in taking up his abode there, under the Opera house, five stories below the level of the ground.
And the voice, the voice which I had recognized under the mask, was on its knees before me, WAS A MAN! And I began to cry....
The man, still kneeling, must have understood the cause of my tears, for he said, `It is true, Christine!...I am not an Angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost...I am Erik!'"Christine's narrative was again interrupted.An echo behind them seemed to repeat the word after her.
"Erik!"
What echo?...They both turned round and saw that night had fallen.
Raoul made a movement as though to rise, but Christine kept him beside her.
"Don't go," she said."I want you to know everything HERE!""But why here, Christine? I am afraid of your catching cold.""We have nothing to fear except the trap-doors, dear, and here we are miles away from the trap-doors...and I am not allowed to see you outside the theater.This is not the time to annoy him.
We must not arouse his suspicion."
"Christine! Christine! Something tells me that we are wrong to wait till to-morrow evening and that we ought to fly at once.""I tell you that, if he does not hear me sing tomorrow, it will cause him infinite pain.""It is difficult not to cause him pain and yet to escape from him for good.""You are right in that, Raoul, for certainly he will die of my flight."And she added in a dull voice, "But then it counts both ways...
for we risk his killing us."
"Does he love you so much?"
"He would commit murder for me."
"But one can find out where he lives.One can go in search of him.
Now that we know that Erik is not a ghost, one can speak to him and force him to answer!"Christine shook her head.
"No, no! There is nothing to be done with Erik except to run away!""Then why, when you were able to run away, did you go back to him?""Because I had to.And you will understand that when I tell you how I left him.""Oh, I hate him!" cried Raoul."And you, Christine, tell me, do you hate him too?""No," said Christine simply.
"No, of course not....Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves," said Raoul bitterly.
"The kind that gives you a thrill, when you think of it.
...Picture it: a man who lives in a palace underground!"And he gave a leer.
"Then you want me to go back there?" said the young girl cruelly.
"Take care, Raoul; I have told you: I should never return!"There was an appalling silence between the three of them:
the two who spoke and the shadow that listened, behind them.
"Before answering that," said Raoul, at last, speaking very slowly, "I should like to know with what feeling he inspires you, since you do not hate him.""With horror!" she said."That is the terrible thing about it.
He fills me with horror and I do not hate him.How can Ihate him, Raoul? Think of Erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground.He accuses himself, he curses himself, he implores my forgiveness!...He confesses his cheat.
He loves me! He lays at my feet an immense and tragic love.
...He has carried me off for love!...He has imprisoned me with him, underground, for love!...But he respects me: he crawls, he moans, he weeps!...And, when I stood up, Raoul, and told him that I could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my liberty...he offered it...he offered to show me the mysterious road...Only...only he rose too...and Iwas made to remember that, though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the voice...for he sang.And I listened...and stayed!...That night, we did not exchange another word.
He sang me to sleep.
"When I woke up, I was alone, lying on a sofa in a simply furnished little bedroom, with an ordinary mahogany bedstead, lit by a lamp standing on the marble top of an old Louis-Philippe chest of drawers.
I soon discovered that I was a prisoner and that the only outlet from my room led to a very comfortable bath-room.On returning to the bedroom, I saw on the chest of drawers a note, in red ink, which said, `My dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate.
You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself.
You are alone, at present, in this home which is yours.I am going out shopping to fetch you all the things that you can need.'
I felt sure that I had fallen into the hands of a madman.
