The Phantom of the Opera

G >> Gaston Leroux >> The Phantom of the Opera

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"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:

"There's 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 every one 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 Debienne's or Poligny's,
while Debienne's and Poligny's friends believed that the cadaverous
individual belonged to Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin's 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 scene-shifter--
they did not know of Joseph Buquet's death--thought, 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 guest's 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 transparcncy 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' supper-table
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 believe--or even to try to make him believe--
that 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 death's head.
Suddenly he began to speak.

"The ballet-girls 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 farm-house
and a scene from the Roi de Lahore."

The two managers, or rather ex-managers, 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 any one need be by
the announcement of the suicide of a chief scene-shifter. They looked
at each other. They, had both turned whiter than the table-cloth.
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. Mencharmin 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
master-keys 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 ghost's 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 half-seriously
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
memorandum-book. The memorandum-book begins with the well-known
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 memorandum-book.
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 down-strokes 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 memorandum-book 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 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, it's awful! We really can't 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 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 ghost's box! Well, gentlemen, try it.'

"Thereupon we all four left the office. Richard and I had `never
laughed so much in our lives.'"

Chapter IV Box Five

Armand Moncharmin wrote such voluminous Memoirs during the fairly long
period of his co-management 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 joke--if joke it were--was not over.
M. Firmin Richard reached his office that morning at eleven
o'clock. His secretary, M. Remy, showed him half a dozen letters
which he had not opened because they were marked "private."
One of the letters had at once attracted Richard's attention not
only because the envelope was addressed in red ink, but because he
seemed to have seen the writing before. He soon rememberd that it
was the red handwriting in which the memorandum-book 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 Cafe Jacquin;
nor to La Sorelli, who owes her success mainly to the coach-builders;
nor to little Jammes, who dances like a calf in a field. And I am
not speaking of Christine Daae 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 Daae 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 to-day 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 box-office, 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 Memorandum-Book 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 agony-column
of the Revue Theatrale, which ran:

O. G.--There is no excuse for R. and M. We told them and left
your memorandum-book 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 don't 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.

"It's harmless enough," observed Armand Moncharmin. "What is it
they really want? A box for to-night?"

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. Ghost's two letters had been posted at the Boulevard des
Capucines post-office, 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 Theatrale!
Have they nothing better to do?"

"By the way," said Moncharmin, "they seem to be greatly interested
in that little Christine Daae!"

"You know as well as I do that she has the reputation of being
quite good," said Richard.

"Reputations are easily obtained," replied Moncharmin. "Haven't I
a reputation for knowing all about music? And I don't know one key
from another."

"Don't 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 fortune--or dismissal--awaited 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. Daae 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 ex-managers 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 memorandum-book 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 inspector's 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 box-keeper 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. Remy, 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 box-keeper, who asked them what
they wanted. They said, `Look in the box: there's 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 inspector's 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 box-keeper
told it me often enough, which proves that it was all a joke."

"Oh, you agree, do you?" said Richard. "You agree! It's a joke!
And you think it funny, no doubt?"

"I think it in very bad taste, sir."

"And what did the box-keeper say?"

"Oh, she just said that it was the Opera ghost. That's 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 box-keeper!" 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
man's lips seemed shut for ever, 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 inspector's eyes started out of his head, as though to ask why
the manager had uttered that ominous "Very well!"

"Because I'm going to settle the account of any one who has not
seen him!" explained the manager. "As he seems to be everywhere,
I can't 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 acting-manager,
who had entered the room meanwhile. The inspector thought he
could go and was gently--oh, so gently!--sidling toward the door,
when M. Richard nailed the man to the floor with a thundering:

"Stay where you are!"

M. Remy had sent for the box-keeper to the Rue de Provence,
close to the Opera, where she was engaged as a porteress.
She soon made her appearance.

"What's your name?"

"Mme. Giry. You know me well enough, sir; I'm 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 Mme. Giry, in her faded shawl,
her worn shoes, her old taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. It was quite
evident from the manager's attitude, that he either did not know
or could not remember having met Mme. Giry, nor even little Giry,
nor even "little Meg!" But Mme. Giry's pride was so great that
the celebrated box-keeper imagined that everybody knew her.

"Never heard of her!" the manager declared. "But that's no reason,
Mme. Giry, why I shouldn't 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 mightn't have the same unpleasantness as M. Debienne
and M. Poligny. They wouldn't listen to me either, at first."

"I'm not asking you about all that. I'm asking what happened
last night."

Mme. 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:

"I'll 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 Mme. 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 Saack's leg?"

Mme. 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. Poligny's time, also in
Box Five and also during a performance of FAUST. Mme. Giry coughed,
cleared her throat--it sounded as though she were preparing to sing
the whole of Gounod's score--and 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 singing"--Mme. 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!
Julie's 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 he's dreaming. Then Mephistopheles went on with his serenade.
... But, perhaps I'm boring you gentlemen?"

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