XIV. UN COUP DE MAITRE DE L'AMATEUR DE TRAPPES

XIV

A MASTERSTROKE BY THE TRAP-LOVER

Raoul and Christine ran, and ran. Now they were fleeing the roof where there were those ember eyes that are only seen in the deep of night; and they did not stop until the eighth floor descending toward the earth. That evening there was no performance, and the corridors of the Opera were deserted.

Suddenly a bizarre silhouette rose before the young people, barring their path:

"No! Not this way!"

And the silhouette indicated another corridor by which they were to reach the wings.

Raoul wanted to stop, to ask for explanations.

"Go! Go quickly!..." commanded that vague shape, hidden in a sort of greatcoat and crowned with a pointed cap.

Christine was already dragging Raoul along, forcing him to run still:

"But who is that? But who is that, this one?" asked the young man.

And Christine answered:

"It is the Persian!..."

"What is he doing there..."

"No one knows!... He is always in the Opera!"

"What you are making me do is cowardly, Christine," said Raoul, who was much moved. "You are making me flee; it is the first time in my life."

"Bah!" replied Christine, who was beginning to calm down, "I believe we fled the shadow of our imagination!"

"If we truly caught sight of Erik I ought to have nailed him to the lyre of Apollo, as one nails the owl to the walls in our Breton farms, and there would have been no more talk of him."

"My good Raoul, you would first have had to climb up to the lyre of Apollo; that is no easy ascent."

"The ember eyes were there well enough."

"Eh! now you are like me, ready to see him everywhere, but one reflects afterward and says to oneself: what I took for ember eyes were no doubt but the golden nails of two stars that were looking at the city through the strings of the lyre."

And Christine descended another floor. Raoul followed. He said:

"Since you are quite decided to leave, Christine, I assure you again it would be better to flee at once. Why wait until tomorrow? He may have heard us this evening!..."

"But no! But no! He is working, I repeat to you, on his Don Juan Triumphant, and he is not concerning himself with us."

"You are so little sure of it that you never cease looking behind you."

"Let us go to my dressing room."

"Rather let us make a rendezvous outside the Opera."

"Never, until the minute of our flight! It would bring us bad luck not to keep my word. I promised him we would see each other only here."

"It is lucky for me at least that he still permitted that. Do you know," said Raoul bitterly, "that you were quite bold in allowing us the game of the betrothal."

"But, my dear, he is aware of it. He said to me: 'I trust you, Christine. Mr. Raoul de Chagny is in love with you and must leave. Before leaving, let him be as unhappy as I am!...'"

"And what does that mean, if you please?"

"It is I who should ask you that, my friend. One is unhappy, then, when one loves?"

"Yes, Christine, when one loves and is not sure of being loved."

"Is that for Erik you say it?"

"For Erik and for me," said the young man, shaking his head with a pensive and desolate air.

They arrived at Christine's dressing room.

"How can you think yourself safer in this room than in the theater?" asked Raoul. "Since you heard him through the walls, he can hear us."

"No! He gave me his word not to be behind the walls of my room anymore, and I believe Erik's word. My room and my chamber, in the apartment of the lake, are mine, exclusively mine, and sacred to him."

"How were you able to leave this room to be transported into the dark corridor, Christine? If we were to try to repeat your movements, would you?"

"That is dangerous, my friend, for the mirror might carry me off again and, instead of fleeing, I would be forced to go to the end of the secret passage that leads to the shores of the lake and there call Erik."

"He would hear you?"

"Wherever I call Erik, there Erik will hear me... That is what he told me; he is a very curious genius. You must not believe, Raoul, that he is simply a man who amused himself dwelling beneath the earth. He does things no other man could do; he knows things the living world ignores."

"Take care, Christine, you will make a phantom of him again."

"No, he is not a phantom; he is a man of heaven and of earth, that is all."

"A man of heaven and of earth... that is all!... The way you speak of him!... And you are still decided to flee from him?"

"Yes, tomorrow."

"Will you let me tell you why I would like to see you flee this evening?"

"Speak, my friend."

"Because, tomorrow, you will be decided on nothing at all!"

"Then, Raoul, you will carry me off in spite of myself!... is that understood?"

"Here then, tomorrow evening! At midnight I shall be in your dressing room," said the young man with a dark air; "whatever happens, I shall keep my promise. You say that after attending the performance, he is to go wait for you in the dining room of the lake?"

"It is indeed there he gave me the rendezvous."

"And how were you to go to him, Christine, if you do not know how to leave your room 'by the mirror'?"

"Why, by going directly to the edge of the lake."

"Through all the lower depths? By the staircases and corridors where the stagehands and servants pass? How would you have kept the secret of such a proceeding? Everyone would have followed Christine Daaé and she would have arrived with a crowd on the shores of the lake."

Christine took an enormous key from a casket and showed it to Raoul.

"What is this?" said he.

"It is the key to the grille of the underground passage of the rue Scribe."

"I understand, Christine. It leads directly to the lake. Give me that key, will you?"

"Never!" she replied with energy. "That would be a betrayal!"

Suddenly, Raoul saw Christine change color. A deathly pallor spread over her features.

"Oh! my God!" she cried... "Erik! Erik! have pity on me!"

"Be silent!" ordered the young man... "Did you not tell me he could hear you?"

But the singer's attitude became more and more inexplicable. She slid her fingers over one another, repeating in a distraught air:

"Oh! my God! Oh! my God!"

"But, what is it? what is it?" implored Raoul.

"The ring."

"What, the ring? I beg you, Christine, come back to yourself!"

"The gold ring he had given me..."

"Ah? It was Erik who had given you the gold ring!"

"You know it well, Raoul! But what you do not know is what he said to me in giving it: 'I restore your freedom, Christine, but on condition that this ring shall always be on your finger. So long as you keep it, you will be preserved from all danger and Erik will remain your friend. But if you ever part with it, woe to you, Christine, for Erik will avenge himself!...' My friend, my friend! The ring is no longer on my finger!... woe upon us!"

In vain they searched for the ring around them. They did not find it. The young girl did not calm down.

"It was while I granted you that kiss, up there, beneath the lyre of Apollo," she tried to explain, trembling; "the ring must have slipped from my finger and slid over the city! How to find it now? And what misfortune, Raoul, are we threatened with! Ah! flee! flee! Flee at once," Raoul insisted once more.

She hesitated. He thought she was going to say yes... And then her clear eyes grew troubled and she said: No! Tomorrow!

And she left him precipitously, in complete disarray, continuing to slide her fingers over one another, no doubt in the hope that the ring would reappear thus.

As for Raoul, he went home, very preoccupied by all he had heard.

"If I do not save her from the hands of this charlatan," he said aloud in his room, as he lay down, "she is lost; but I shall save her!"

He extinguished his lamp, and in the darkness he felt the need to insult Erik. He cried three times in a loud voice: "Charlatan!... Charlatan!... Charlatan!..."

But suddenly he rose on one elbow; a cold sweat ran down his temples. Two eyes, burning like braziers, had just lit up at the foot of his bed. They looked at him fixedly, terribly, in the black night.

Raoul was brave, and yet he trembled. He advanced his hand, groping, hesitant, uncertain, over the night table. Having found the matchbox, he made light. The eyes disappeared.

He thought, by no means reassured:

"She told me that his eyes are only seen in darkness. His eyes vanished with the light, but he, he may still be there."

And he rose, searched, prudently went around things. He looked under his bed, like a child. Then, he found himself ridiculous. He said aloud:

"What to believe? What not to believe with such a fairy tale? Where does the real end, where does the fantastic begin? What did she see? What did she think she saw?"

He added, shuddering:

"And myself, what did I see? Did I truly see the ember eyes just now? Did they shine only in my imagination? Here I am sure of nothing anymore! And I would not swear on those eyes."

He lay down again. Once more, he made darkness.

The eyes reappeared.

"Oh!" sighed Raoul.

Seated upright, he fixed them in turn as bravely as he could. After a silence which he occupied in recovering all his courage, he suddenly cried:

"Is it you, Erik? Man! genius or phantom! Is it you?"

He reflected:

"If it is he... he is on the balcony!"

Then he ran in his shirt to a small piece of furniture in which he groped out a revolver. Armed, he opened the French window. The night was then extremely fresh. Raoul took only the time to cast a glance at the deserted balcony and went back in, closing the door. He lay down again shivering, the revolver on the night table, within reach.

Once more he blew out the candle.

The eyes were still there, at the foot of the bed. Were they between the bed and the windowpane, or behind the windowpane, that is to say on the balcony?

That is what Raoul wanted to know. He wanted to know also if those eyes belonged to a human being... he wanted to know everything...

Then, patiently, coldly, without disturbing the night that surrounded him, the young man took up his revolver and aimed.

He aimed at the two gold stars that still looked at him with so singular an immobile gleam.

He aimed a little above the two stars. Certainly! if those stars were eyes, and if above those eyes there was a forehead, and if Raoul were not too clumsy...

The detonation rolled with a terrible crash in the peace of the sleeping house... And while, in the corridors, steps hurried, Raoul, seated upright, arm extended, ready to fire again, looked...

The two stars, this time, had disappeared.

Light, people, Count Philippe, frightfully anxious.

"What is it, Raoul?"

"It is, that I believe I must have been dreaming," answered the young man. "I fired on two stars that kept me from sleeping."

"You are raving?... You are unwell!... I beg you, Raoul, what happened?..." and the count seized the revolver.

"No, no, I am not raving!... besides, we shall soon know..."

He rose, put on a dressing gown, slipped on his slippers, took a light from a servant's hands, and opening the French window, went back onto the balcony.

The count had noted that the window had been pierced by a bullet at man's height. Raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle.

"Oh! oh!" said he... "blood!... blood!... Here... there... more blood! So much the better!... A phantom that bleeds... is less dangerous!" he sneered.

"Raoul! Raoul! Raoul!"

The count shook him as if to wake a sleepwalker from his dangerous sleep.

"But, my brother, I am not asleep!" protested Raoul, impatient. "You can see that blood like everyone. I had thought I was dreaming and firing on two stars. They were Erik's eyes... and here is his blood!..."

He added, suddenly uneasy:

"After all, I may have been wrong to fire, and Christine is quite capable of not forgiving me!... None of this would have happened if I had taken the precaution of letting the window curtains fall as I lay down."

"Raoul! Have you suddenly gone mad! Wake up!"

"Again! You would do better, my brother, to help me look for Erik... for, after all, a phantom that bleeds, that ought to be findable..."

The count's valet said:

"It is true, sir, that there is blood on the balcony."

A servant brought a lamp by whose light all things could be examined. The trace of blood followed the balcony rail and went to join a gutter, and the blood trace climbed along the gutter.

"My friend," said Count Philippe, "you fired on a cat."

"The misfortune!" said Raoul with a new sneer, which sounded painfully in the count's ears, "is that it is quite possible. With Erik, one never knows! Is it Erik? Is it the cat? Is it the phantom? Is it flesh or shadow? No! no! With Erik, one never knows!"

Raoul began to hold this sort of bizarre discourse which answered so intimately and so logically to the preoccupations of his mind and which followed so well the strange confidences, at once real and of supernatural appearance, of Christine Daaé; and these discourses contributed not a little to persuading many that the young man's brain was disturbed. The count himself was taken in by it, and later the examining magistrate, on the report of the police commissioner, had no difficulty in concluding.

"Who is Erik?" asked the count, pressing his brother's hand.

"He is my rival! and if he is not dead, so much the worse!"

With a gesture he dismissed the servants.

The chamber door closed on the two Chagnys. But the people did not move away so quickly that the count's valet did not distinctly hear Raoul pronounce with force:

"This evening! I shall carry off Christine Daaé."

This phrase was later repeated to the examining magistrate Faure. But one never knew exactly what was said between the two brothers during that interview.

The servants recounted that that night was not the first quarrel that made them shut themselves in.

Through the walls one heard cries, and it was always a question of an actress called Christine Daaé.

At the meal—the morning breakfast which the count took in his study—Philippe gave the order that his brother be prayed to join him. Raoul arrived, dark and mute. The scene was very short.

THE COUNT:—Read this!

(Philippe holds out a newspaper to his brother: "L'Époque." With his finger, he points to the following item.)

THE VISCOUNT, reading with his lips:

"A great piece of news in the faubourg: there is a promise of marriage between Mlle Christine Daaé, lyric artist, and Mr. the Viscount Raoul de Chagny. If one is to believe backstage gossip, Count Philippe would have sworn that for the first time the Chagnys would not keep their word. As love, at the Opera more than elsewhere, is all-powerful, one wonders by what means Count Philippe can dispose of to prevent the viscount, his brother, from leading to the altar the new Marguerite. They say the two brothers adore each other, but the count is strangely mistaken if he hopes fraternal love will yield to love plain and simple!"

THE COUNT (sad).—You see, Raoul, you make us ridiculous!... This little girl has completely turned your head with her ghost stories.

(The viscount had therefore reported Christine's tale to his brother.)

THE VISCOUNT.—Farewell, my brother!

THE COUNT.—Is that understood? You leave this evening? (The viscount does not answer.)... with her?... You will not do such a foolish thing? (Silence of the viscount.) I shall know well how to prevent you!

THE VISCOUNT.—Farewell, my brother!

(He goes away.)

This scene was recounted to the examining magistrate by the count himself, who was not to see his brother Raoul again except that very evening, at the Opera, a few minutes before Christine's disappearance.

The whole day indeed was devoted by Raoul to the preparations for the abduction.

The horses, the carriage, the coachman, the provisions, the luggage, the necessary money, the itinerary—one was not to take the train to throw the phantom off the track—all this occupied him until nine o'clock in the evening.

At nine o'clock, a sort of berline whose curtains were drawn over the doors hermetically closed came to take its place on the side of the Rotonde. It was hitched to two vigorous horses and driven by a coachman whose face was difficult to distinguish, so muffled was it in the long folds of a muffler. Before this berline were three carriages. The investigation later established that they were the coupés of Carlotta, suddenly returned to Paris, of Sorelli, and at the head, of Count Philippe de Chagny. From the berline, no one descended. The coachman remained on his seat. The three other coachmen had also remained on theirs.

A shadow, wrapped in a great black cloak, and capped with a soft black felt hat, passed on the sidewalk between the Rotonde and the equipages. It seemed to consider the berline more attentively. It approached the horses, then the coachman, then the shadow moved away without having pronounced a word. The investigation later believed that this shadow was that of Viscount Raoul de Chagny; as for me, I do not believe it, seeing that that evening as on other evenings, the Viscount de Chagny had a high hat which, moreover, was found again. I think rather that this shadow was that of the phantom who was aware of everything as one shall see immediately.

They were playing Faust, as by chance. The house was most brilliant. The faubourg was magnificently represented. At that time, the subscribers did not yield, did not rent nor sublet, nor share their boxes with finance or commerce or foreigners. Today, in the box of the Marquis So-and-So who always keeps that title: box of the Marquis So-and-So, since the marquis is, by contract, the holder, in this box, let us say, lounges such a salt-pork merchant and his family—which is the right of the salt-pork merchant since he pays for the marquis's box. Formerly, these manners were almost unknown. The Opera boxes were salons where one was fairly sure to meet or see people of the world who, sometimes, loved music.

All this fine company knew each other, without for that necessarily associating. But one put all the names on the faces and the countenance of Count de Chagny was ignored by no one.

The item appearing that morning in L'Époque must already have produced its little effect, for all eyes were turned toward the box where Count Philippe, of appearance quite indifferent and careless mien, was all alone. The feminine element of that dazzling assembly seemed singularly intrigued and the absence of the viscount gave rise to a hundred whisperings behind the fans. Christine Daaé was received rather coldly. This special public did not forgive her for having looked so high.

The diva realized the ill disposition of part of the house, and was troubled by it.

The regulars, who claimed to be in the know of the viscount's loves, did not refrain from smiling at certain passages of the role of Marguerite. Thus they ostentatiously turned toward Philippe de Chagny's box when Christine sang the phrase: "I should like to know who that young man was, if he is a great lord and what his name is."

His chin resting on his hand, the count seemed to take no heed of these demonstrations. He fixed the stage; but did he look at it? He seemed far from all...

More and more, Christine lost all assurance. She trembled. She was heading for a catastrophe... Carolus Fonta wondered if she were not unwell, if she could hold the stage until the end of the act which was that of the garden. In the house, one recalled the mishap that had befallen Carlotta at the end of that act, and the historic "croak" that had momentarily suspended her career in Paris.

Just then, Carlotta made her entrance into a front box, a sensational entrance. The poor Christine raised her eyes toward this new subject of emotion. She recognized her rival. She thought she saw her sneer. This saved her. She forgot all, to triumph once more.

From that moment, she sang with all her soul. She tried to surpass all she had done hitherto and she succeeded. At the last act, when she began to invoke the angels and to rise from the ground, she swept into a new flight the whole trembling house, and each could believe he had wings.

At that superhuman call, in the center of the amphitheater, a man had risen and remained standing, facing the actress, as if with the same movement he left the earth... It was Raoul:

Pure angels! Radiant angels! Pure angels! Radiant angels!

And Christine, arms outstretched, throat aflame, enveloped in the glory of her hair loosed upon her bare shoulders, threw the divine clamor:

Bear my soul to the bosom of the skies!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was then that, suddenly, a abrupt darkness fell upon the theater. It was so rapid that the spectators barely had time to utter a cry of stupefaction, for the light illuminated the stage anew.

... But Christine Daaé was no longer there!... What had become of her?... What was this miracle?... Each looked at the other without understanding and emotion was at once at its height. The stir was no less behind the scenes and in the house. From the wings they rushed toward the spot where, but a moment before, Christine was singing. The performance was interrupted amid the greatest disorder.

Where then? where had Christine gone? What sorcery had ravished her from thousands of enthusiastic spectators and from the very arms of Carolus Fonta? In truth, one could wonder if, granting her inflamed prayer, the angels had not truly borne her "to the bosom of the skies" body and soul?...

Raoul, still standing in the amphitheater, had uttered a cry. Count Philippe had started up in his box. They looked at the stage, they looked at the count, they looked at Raoul, and one wondered if this curious event had not to do with the item that had appeared that very morning in a newspaper. But Raoul hastily left his place, the count disappeared from his box, and, while the curtain was lowered, the subscribers rushed toward the wings entrance. The public awaited an announcement in an indescribable hubbub. Everyone spoke at once. Each claimed to explain how things had passed. Some said: "She fell into a trap"; others: "She was carried off in the flies; the poor girl is perhaps victim of a new trick inaugurated by the new management"; yet others: "It is an ambush. The coincidence of the disappearance and the darkness proves it sufficiently."

At last the curtain rose slowly, and Carolus Fonta advancing to the conductor's stand, announced in a grave and sad voice:

"Ladies and gentlemen, an unheard-of event which leaves us in profound unease has just occurred. Our comrade, Christine Daaé, has disappeared before our eyes without one being able to know how!"

“Stories of the world, in your language.”