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The Phantom of the Opera
Gaston Leroux
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The Phantom of the Opera
Gaston Leroux
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About This Book
Filled with passion, love, and suspense, The Phantom of the Opera is a thrilling classic.
Rumors abound that the Paris Opera House is haunted by a ghost. Nobody has ever seen it, but it makes itself known through malevolent acts. First published in book form in 1911, this gothic novel has been fascinating readers for more than a century and is the inspiration for the long-running hit musical. This edition featuresa new introduction.
The Knickerbocker Classics bring together the works of classic authors from around the world in stunning gift editions to be collected and enjoyed.
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ClassiciCHAPTER ONE
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 dressing-room of La Sorelli, one of the principal dancers, was invaded by half-a-dozen young ladies of the ballet, who had come up from the stage after ādancingā 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 ārun throughā the speech which she was to make to the resigning managers, looked around angrily at the mad and tumultuous crowd. It was little Jammesāthe girl with the tip-tilted nose, the forget-me-not eyes, the rose-red cheeks and the lily white neck and shouldersāwho gave the explanation in a trembling voice:
āItās the ghost!ā And she locked the door.
Sorelliās dressing-room was fitted up with official, commonplace elegance. A pier-glass, a sofa, a dressing-table 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 dressing-rooms where they spent their time singing, quarrelling, smacking the dressers and hair-dressers and buying one another glasses of cassis, beer or even rhum, until the call-boyās bell rang.
Sorelli was very superstitious. She shuddered when she heard little Jammes speak of the ghost, called her a āsilly little foolā and then, as she was the first to believe in ghosts in general, and the Opera ghost in particular, at once asked for details:
āHave you seen him?ā
āAs plainly as I see you now!ā said little Jammes, whose legs were giving way beneath her, and she dropped with a moan into a chair.
Thereupon little Giryāthe girl with eyes black as sloes, hair black as ink, a swarthy complexion and a poor little skin stretched over her poor bonesālittle Giry added:
āIf thatās the ghost, heās very ugly!ā
āOh, yes!ā cried the chorus of ballet-girls.
And they all began to talk together. The ghost had appeared to them in the shape of a gentleman in dress-clothes, 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.
āPooh!ā said one of them, who had more or less kept her head. āYou see the ghost everywhere!ā
And it was true. For several months, there had been nothing discussed at the Opera but this ghost in dress-clothes 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 spectre 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 any one met with a fall, or suffered a practical joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powder-puff, 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 dress-clothes at the Opera who are not ghosts. But this dress-suit had a peculiarity of its own. It covered a skeleton. At least, so the ballet-girls said. And, of course, it had a deathās 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 scene-shifter, who had really seen the ghost. He had run up against the ghost on the little staircase, by the footlights, which leads to āthe cellars.ā He had seen him for a secondāfor the ghost had fledāand to any one who cared to listen to him he said:
āHe is extraordinarily thin and his dress-coat 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 manās 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 canāt see it side-face; 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.ā
This chief scene-shifter 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 dress-clothes with a deathās 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 firemanās name was Pampin.
The corps de ballet was flung into consternation. At first sight, this fiery head in no way corresponded with Joseph Buquetās 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 front-row and back-row girls alike had plenty of excuses for the fright that made them quicken their pace when passing some dark corner or ill-lighted corridor. Sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the fireman, placed a horseshoe on the table in front of the stage-door-keeperās box, which every one who entered the Opera otherwise than as a spectator must touch before setting foot on the first tread of the staircase. This horse-shoe was not invented by meāany more than any other part of this story, alas!āand may still be seen on the table in the passage outside the stage-door-keeperās box, when you enter the Opera through the court known as the Cour de lāAdministration.
To return to the evening in question.
āItās the ghost!ā little Jammes had cried.
An agonizing silence now reigned in the dressing-room. 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:
āListen!ā
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:
āWhoās there?ā
But nobody answered. Then feeling all eyes upon her, watching her last movement, she made an effort to show courage, and said very loudly:
āIs there any one behind the door?ā
āOh, yes, yes! Of course there is!ā cried that little dried plum of a Meg Giry, heroically holding Sorelli back by her gauze skirt. āWhatever you do, donāt open the door! Oh, Lord, donāt open the door!ā
But Sorelli, armed with a dagger that never left her, turned the key and drew back the door, while the ballet-girls retreated to the inner dressing-room and Meg Giry sighed:
āMother! Mother!ā
Sorelli looked into the passage bravely. It was empty; a gas-flame, 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.
āNo,ā she said, āthere is no one there.ā
āStill we saw him!ā Jammes declared, returning with timid little steps to her place beside Sorelli. āHe must be somewhere prowling about. I shanāt go back to dress. We had better all go down to the foyer together, at once, for the āspeech,ā and we will come up again together.ā
And the child reverently touched the little coral finger-ring which she wore as a charm against bad luck, while Sorelli, stealthily, with the tip of her pink right thumb-nail, made a St. Andrewās cross on the wooden ring which adorned the fourth finger of her left hand. She said to the little ballet-girls:
āCome, children, pull yourselves together! I dare say no one has ever seen the ghost.ā
āYes, yes, we saw himāwe saw him just now!ā cried the girls. āHe had his deathās head and his dress-coat, just as when he appeared to Joseph Buquet!ā
āAnd Gabriel saw him too!ā said Jammes. āOnly yesterday! Yesterday afternoonāin broad daylightāā
āGabriel, the chorus-master?ā
āWhy, yes, didnāt you know?ā
āAnd he was wearing his dress-clothes, in broad daylight?ā
āWho? Gabriel?ā
āWhy, no, the ghost!ā
āCertainly! Gabriel told me so himself. Thatās what he knew him by. Gabriel was in the stage-managerās office. Suddenly the door opened and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eyeāā
āOh, yes!ā answered the little ballet-girls in chorus, warding off ill-luck by pointing their fore-finger and little finger at the absent Persian, while their second and third fingers were bent on the palm and held down by the thumb.
āAnd you know how superstitious Gabriel is,ā continued Jammes. āHowever, 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 lock 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 hat-peg 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 deathās head, just like Joseph Buquetās description!ā
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:
āJoseph Buquet would do better to hold his tongue.ā
āWhy should he hold his tongue?ā asked somebody.
āThatās motherās opinion,ā replied Meg, lowering her voice and looking all about her as though fearing lest other ears than those present might overhear.
āAnd why is it your motherās opinion?ā
āHush! Mother says the ghost doesnāt like being talked about.ā
āAnd why does your mother say so?ā
āBecauseābecauseānothingāā
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.
āI swore not to tell!ā 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:
āWell, itās because of the private box.ā
āWhat private box?ā
āThe ghostās box!ā
āHas the ghost a box? Oh, do tell us, do tell us!ā
āNot so loud!ā said Meg. āItās Box Five, you know, the box on the grand tier, next to the stage-box, on the left.ā
āOh, nonsense!ā
āI tell you it is. Mother has charge of it. But you swear you wonāt say a word?ā
āOf course, of course.ā
āWell, thatās the ghostās box. No one has had it for over a month, except the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it must never be sold.ā
āAnd does the ghost really come there?ā
āYes.ā
āThen somebody does come?ā
āWhy, no! The ghost comes, but there is nobody there.ā
The little ballet-girls exchanged glances. If the ghost came to the box, he must be seen, because he wore a dress-coat and a deathās head. This was what they tried to make Meg understand, but she replied:
āThatās just it! The ghost is not seen. And he had no dress-coat and no head! All that talk about his deathās head and his head of fire is nonsense! Thereās 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 programme.ā
Sorelli interfered.
āGiry, child, youāre getting at us!ā
Thereupon little Giry began to cry.
āI ought to have held my t...