The Phantom of the Opera
immensity of that stony desert. What was to become of us in the midst
of that awful solitude?
We were beginning literally to die of heat, hunger and thirst ... of
thirst especially. At last, I saw M. de Chagny raise himself on his
elbow and point to a spot on the horizon. He had discovered an oasis!
Yes, far in the distance was an oasis ... an oasis with limpid water,
which reflected the iron trees! ... Tush, it was the scene of the
mirage ... I recognized it at once ... the worst of the three! ... No
one had been able to fight against it ... no one... I did my utmost to
keep my head AND NOT TO HOPE FOR WATER, because I knew that, if a man
hoped for water, the water that reflected the iron tree, and if, after
hoping for water, he struck against the mirror, then there was only one
thing for him to do: to hang himself on the iron tree!
So I cried to M. de Chagny:
"It's the mirage! ... It's the mirage! ... Don't believe in the water!
... It's another trick of the mirrors! ..."
Then he flatly told me to shut up, with my tricks of the mirrors, my
springs, my revolving doors and my palaces of illusions! He angrily
declared that I must be either blind or mad to imagine that all that
water flowing over there, among those splendid, numberless trees, was
not real water! ... And the desert was real! ... And so was the
forest! ... And it was no use trying to take him in ... he was an old,
experienced traveler ... he had been all over the place!
And he dragged himself along, saying: "Water! Water!"
And his mouth was open, as though he were drinking.
And my mouth was open too, as though I were drinking.
For we not only saw the water, but WE HEARD IT! ... We heard it flow,
we heard it ripple! ... Do you understand that word "ripple?" ... IT IS
A SOUND WHICH YOU HEAR WITH YOUR TONGUE! ... You put your tongue out
of your mouth to listen to it better!
Lastly--and this was the most pitiless torture of all--we heard the
rain and it was not raining! This was an infernal invention... Oh, I
knew well enough how Erik obtained it! He filled with little stones a
very long and narrow box, broken up inside with wooden and metal
projections. The stones, in falling, struck against these projections
and rebounded from one to another; and the result was a series of
pattering sounds that exactly imitated a rainstorm.
Ah, you should have seen us putting out our tongues and dragging
ourselves toward the rippling river-bank! Our eyes and ears were full
of water, but our tongues were hard and dry as horn!
When we reached the mirror, M. de Chagny licked it ... and I also
licked the glass.
It was burning hot!
Then we rolled on the floor with a hoarse cry of despair. M. de Chagny
put the one pistol that was still loaded to his temple; and I stared at
the Punjab lasso at the foot of the iron tree. I knew why the iron
tree had returned, in this third change of scene! ... The iron tree
was waiting for me! ...
But, as I stared at the Punjab lasso, I saw a thing that made me start
so violently that M. de Chagny delayed his attempt at suicide. I took
his arm. And then I caught the pistol from him ... and then I dragged
myself on my knees toward what I had seen.
I had discovered, near the Punjab lasso, in a groove in the floor, a
black-headed nail of which I knew the use. At last I had discovered
the spring! I felt the nail ... I lifted a radiant face to M. de
Chagny ... The black-headed nail yielded to my pressure ...
And then ...
And then we saw not a door opened in the wall, but a cellar-flap
released in the floor. Cool air came up to us from the black hole
below. We stooped over that square of darkness as though over a limpid
well. With our chins in the cool shade, we drank it in. And we bent
lower and lower over the trap-door. What could there be in that cellar
which opened before us? Water? Water to drink?
I thrust my arm into the darkness and came upon a stone and another
stone ... a staircase ... a dark staircase leading into the cellar.
The viscount wanted to fling himself down the hole; but I, fearing a
new trick of the monster's, stopped him, turned on my dark lantern and
went down first.
The staircase was a winding one and led down into pitchy darkness. But
oh, how deliciously cool were the darkness and the stairs? The lake
could not be far away.
We soon reached the bottom. Our eyes were beginning to accustom
themselves to the dark, to distinguish shapes around us ... circular
shapes ... on which I turned the light of my lantern.
Barrels!
We were in Erik's cellar: it was here that he must keep his wine and
perhaps his drinking-water. I knew that Erik was a great lover of good
wine. Ah, there was plenty to drink here!
M. de Chagny patted the round shapes and kept on saying:
"Barrels! Barrels! What a lot of barrels! ..."
Indeed, there was quite a number of them, symmetrically arranged in two
rows, one on either side of us. They were small barrels and I thought
that Erik must have selected them of that size to facilitate their
carriage to the house on the lake.
We examined them successively, to see if one of them had not a funnel,
showing that it had been tapped at some time or another. But all the
barrels were hermetically closed.
Then, after half lifting one to make sure it was full, we went on our
knees and, with the blade of a small knife which I carried, I prepared
to stave in the bung-hole.
At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of
monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the
streets of Paris:
"Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell?"
My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said:
"That's funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!"
The song was renewed, farther away:
"Barrels! ... Barrels! ... Any barrels to sell? ..."
"Oh, I swear," said the viscount, "that the tune dies away in the
barrel! ..."
We stood up and went to look behind the barrel.
"It's inside," said M. de Chagny, "it's inside!"
But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition
of our senses. And we returned to the bung-hole. M. de Chagny put his
two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the
bung.
"What's this?" cried the viscount. "This isn't water!"
The viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern ... I stooped
to look ... and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that
it broke and went out, leaving us in utter darkness.
What I had seen in M. de Chagny's hands ... was gun-powder!
[1] It is very natural that, at the time when the Persian was writing,
he should take so many precautions against any spirit of incredulity on
the part of those who were likely to read his narrative. Nowadays,
when we have all seen this sort of room, his precautions would be
superfluous.
Chapter XXV The Scorpion or the Grasshopper: Which?
THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE CONCLUDED
The discovery flung us into a state of alarm that made us forget all
our past and present sufferings. We now knew all that the monster
meant to convey when he said to Christine Daae:
"Yes or no! If your answer is no, everybody will be dead AND BURIED!"
Yes, buried under the ruins of the Paris Grand Opera!
The monster had given her until eleven o'clock in the evening. He had
chosen his time well. There would be many people, many "members of the
human race," up there, in the resplendent theater. What finer retinue
could be expected for his funeral? He would go down to the tomb
escorted by the whitest shoulders in the world, decked with the richest
jewels.
Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening!
We were all to be blown up in the middle of the performance ... if
Christine Daae said no!
Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening! ...
And what else could Christine say but no? Would she not prefer to
espouse death itself rather than that living corpse? She did not know
that on her acceptance or refusal depended the awful fate of many
members of the human race!
Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening!
And we dragged ourselves through the darkness, feeling our way to the
stone steps, for the light in the trap-door overhead that led to the
room of mirrors was now extinguished; and we repeated to ourselves:
"Eleven o'clock to-morrow evening!"
At last, I found the staircase. But, suddenly I drew myself up on the
first step, for a terrible thought had come to my mind:
"What is the time?"
Ah, what was the time? ... For, after all, eleven o'clock to-morrow
evening might be now, might be this very moment! Who could tell us the
time? We seemed to have been imprisoned in that hell for days and days
... for years ... since the beginning of the world. Perhaps we should
be blown up then and there! Ah, a sound! A crack! "Did you hear
that? ... There, in the corner ... good heavens! ... Like a sound of
machinery! ... Again! ... Oh, for a light! ... Perhaps it's the
machinery that is to blow everything up! ... I tell you, a cracking
sound: are you deaf?"
M. de Chagny and I began to yell like madmen. Fear spurred us on. We
rushed up the treads of the staircase, stumbling as we went, anything
to escape the dark, to return to the mortal light of the room of
mirrors!
We found the trap-door still open, but it was now as dark in the room
of mirrors as in the cellar which we had left. We dragged ourselves
along the floor of the torture-chamber, the floor that separated us
from the powder-magazine. What was the time? We shouted, we called: M.
de Chagny to Christine, I to Erik. I reminded him that I had saved his
life. But no answer, save that of our despair, of our madness: what
was the time? We argued, we tried to calculate the time which we had
spent there, but we were incapable of reasoning. If only we could see
the face of a watch! ... Mine had stopped, but M. de Chagny's was
still going ... He told me that he had wound it up before dressing for
the Opera ... We had not a match upon us ... And yet we must know ...
M. de Chagny broke the glass of his watch and felt the two hands... He
questioned the hands of the watch with his finger-tips, going by the
position of the ring of the watch ... Judging by the space between the
hands, he thought it might be just eleven o'clock!
But perhaps it was not the eleven o'clock of which we stood in dread.
Perhaps we had still twelve hours before us!
Suddenly, I exclaimed: "Hush!"
I seemed to hear footsteps in the next room. Some one tapped against
the wall. Christine Daae's voice said:
"Raoul! Raoul!" We were now all talking at once, on either side of
the wall. Christine sobbed; she was not sure that she would find M. de
Chagny alive. The monster had been terrible, it seemed, had done
nothing but rave, waiting for her to give him the "yes" which she
refused. And yet she had promised him that "yes," if he would take her
to the torture-chamber. But he had obstinately declined, and had
uttered hideous threats against all the members of the human race! At
last, after hours and hours of that hell, he had that moment gone out,
leaving her alone to reflect for the last time.
"Hours and hours? What is the time now? What is the time, Christine?"
"It is eleven o'clock! Eleven o'clock, all but five minutes!"
"But which eleven o'clock?"
"The eleven o'clock that is to decide life or death! ... He told me so
just before he went ... He is terrible ... He is quite mad: he tore
off his mask and his yellow eyes shot flames! ... He did nothing but
laugh! ... He said, 'I give you five minutes to spare your blushes!
Here,' he said, taking a key from the little bag of life and death,
'here is the little bronze key that opens the two ebony caskets on the