The Phantom of the Opera
"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?"
"No, no, go on."
"You are too good, gentlemen," with a smirk. "Well, then,
Mephistopheles went on with his serenade"--Mme. Giry, burst into song
again--"'Saint, unclose thy portals holy and accord the bliss, to a
mortal bending lowly, of a pardon-kiss.' And then M. Maniera again
hears the voice in his right ear, saying, this time, 'Ha, ha! Julie
wouldn't mind according a kiss to Isidore!' Then he turns round again,
but, this time, to the left; and what do you think he sees? Isidore,
who had taken his lady's hand and was covering it with kisses through
the little round place in the glove--like this, gentlemen"--rapturously
kissing the bit of palm left bare in the middle of her thread gloves.
"Then they had a lively time between them! Bang! Bang! M. Maniera,
who was big and strong, like you, M. Richard, gave two blows to M.
Isidore Saack, who was small and weak like M. Moncharmin, saving his
presence. There was a great uproar. People in the house shouted,
'That will do! Stop them! He'll kill him!' Then, at last, M. Isidore
Saack managed to run away."
"Then the ghost had not broken his leg?" asked M. Moncharmin, a little
vexed that his figure had made so little impression on Mme. Giry.
"He did break it for him, sir," replied Mme. Giry haughtily. "He broke
it for him on the grand staircase, which he ran down too fast, sir, and
it will be long before the poor gentleman will be able to go up it
again!"
"Did the ghost tell you what he said in M. Maniera's right ear?" asked
M. Moncharmin, with a gravity which he thought exceedingly humorous.
"No, sir, it was M. Maniera himself. So----"
"But you have spoken to the ghost, my good lady?"
"As I'm speaking to you now, my good sir!" Mme. Giry replied.
"And, when the ghost speaks to you, what does he say?"
"Well, he tells me to bring him a footstool!"
This time, Richard burst out laughing, as did Moncharmin and Remy, the
secretary. Only the inspector, warned by experience, was careful not
to laugh, while Mme. Giry ventured to adopt an attitude that was
positively threatening.
"Instead of laughing," she cried indignantly, "you'd do better to do as
M. Poligny did, who found out for himself."
"Found out about what?" asked Moncharmin, who had never been so much
amused in his life.
"About the ghost, of course! ... Look here ..."
She suddenly calmed herself, feeling that this was a solemn moment in
her life:
"LOOK HERE," she repeated. "They were playing La Juive. M. Poligny
thought he would watch the performance from the ghost's box... Well,
when Leopold cries, 'Let us fly!'--you know--and Eleazer stops them and
says, 'Whither go ye?' ... well, M. Poligny--I was watching him from
the back of the next box, which was empty--M. Poligny got up and walked
out quite stiffly, like a statue, and before I had time to ask him,
'Whither go ye?' like Eleazer, he was down the staircase, but without
breaking his leg.
"Still, that doesn't let us know how the Opera ghost came to ask you
for a footstool," insisted M. Moncharmin.
"Well, from that evening, no one tried to take the ghost's private box
from him. The manager gave orders that he was to have it at each
performance. And, whenever he came, he asked me for a footstool."
"Tut, tut! A ghost asking for a footstool! Then this ghost of yours
is a woman?"
"No, the ghost is a man."
"How do you know?"
"He has a man's voice, oh, such a lovely man's voice! This is what
happens: When he comes to the opera, it's usually in the middle of the
first act. He gives three little taps on the door of Box Five. The
first time I heard those three taps, when I knew there was no one in
the box, you can think how puzzled I was! I opened the door, listened,
looked; nobody! And then I heard a voice say, 'Mme. Jules' my poor
husband's name was Jules--'a footstool, please.' Saving your presence,
gentlemen, it made me feel all-overish like. But the voice went on,
'Don't be frightened, Mme. Jules, I'm the Opera ghost!' And the voice
was so soft and kind that I hardly felt frightened. THE VOICE WAS
SITTING IN THE CORNER CHAIR, ON THE RIGHT, IN THE FRONT ROW."
"Was there any one in the box on the right of Box Five?" asked
Moncharmin.
"No; Box Seven, and Box Three, the one on the left, were both empty.
The curtain had only just gone up."
"And what did you do?"
"Well, I brought the footstool. Of course, it wasn't for himself he
wanted it, but for his lady! But I never heard her nor saw her."
"Eh? What? So now the ghost is married!" The eyes of the two
managers traveled from Mme. Giry to the inspector, who, standing behind
the box-keeper, was waving his arms to attract their attention. He
tapped his forehead with a distressful forefinger, to convey his
opinion that the widow Jules Giry was most certainly mad, a piece of
pantomime which confirmed M. Richard in his determination to get rid of
an inspector who kept a lunatic in his service. Meanwhile, the worthy
lady went on about her ghost, now painting his generosity:
"At the end of the performance, he always gives me two francs,
sometimes five, sometimes even ten, when he has been many days without
coming. Only, since people have begun to annoy him again, he gives me
nothing at all.
"Excuse me, my good woman," said Moncharmin, while Mme. Giry tossed the
feathers in her dingy hat at this persistent familiarity, "excuse me,
how does the ghost manage to give you your two francs?"
"Why, he leaves them on the little shelf in the box, of course. I find
them with the program, which I always give him. Some evenings, I find
flowers in the box, a rose that must have dropped from his lady's
bodice ... for he brings a lady with him sometimes; one day, they left
a fan behind them."
"Oh, the ghost left a fan, did he? And what did you do with it?"
"Well, I brought it back to the box next night."
Here the inspector's voice was raised.
"You've broken the rules; I shall have to fine you, Mme. Giry."
"Hold your tongue, you fool!" muttered M. Firmin Richard.
"You brought back the fan. And then?"
"Well, then, they took it away with them, sir; it was not there at the