The Phantom of the Opera. Gaston Leroux
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 favour 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. Rémy 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?”
“Mame 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 Mame 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 Mame Giry, nor even little Giry, nor even “little Meg”! But Mame 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, Mame 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.”
Mame 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 not annoyed again!”
Thereupon, as M. Richard was on the point of bursting out, M. Moncharmin interfered and conducted the interrogatory, whence it appeared that Mame 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?”
Mame 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. Mame 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”—Mame 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”—Mame 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 Mame Giry.
“He did break it for him, sir,” replied Mame 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.