The Phantom of the Opera Gaston Leroux (top 10 ebook reader TXT) 📖

erect and alive, a real, living bride⁠ ⁠… as she hoped to be saved.⁠ ⁠… And, when I⁠ ⁠… came forward, more timid than⁠ ⁠… a little child, she did not run away⁠ ⁠… no, no⁠ ⁠… she stayed⁠ ⁠… she waited for me.⁠ ⁠… I even believe⁠ ⁠… daroga⁠ ⁠… that she put out her forehead⁠ ⁠… a little⁠ ⁠… oh, not much⁠ ⁠… just a little⁠ ⁠… like a living bride.⁠ ⁠… And⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… kissed her!⁠ ⁠… I!⁠ ⁠… I!⁠ ⁠… I!⁠ ⁠… And she did not die!⁠ ⁠… Oh, how good it is, daroga, to kiss somebody on the forehead!⁠ ⁠… You can’t tell!⁠ ⁠… But I! I!⁠ ⁠… My mother, daroga, my poor, unhappy mother would never⁠ ⁠… let me kiss her.⁠ ⁠… She used to run away⁠ ⁠… and throw me my mask!⁠ ⁠… Nor any other woman⁠ ⁠… ever, ever!⁠ ⁠… Ah, you can understand, my happiness was so great, I cried. And I fell at her feet, crying⁠ ⁠… and I kissed her feet⁠ ⁠… her little feet⁠ ⁠… crying. You’re crying, too, daroga⁠ ⁠… and she cried also⁠ ⁠… the angel cried!⁠ ⁠…”

Erik sobbed aloud and the Persian himself could not retain his tears in the presence of that masked man, who, with his shoulders shaking and his hands clutched at his chest, was moaning with pain and love by turns.

“Yes, daroga⁠ ⁠… I felt her tears flow on my forehead⁠ ⁠… on mine, mine!⁠ ⁠… They were soft⁠ ⁠… they were sweet!⁠ ⁠… They trickled under my mask⁠ ⁠… they mingled with my tears in my eyes⁠ ⁠… they flowed between my lips.⁠ ⁠… Listen, daroga, listen to what I did.⁠ ⁠… I tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her tears⁠ ⁠… and she did not run away!⁠ ⁠… And she did not die!⁠ ⁠… She remained alive, weeping over me, with me. We cried together! I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer!”

And Erik fell into a chair, choking for breath:

“Ah, I am not going to die yet⁠ ⁠… presently I shall⁠ ⁠… but let me cry!⁠ ⁠… Listen, daroga⁠ ⁠… listen to this.⁠ ⁠… While I was at her feet⁠ ⁠… I heard her say, ‘Poor, unhappy Erik!’⁠ ⁠… And she took my hand!⁠ ⁠… I had become no more, you know, than a poor dog ready to die for her.⁠ ⁠… I mean it, daroga!⁠ ⁠… I held in my hand a ring, a plain gold ring which I had given her⁠ ⁠… which she had lost⁠ ⁠… and which I had found again⁠ ⁠… a wedding-ring, you know.⁠ ⁠… I slipped it into her little hand and said, ‘There!⁠ ⁠… Take it!⁠ ⁠… Take it for you⁠ ⁠… and him!⁠ ⁠… It shall be my wedding-present⁠ ⁠… a present from your poor, unhappy Erik.⁠ ⁠… I know you love the boy⁠ ⁠… don’t cry any more!’⁠ ⁠… She asked me, in a very soft voice, what I meant.⁠ ⁠… Then I made her understand that, where she was concerned, I was only a poor dog, ready to die for her⁠ ⁠… but that she could marry the young man when she pleased, because she had cried with me and mingled her tears with mine!⁠ ⁠…”

Erik’s emotion was so great that he had to tell the Persian not to look at him, for he was choking and must take off his mask. The daroga went to the window and opened it. His heart was full of pity, but he took care to keep his eyes fixed on the trees in the Tuileries gardens, lest he should see the monster’s face.

“I went and released the young man,” Erik continued, “and told him to come with me to Christine.⁠ ⁠… They kissed before me in the Louis-Philippe room.⁠ ⁠… Christine had my ring.⁠ ⁠… I made Christine swear to come back, one night, when I was dead, crossing the lake from the Rue-Scribe side, and bury me in the greatest secrecy with the gold ring, which she was to wear until that moment.⁠ ⁠… I told her where she would find my body and what to do with it.⁠ ⁠… Then Christine kissed me, for the first time, herself, here, on the forehead⁠—don’t look, daroga!⁠—here, on the forehead⁠ ⁠… on my forehead, mine⁠—don’t look, daroga!⁠—and they went off together.⁠ ⁠… Christine had stopped crying.⁠ ⁠… I alone cried.⁠ ⁠… Daroga, daroga, if Christine keeps her promise, she will come back soon!⁠ ⁠…”

The Persian asked him no questions. He was quite reassured as to the fate of Raoul Chagny and Christine Daaé; no one could have doubted the word of the weeping Erik that night.

The monster resumed his mask and collected his strength to leave the daroga. He told him that, when he felt his end to be very near at hand, he would send him, in gratitude for the kindness which the Persian had once shown him, that which he held dearest in the world: all Christine Daaé’s papers, which she had written for Raoul’s benefit and left with Erik, together with a few objects belonging to her, such as a pair of gloves, a shoe-buckle and two pocket-handkerchiefs. In reply to the Persian’s questions, Erik told him that the two young people, as soon as they found themselves free, had resolved to go and look for a priest in some lonely spot where they could hide their happiness and that, with this object in view, they had started from “the northern railway station of the world.” Lastly, Erik relied on the Persian, as soon as he received the promised relics and papers, to inform the young couple of his death and to advertise it in the Epoque.

That was all. The Persian saw Erik to the door of his flat, and Darius helped him down to the street. A cab was waiting for him. Erik stepped in; and the Persian, who had gone back to the window, heard him say to the driver:

“Go to the Opera.”

And the cab drove off into the night.

The Persian had seen the poor, unfortunate Erik for the last time. Three weeks later, the Epoque published this advertisement:

“Erik is dead.”

Epilogue

I have now told the singular, but veracious story of the Opera ghost. As I declared on the first page of this work, it is no longer possible to deny that Erik really lived. There are today so many proofs of his existence within