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But I prefer to drop this terrible subject of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. I have mentioned it only to explain why, on arriving with the Vicomte de Chagny in the cellars of the Opera, I was bound to protect my companion against the ever-threatening danger of death by strangling. My pistols could serve no purpose, for Erik was not likely to show himself; but Erik could always strangle us.
When you went to your dressing-room, did you not say, 'Poor Erik? Well, Christine, there was a poor Raoul who overheard you." "This is the second time that you have listened behind the door, M. de Chagny!" "I was not behind the door ... I was in the dressing-room, in the inner room, mademoiselle." "Oh, unhappy man!" moaned the girl, showing every sign of unspeakable terror. "Unhappy man!
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.
Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins, could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with love. It was evident, also, that Mr.
The Vicomte de Chagny hurriedly consulted a railway guide, dressed as quickly as he could, wrote a few lines for his valet to take to his brother and jumped into a cab which brought him to the Gare Montparnasse just in time to miss the morning train. He spent a dismal day in town and did not recover his spirits until the evening, when he was seated in his compartment in the Brittany express.
Eventually, the Persian fell asleep, like M. de Chagny, and did not wake until he was in his own room, nursed by his faithful Darius, who told him that, on the night before, he was found propped against the door of his flat, where he had been brought by a stranger, who rang the bell before going away.
Fearing for the safety of the subsistence train, which had come up with the corps during the night and was again dragging its interminable length in the rear, he summarily sent it to the right about and directed it to make the best of its way to Chagny. Things were beginning to look like fight. "So, it looks like business this time eh, Lieutenant?" Maurice ventured to ask Rochas.
When, at last, I cleared the Louis-Philippe room of you, I came back alone ..." "What have you done with the Vicomte de Chagny?" asked the Persian, interrupting him.
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!
Barrels! Any barrels to sell?" The previous chapter marks the conclusion of the written narrative which the Persian left behind him. Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to abandon them to their deaths, M. de Chagny and his companion were saved by the sublime devotion of Christine Daae. And I had the rest of the story from the lips of the daroga himself.
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