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Updated: June 4, 2025
It was beyond a doubt some unspeakable tenor, a good-looking jackanapes, who mouthed and simpered as he sang! He thought himself as absurd and as wretched as could be. Oh, what a miserable, little, insignificant, silly young man was M. le Vicomte de Chagny! thought Raoul, furiously. And she, what a bold and damnable sly creature!
The envelope was covered with mud and unstamped. It bore the words "To be handed to M. le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny," with the address in pencil. It must have been flung out in the hope that a passer-by would pick up the note and deliver it, which was what happened. The note had been picked up on the pavement of the Place de l'Opera. Raoul read it over again with fevered eyes.
He soon opened his eyes and was not long in recovering when he saw his friend's charming face leaning over him. A few weeks later, when the tragedy at the Opera compelled the intervention of the public prosecutor, M. Mifroid, the commissary of police, examined the Vicomte de Chagny touching the events of the night at Perros.
Raoul de Chagny rose and, with a very authoritative air, pronounced these peremptory words: "Madame, you will have the goodness to tell me where that genius lives." The old lady did not seem surprised at this indiscreet command. She raised her eyes and said: "In Heaven!" Such simplicity baffled him.
And he added, under his breath: "Those youngsters with their school-girl airs! So he's a Chagny after all!" He turned to go to Sorelli's dressing-room, but met her on the way, with her little troop of trembling ballet-girls, as we have seen. Meanwhile, Christine Daae uttered a deep sigh, which was answered by a groan. She turned her head, saw Raoul and started.
"I am mistress of my own actions, M. de Chagny: you have no right to control them, and I will beg you to desist henceforth. As to what I have done during the last fortnight, there is only one man in the world who has the right to demand an account of me: my husband! Well, I have no husband and I never mean to marry!"
The man with the ebony skin, the eyes of jade and the astrakhan cap bent over Raoul. "I hope, M. de Chagny," he said, "that you have not betrayed Erik's secret?" "And why should I hesitate to betray that monster, sir?" Raoul rejoined haughtily, trying to shake off the intruder. "Is he your friend, by any chance?"
In front of this traveling-carriage were three broughams, belonging respectively to Carlotta, who had suddenly returned to Paris, to Sorelli and, at the head of the rank, to Comte Philippe de Chagny. No one left the barouche. The coachman remained on his box, and the three other coachmen remained on theirs.
"The Comte de Chagny?" "Yes, he spoke to me in her favor with such warmth that, if I had not known him to be Sorelli's friend ..." "Really? Really?" said Moncharmin. "And who is that pale young man beside him?" "That's his brother, the viscount." "He ought to be in his bed. He looks ill." The stage rang with gay song: "Red or white liquor, Coarse or fine! What can it matter, So we have wine?"
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen. Could you tell me where Christine Daae is?" In spite of the seriousness of the circumstances, the absurdity of the question would have made them roar with laughter, if they had not caught sight of a face so sorrow-stricken that they were at once seized with pity. It was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Christine!
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