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Updated: June 20, 2025
The Persian asked him no questions. He was quite reassured as to the fate of Raoul Chagny and Christine Daae; 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.
"Of love ... daroga ... I am dying ... of love ... That is how it is ... loved her so! ... And I love her still ... daroga ... and I am dying of love for her, I ... I tell you! ... If you knew how beautiful she was ... when she let me kiss her ... alive ... It was the first ... time, daroga, the first ... time I ever kissed a woman ... Yes, alive ... I kissed her alive ... and she looked as beautiful as if she had been dead!"
In this way, his reputation penetrated the walls of the palace at Mazenderan, where the little sultana, the favorite of the Shah-in-Shah, was boring herself to death. A dealer in furs, returning to Samarkand from Nijni-Novgorod, told of the marvels which he had seen performed in Erik's tent. The trader was summoned to the palace and the daroga of Mazenderan was told to question him.
Fortunately for the daroga, a corpse, half-eaten by the birds of prey, was found on the shore of the Caspian Sea, and was taken for Erik's body, because the daroga's friends had dressed the remains in clothing that belonged to Erik. The daroga was let off with the loss of the imperial favor, the confiscation of his property and an order of perpetual banishment.
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.
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.
I had no idea that he was so very ill, and I shall never forget the effect which my questions about the ghost produced upon him. When I came and told the Persian of the poor result of my visit to M. Poligny, the daroga gave a faint smile and said: "Poligny never knew how far that extraordinary blackguard of an Erik humbugged him."
It bent down over the Persian and said, in his ear: "Are you better, daroga? ... You are looking at my furniture? ... It is all that I have left of my poor unhappy mother." Christine Daae did not say a word: she moved about noiselessly, like a sister of charity, who had taken a vow of silence. She brought a cup of cordial, or of hot tea, he did not remember which.
Very old and worn, the chandelier! ... It fell of itself! ... It came down with a smash! ... And now, daroga, take my advice and go and dry yourself, or you'll catch a cold in the head! ... And never get into my boat again ... And, whatever you do, don't try to enter my house: I'm not always there ... daroga! And I should be sorry to have to dedicate my Requiem Mass to you!"
Then, speaking in short phrases and gasping for breath between the words: "Daroga, don't talk to me ... about Count Philippe ... He was dead ... by the time ... I left my house ... he was dead ... when ... the siren sang ... It was an ... accident ... a sad ... a very sad ... accident. He fell very awkwardly ... but simply and naturally ... into the lake! ..." "You lie!" shouted the Persian.
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