WITHOUT A BODY ATTACHED TO IT, A HEAD OF FIRE! And,
as I said, a fireman is not afraid of fire.
----
[1] I have the anecdote, which is quite authentic, from M. Pedro
Gailhard himself, the late manager of the Opera.
The fireman's name was Pampin.
The corps de ballet was flung into consternation. At first sight, this
fiery head in no way corresponded with Joseph Buquet's description of
the ghost. But the young ladies soon persuaded themselves that the
ghost had several heads, which he changed about as he pleased. And, of
course, they at once imagined that they were in the greatest danger.
Once a fireman did not hesitate to faint, leaders and front-row and
back-row girls alike had plenty of excuses for the fright that made them
quicken their pace when passing some dark corner or ill-lighted
corridor. Sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the fireman,
placed a horseshoe on the table in front of the stage-door-keeper's box,
which every one who entered the Opera otherwise than as a spectator
must touch before setting foot on the first tread of the staircase. This
horse-shoe was not invented by me--any more than any other part of
this story, alas!--and may still be seen on the table in the passage
outside the stage-door-keeper's box, when you enter the Opera through
the court known as the Cour de l'Administration.
To return to the evening in question.
"It's the ghost!" little Jammes had cried.
An agonizing silence now reigned in the dressing-room. Nothing was
heard but the hard breathing of the girls. At last, Jammes, flinging
herself upon the farthest corner of the wall, with every mark of real
terror on her face, whispered:
"Listen!"
Everybody seemed to hear a rustling outside the door. There was no
sound of footsteps. It was like light silk sliding over the panel. Then it
stopped.
Sorelli tried to show more pluck than the others. She went up to the
door and, in a quavering voice, asked:
"Who's there?"
But nobody answered. Then feeling all eyes upon her, watching her last
movement, she made an effort to show courage, and said very loudly:
"Is there any one behind the door?"
"Oh, yes, yes! Of course there is!" cried that little dried plum of a Meg
Giry, heroically holding Sorelli back by her gauze skirt. "Whatever you
do, don't open the door! Oh, Lord, don't open the door!"
But Sorelli, armed with a dagger that never left her, turned the key and
drew back the door, while the ballet-girls retreated to the inner
dressing-room and Meg Giry sighed:
"Mother! Mother!"
Sorelli looked into the passage bravely. It was empty; a gas-flame, in
its glass prison, cast a red and suspicious light into the surrounding
darkness, without succeeding in dispelling it. And the dancer slammed
the door again, with a deep sigh.
"No," she said, "there is no one there."
"Still, we saw him!" Jammes declared, returning with timid little steps
to her place beside Sorelli. "He must be somewhere prowling about. I
shan't go back to dress. We had better all go down to the foyer together,
at once, for the `speech,' and we will come up again together."
And the child reverently touched the little coral finger-ring which she
wore as a charm against bad luck, while Sorelli, stealthily, with the tip
of her pink right thumb-nail, made a St. Andrew's cross on the wooden
ring which adorned the fourth finger of her left hand. She said to the
little ballet-girls:
"Come, children, pull yourselves together! I dare say no one has ever
seen the ghost."
"Yes, yes, we saw him--we saw him just now!" cried the girls. "He had
his death's head and his dress-coat, just as when he appeared to Joseph
Buquet!"
"And Gabriel saw him too!" said Jammes. "Only yesterday! Yesterday
afternoon--in broad day-light----"
"Gabriel, the chorus-master?"
"Why, yes, didn't you know?"
"And he was wearing his dress-clothes, in broad daylight?"
"Who? Gabriel?"
"Why, no, the ghost!"
"Certainly! Gabriel told me so himself. That's what he knew him by.
Gabriel was in the stage-manager's office. Suddenly the door opened
and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eye----"
"Oh, yes!" answered the little ballet-girls in chorus, warding off ill-luck
by pointing their forefinger and little finger at the absent Persian, while
their second and third fingers were bent on the palm and held down by
the thumb.
"And you know how superstitious Gabriel is," continued Jammes.
"However, he is always polite. When he meets the Persian, he just puts
his hand in his pocket and touches his keys. Well, the moment the
Persian appeared in the doorway, Gabriel gave one jump from his chair
to the lock of the cupboard, so as to touch iron! In doing
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