The Phantom of the Opera | Page 6

so, he tore a

whole skirt of his overcoat on a nail. Hurrying to get out of the room,
he banged his forehead against a hat-peg and gave himself a huge bump;
then, suddenly stepping back, he skinned his arm on the screen, near
the piano; he tried to lean on the piano, but the lid fell on his hands and
crushed his fingers; he rushed out of the office like a madman, slipped
on the staircase and came down the whole of the first flight on his back.
I was just passing with mother. We picked him up. He was covered
with bruises and his face was all over blood. We were frightened out of
our lives, but, all at once, he began to thank Providence that he had got
off so cheaply. Then he told us what had frightened him. He had seen
the ghost behind the Persian, THE GHOST WITH THE DEATH'S
HEAD just like Joseph Buquet's description!"
Jammes had told her story ever so quickly, as though the ghost were at
her heels, and was quite out of breath at the finish. A silence followed,
while Sorelli polished her nails in great excitement. It was broken by
little Giry, who said:
"Joseph Buquet would do better to hold his tongue."
"Why should he hold his tongue?" asked somebody.
"That's mother's opinion," replied Meg, lowering her voice and looking
all about her as though fearing lest other ears than those present might
overhear.
"And why is it your mother's opinion?"
"Hush! Mother says the ghost doesn't like being talked about."
"And why does your mother say so?"
"Because--because--nothing--"
This reticence exasperated the curiosity of the young ladies, who
crowded round little Giry, begging her to explain herself. They were
there, side by side, leaning forward simultaneously in one movement of
entreaty and fear, communicating their terror to one another, taking a

keen pleasure in feeling their blood freeze in their veins.
"I swore not to tell!" gasped Meg.
But they left her no peace and promised to keep the secret, until Meg,
burning to say all she knew, began, with her eyes fixed on the door:
"Well, it's because of the private box."
"What private box?"
"The ghost's box!"
"Has the ghost a box? Oh, do tell us, do tell us!"
"Not so loud!" said Meg. "It's Box Five, you know, the box on the
grand tier, next to the stage-box, on the left."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"I tell you it is. Mother has charge of it. But you swear you won't say a
word?"
"Of course, of course."
"Well, that's the ghost's box. No one has had it for over a month, except
the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it must
never be sold."
"And does the ghost really come there?"
"Yes."
"Then somebody does come?"
"Why, no! The ghost comes, but there is nobody there."
The little ballet-girls exchanged glances. If the ghost came to the box,
he must be seen, because he wore a dress-coat and a death's head. This

was what they tried to make Meg understand, but she replied:
"That's just it! The ghost is not seen. And he has no dress-coat and no
head! All that talk about his death's head and his head of fire is
nonsense! There's nothing in it. You only hear him when he is in the
box. Mother has never seen him, but she has heard him. Mother knows,
because she gives him his program."
Sorelli interfered.
"Giry, child, you're getting at us!"
Thereupon little Giry began to cry.
"I ought to have held my tongue--if mother ever came to know! But I
was quite right, Joseph Buquet had no business to talk of things that
don't concern him--it will bring him bad luck-- mother was saying so
last night----"
There was a sound of hurried and heavy footsteps in the passage and a
breathless voice cried:
"Cecile! Cecile! Are you there?"
"It's mother's voice," said Jammes. "What's the matter?"
She opened the door. A respectable lady, built on the lines of a
Pomeranian grenadier, burst into the dressing-room and dropped
groaning into a vacant arm-chair. Her eyes rolled madly in her
brick-dust colored face.
"How awful!" she said. "How awful!"
"What? What?"
"Joseph Buquet!"
"What about him?"

"Joseph Buquet is dead!"
The room became filled with exclamations, with astonished outcries,
with scared requests for explanations.
"Yes, he was found hanging in the third-floor cellar!"
"It's the ghost!" little Giry blurted, as though in spite of herself; but she
at once corrected herself, with her hands pressed to her mouth: "No,
no!--I, didn't say it!--I didn't say it!----"
All around her, her panic-stricken companions repeated under their
breaths:
"Yes--it must be the ghost!"
Sorelli was very pale.
"I shall never be able to recite my speech,"