The stage area was already busy by the time I got there in the morning. Sets were lifted and lowered incessantly. There were a few policemen around, investigating Bouquet’s “so-called” suicide, and the rehearsal for Faust had already started.
Now that there was no Bouquet to tell ghost stories, the artists themselves took his place, and spread details around the Opera the about how the Phantom had killed the storyteller.
When I first heard about that, I had to laugh! Sorelli came up with this crazy theory, and I thought it was an interesting way of sealing his fate: after all, this Phantom wouldn’t be that popular, if it had not been for Bouquet’s words.
Bouquet’s fame as a storyteller started when he said he was in a dismal area of the Opera, face to face with the apparition. According to him, the word ‘face’ would be grossly inappropriate here; for the Phantom was a slender form with nothing more than a dead head over his shoulders. Before that, Bouquet was considered a quite reliable person and no one would doubt his words, though his attitudes with some chorus girls and ballerinas could be pretty reproachable. However, after going around the house giving his disgusting detailed description of the ghost, and spending afternoons warning the girls from the ballet corps to watch out for the spirit, he became some sort of a joke.
I used to be one of the first to gather around Bouquet and enjoy every single word he would say. It was much more fun than attending the rehearsals, and I had the opportunity of chatting with most of the dancers of the opera.
Nobody seemed to give too much importance to this accident, and kept going on with their own businesses. I realized soon that there was not much for me to do around the stage that morning, and the idea of going back to the cellars seemed terribly appealing.
I plunged to the second cellar without thinking of what I was doing, and it was not before I got to the third that I felt some apprehensiveness. I instinctively diminished my pace to not stumble again. This time I had just a candle in my hand, making my vision even dimmer.
Chamber by chamber, everything looked dark and abandoned down there. The wax was melting fast, and soon the little candelabra was covered by a thick gray layer. I was bothered by the wind, for it wouldn’t allow the flame to be steady..
Most of all, I was anxious. As much as I knew the danger I was going toward, I had to meet that man again. Innocently believing he was another artist of the Opera House, I had half expected I would see him, if not in the scene area, maybe down in the cellars.
The flame was blown out, and it was clear that candle wouldn’t do me any good if I was planning on going even further down. I stopped and struck another match. The sound of it confused with a suddenly faint sound of footsteps far away.
I moved behind a piece of scenarium left against a wall and squatted. I blew the candle and prayed I would have a few more matches for when I needed them. The smell coming from the burnt wick soon faded in that dump place.
Even when he came closer, his steps were almost inaudible. I think that is how I recognized him, by that smooth way of moving his body.
He stopped exactly in front of where I was, making me wonder if he could, by any chance, sense my presence. His breathing was still and silent, while I could barely hold mine in excitement.
I finally heard his cape brushing the path, his steps taking him a few feet away. He stopped and reached out for something on the wall. Ducking even more behind the set, I listened attentively to his efforts in removing a block of stone. I was puzzled and fascinated at the same time. Having him within my reach was all I could ask for!
But what was to be done? Hadn’t he warned me to never go there again? How would I explain that I had this need of meeting him again? Besides, from what he had shown, he didn’t seem the kind of person who would listen to explanations, was he to find me there again. I felt somewhat lost, when I heard a sharp sound, like some kind of old rusty mechanism. The wall I was leaning against began to shiver, and a great block of stone in front of him gave way to a dimly illuminated passage.
This door of light, coming from nowhere, seemed to make perfect sense in that situation.
As he entered the door, I felt somewhat nauseous, knowing the only thing left for me to do. I finally brought myself to stand and walk to the passage.Once his shadow could not be seen anymore, I slipped inside the tunnel. The stone block closed immediately behind me, as in any good horror story...
I couldn’t see him anymore. The tunnel was rather narrow and tortuous, and not as dark as the one that led to my bedroom. I couldn’t tell how long I had been walking, touching the walls with my hands, pursuing the shadow I was lacking so much.The path was taking me downwards quickly, and I wondered if the Opera house in fact had an ending, or if I would descend to the center of the earth. Now and then, there was a candle in the stone wall, burning the last fragments of wax.
I came to what seemed to be a dead end, and there was nothing less than a door at it. An ordinary wooden door, with an ordinary metal knob, was standing in front of me! This man was a lot of fun! I reached for the knob, but realized turning it would make quite a noise, and I hadn’t heard any noise during all the time I had been in the path. He couldn’t have gone through there. Besides, I was learning he was not a man who appreciated doors and common paths.
Looking closer, it was not hard to find a narrow openning on the wall behind me. It gave way to a small room, all dark again except for a light coming from a round role, at my eyes’ level. It was some sort of a key hole!
Every time I went to these cellars, I had this same sensation of dreaming. Everything was so incredibly nonsensical and still so compelling!
I climbed the stairs that led to the door and leaned against it to peer through the key hole. The wood moved with my weight, giving way to some light through the gap. The room I was in was full of wine barrels, tagged with the year and the origin! But a more fantastic discovery was still awaiting me.
When I looked through the gap, I thought I had finally gone mad completely.
All this maze underneath the Opera House, ruled by the shadowy man, was already unbelievable. But when I found myself peering at a classical Louis-Phillippe decorated living room, I bursted out laughing. Reassuring myself I was in a delirium, I laughed even harder - until the man appeared in the middle of the room, gazing in my direction.
I gasped and covered my mouth with the scare. He heard me! And yet he didn’t show any reaction at all. He was probably used to this senseless kingdom and didn’t surprise himself with my new out of place sounds.
While he was standing there, apparently lost within his thoughts, I could examine him perfectly. The first thing that caught my attention was how that man looked unnatural in the light. The way he was dressed, the way he moved - he seemed to be made for a life in darkness.
But his shape was a beckoning sight! He was lean but very tall, dressed up in a fashionable black tuxedo, covered by a long gorgeous cape. It was so strange! Why would someone who lives five levels underground care for such fancy clothes?
Again I remembered the cape I saw at Christine’s room and was struck by a bad feeling. But I diverted myself from this thought.
It is true that he was very imposing standing there, like a dark mythological character. But at the same time, something in him was rather fragile and sad.
I silently thanked him for giving me such a chance of staring, unnoticed.
He at last turned his back to me and left my view. I could still see most of the living room: right in front of me was a brown velvet sofa, with two electric shaded lamps at its sides, and a small marble table in front of it, covered by books and sheets of paper. Behind the coach was another door. I saw a few chairs made of fine wood here and there, standing on a gorgeous exotic rug.
On the right side of the room was a huge pipe organ, occupying the whole wall. On the left was the entrance of another room, which was occupied by a coffin, laying under a red canopy.
Funny that the coffin didn’t add anything morbid to the room. The whole displacing of the furniture was, by itself, as deathlike as it could be.
He returned to the room. He was no longer wearing the cloak or the hat. He sat by the organ, his back turned to me.
His hair consisted of a few greyish locks, combed with some oil to the back of his head. He looked older than he certainly was. His bony fingers were laid down on the keyboard and he stood like that, silently and grave, for a while. He bent his head a little bit, as an outward expression of some deep thought. I felt an urge of going to where he was, to watch him from closer. But I knew I had better stay where I was.
Then he began to play. The sound of the pipe organ was eerie and gave me the chills. Slowly the music became more gentle, but he stopped playing abruptly. He looked around the room, as if searching for something. It was clear he could feel the weight of my stare.
Again he was gazing at the door where I was hidden. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the mask. It was covering his whole face, except for the lower part of his chin. I wondered why he was still wearing it there, even if he knew himself alone...
Or maybe he didn’t. Could it be possible that somehow he was conscious of my presence? I didn’t care about it at all. I was bound to be there, close to him, as long as it was possible for me.
His eyes were fixed in my direction as he stood up and went to the couch. As he sat and reached for a book, he crossed his long leg and began to read it. But it was evident he was paying no attention to whatever was written there. Suddenly, he closed the book fiercely and came to his feet. He threw the book far into the corner and walked around the house in a nearly insane pace. I shivered in fear. Meeting me there would be bad enough, but knowing I had being spying him would be death.
He finally ceased his walking and clutched his hands in a fist. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.
This notable fit of irritability showed me I was not playing a harmless game. I should return while I could, even if I had to figure how to open the passage by myself. But this was not the obstacle for my flee.
The problem was, I had been bewitched by him.
I’ve always had this incredible talent to convince myself, and whoever was around, that the most absurd solutions made perfect sense, and were absolutely suitable in determined situation. Who was to say they were not?
Because of this gift of mine a sound was suddenly heard. He, who had finally succeeded to control himself, looked out in dismay. Someone was knocking at his door!
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