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 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," she said. Ma Jammes gave her opinion, while she emptied a glass of liqueur that
happened to be standing on a table; the ghost must have something to do
with it. The truth is that no one ever knew how Joseph Buquet met his death. The verdict at the inquest was "natural suicide." In his Memoirs of
Manager, M. Moncharmin, one of the joint managers who succeeded MM. Debienne and Poligny, describes the incident as follows:

"A grievous accident spoiled the little party which MM. Debienne and
Poligny gave to celebrate their retirement. I was in the manager's
office, when Mercier, the acting-manager, suddenly came darting in. He
seemed half mad and told me that the body of a scene-shifter had been
found hanging in the third cellar under the stage, between a farm-house
and a scene from the Roi de Lahore. I shouted:

"'Come and cut him down!' "By the time I had rushed down the staircase and the Jacob's ladder,
the man was no longer hanging from his rope!" So this is an event which M. Moncharmin thinks natural. A man hangs at
the end of a rope; they go to cut him down; the rope has disappeared. Oh, M. Moncharmin found a very simple explanation! Listen to him:

"It was just after the ballet; and leaders and dancing-girls lost no
time in taking their precautions against the evil eye." There you are! Picture the corps de ballet scuttling down the Jacob's
ladder and dividing the suicide's rope among themselves in less time
than it takes to write! When, on the other hand, I think of the exact
spot where the body was discovered--the third cellar underneath the
stage!--imagine that SOMEBODY must have been interested in seeing that
the rope disappeared after it had effected its purpose; and time will
show if I am wrong. The horrid news soon spread all over the Opera, where Joseph Buquet was
very popular.