M. Moncharmin could not help smiling as he looked at M. Richard; but M.
Richard did not smile. He himself had done too much in that way in his
time not to recognize, in the inspector's story, all the marks of one
of those practical jokes which begin by amusing and end by enraging the
victims. The inspector, to curry favor with M. Moncharmin, who was
smiling, thought it best to give a smile too. A most unfortunate
smile! M. Richard glared at his subordinate, who thenceforth made it
his business to display a face of utter consternation. "However, when the people arrived," roared Richard, "there was no one
in the box, was there?" "Not a soul, sir, not a soul! Nor in the box on the right, nor in the
box on the left: not a soul, sir, I swear! The box-keeper told it me
often enough, which proves that it was all a joke." "Oh, you agree, do you?" said Richard. "You agree! It's a joke! And
you think it funny, no doubt?" "I think it in very bad taste, sir." "And what did the box-keeper say?" "Oh, she just said that it was the Opera ghost. That's all she said!" And the inspector grinned. But he soon found that he had made a
mistake in grinning, for the words had no sooner left his mouth than M.
Richard, from gloomy, became furious. "Send for the box-keeper!" he shouted. "Send for her! This minute! This minute! And bring her in to me here! And turn all those people
out!" The inspector tried to protest, but Richard closed his mouth with an
angry order to hold his tongue. Then, when the wretched man's lips
seemed shut for ever, the manager commanded him to open them once more. "Who is this 'Opera ghost?'" he snarled. But the inspector was by this time incapable of speaking a word. He
managed to convey, by a despairing gesture, that he knew nothing about
it, or rather that he did not wish to know. "Have you ever seen him, have you seen the Opera ghost?" The inspector, by means of a vigorous shake of the head, denied ever
having seen the ghost in question. "Very well!" said M. Richard coldly. The inspector's eyes started out of his head, as though to ask why the
manager had uttered that ominous "Very well!" "Because I'm going to settle the account of any one who has not seen
him!" explained the manager. "As he seems to be everywhere, I can't
have people telling me that they see him nowhere. I like people to
work for me when I employ them!" Having said this, M. Richard paid no attention to the inspector and
discussed various matters of business with his acting-manager, who had
entered the room meanwhile. The inspector thought he could go and was
gently--oh, so gently!--sidling toward the door, when M. Richard nailed
the man to the floor with a thundering:

"Stay where you are!" M. Remy had sent for the box-keeper to the Rue de Provence, close to
the Opera, where she was engaged as a porteress. She soon made her
appearance. "What's your name?" "Mme. Giry. You know me well enough, sir; I'm the mother of little
Giry, little Meg, what!" This was said in so rough and solemn a tone that, for a moment, M.
Richard was impressed. He looked at Mme. Giry, in her faded shawl, her
worn shoes, her old taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. It was quite
evident from the manager's attitude, that he either did not know or
could not remember having met Mme. Giry, nor even little Giry, nor even
"little Meg!" But Mme. Giry's pride was so great that the celebrated
box-keeper imagined that everybody knew her. "Never heard of her!" the manager declared. "But that's no reason,
Mme. Giry, why I shouldn't ask you what happened last night to make you
and the inspector call in a municipal guard." "I was just wanting to see you, sir, and talk to you about it, so that
you mightn't have the same unpleasantness as M. Debienne and M.
Poligny. They wouldn't listen to me either, at first." "I'm not asking you about all that. I'm asking what happened last
night." Mme. Giry turned purple with indignation. Never had she been spoken to
like that. She rose as though to go, gathering up the folds of her
skirt and waving the feathers of her dingy bonnet with dignity, but,
changing her mind, she sat down again and said, in a haughty voice:

"I'll tell you what happened. The ghost was annoyed again!" Thereupon, as M. Richard was on the point of bursting out, M.
Moncharmin interfered and conducted the interrogatory, whence it
appeared that Mme. Giry thought it quite natural that a voice should be
heard to say that a box was taken, when there was nobody in the box. She was unable to explain this phenomenon, which was not new to her,
except by the intervention of the ghost. Nobody could see the ghost in
his box, but everybody could hear him. She had often heard him; and
they could believe her, for she always spoke the truth. They could ask
M. Debienne and M. Poligny, and anybody who knew her; and also M.
Isidore Saack, who had had a leg broken by the ghost! "Indeed!" said Moncharmin, interrupting her. "Did the ghost break poor
Isidore Saack's leg?" Mme. Giry opened her eyes with astonishment at such ignorance. However, she consented to enlighten those two poor innocents. The
thing had happened in M. Debienne and M. Poligny's time, also in Box
Five and also during a performance of FAUST. Mme. Giry coughed,
cleared her throat--it sounded as though she were preparing to sing the
whole of Gounod's score--and began:

"It was like this, sir. That night, M. Maniera and his lady, the
jewelers in the Rue Mogador, were sitting in the front of the box, with
their great friend, M. Isidore Saack, sitting behind Mme. Maniera. Mephistopheles was singing"--Mme. Giry here burst into song
herself--"'Catarina, while you play at sleeping,' and then M. Maniera
heard a voice in his right ear (his wife was on his left) saying, 'Ha,
ha! Julie's not playing at sleeping!' His wife happened to be called
Julie. So. M. Maniera turns to the right to see who was talking to
him like that. Nobody there! He rubs his ear and asks himself, if
he's dreaming. Then Mephistopheles went on with his serenade... But,
perhaps I'm boring you gentlemen?" "No, no, go on." "You are too good, gentlemen," with a smirk. "Well, then,
Mephistopheles went on with his serenade"--Mme. Giry, burst into song
again--"'Saint, unclose thy portals holy and accord the bliss, to a
mortal bending lowly, of a pardon-kiss.' And then M. Maniera again
hears the voice in his right ear, saying, this time, 'Ha, ha! Julie
wouldn't mind according a kiss to Isidore!' Then he turns round again,
but, this time, to the left; and what do you think he sees? Isidore,
who had taken his lady's hand and was covering it with kisses through
the little round place in the glove--like this, gentlemen"--rapturously
kissing the bit of palm left bare in the middle of her thread gloves. "Then they had a lively time between them! Bang! Bang! M. Maniera,
who was big and strong, like you, M. Richard, gave two blows to M.
Isidore Saack, who was small and weak like M. Moncharmin, saving his
presence. There was a great uproar.