Their steps were heard for
a few minutes on the stage above. When they were alone the Persian
made a sign to Raoul to stand up. Raoul did so; but, as he did not
lift his hand in front of his eyes, ready to fire, the Persian told him
to resume that attitude and to continue it, whatever happened. "But it tires the hand unnecessarily," whispered Raoul. "If I do fire,
I shan't be sure of my aim." "Then shift your pistol to the other hand," said the Persian. "I can't shoot with my left hand." Thereupon, the Persian made this queer reply, which was certainly not
calculated to throw light into the young man's flurried brain:

"It's not a question of shooting with the right hand or the left; it's
a question of holding one of your hands as though you were going to
pull the trigger of a pistol with your arm bent. As for the pistol
itself, when all is said, you can put that in your pocket!" And he
added, "Let this be clearly understood, or I will answer for nothing. It is a matter of life and death. And now, silence and follow me!" The cellars of the Opera are enormous and they are five in number. Raoul followed the Persian and wondered what he would have done without
his companion in that extraordinary labyrinth. They went down to the
third cellar; and their progress was still lit by some distant lamp. The lower they went, the more precautions the Persian seemed to take. He kept on turning to Raoul to see if he was holding his arm properly,
showing him how he himself carried his hand as if always ready to fire,
though the pistol was in his pocket. Suddenly, a loud voice made them stop. Some one above them shouted:

"All the door-shutters on the stage! The commissary of police wants
them!" Steps were heard and shadows glided through the darkness. The Persian
drew Raoul behind a set piece. They saw passing before and above them
old men bent by age and the past burden of opera-scenery. Some could
hardly drag themselves along; others, from habit, with stooping bodies
and outstretched hands, looked for doors to shut. They were the door-shutters, the old, worn-out scene-shifters, on whom
a charitable management had taken pity, giving them the job of shutting
doors above and below the stage. They went about incessantly, from top
to bottom of the building, shutting the doors; and they were also
called "The draft-expellers," at least at that time, for I have little
doubt that by now they are all dead. Drafts are very bad for the
voice, wherever they may come from. [1]

The two men might have stumbled over them, waking them up and provoking
a request for explanations. For the moment, M. Mifroid's inquiry saved
them from any such unpleasant encounters. The Persian and Raoul welcomed this incident, which relieved them of
inconvenient witnesses, for some of those door-shutters, having nothing
else to do or nowhere to lay their heads, stayed at the Opera, from
idleness or necessity, and spent the night there. But they were not left to enjoy their solitude for long. Other shades
now came down by the same way by which the door-shutters had gone up. Each of these shades carried a little lantern and moved it about,
above, below and all around, as though looking for something or
somebody. "Hang it!" muttered the Persian. "I don't know what they are looking
for, but they might easily find us ...  Let us get away, quick! ... Your hand up, sir, ready to fire! ... Bend your arm ... more ... that's
it! ... Hand at the level of your eye, as though you were fighting a
duel and waiting for the word to fire! Oh, leave your pistol in your
pocket. Quick, come along, down-stairs. Level of your eye! Question
of life or death! ... Here, this way, these stairs!" They reached the
fifth cellar. "Oh, what a duel, sir, what a duel!" Once in the fifth cellar, the Persian drew breath. He seemed to enjoy
a rather greater sense of security than he had displayed when they both
stopped in the third; but he never altered the attitude of his hand. And Raoul, remembering the Persian's observation--"I know these pistols
can be relied upon"--was more and more astonished, wondering why any
one should be so gratified at being able to rely upon a pistol which he
did not intend to use! But the Persian left him no time for reflection. Telling Raoul to stay
where he was, he ran up a few steps of the staircase which they had
just left and then returned. "How stupid of us!" he whispered. "We shall soon have seen the end of
those men with their lanterns. It is the firemen going their
rounds. "[2]

The two men waited five minutes longer. Then the Persian took Raoul up
the stairs again; but suddenly he stopped him with a gesture. Something moved in the darkness before them. "Flat on your stomach!" whispered the Persian. The two men lay flat on the floor. They were only just in time. A shade, this time carrying no light,
just a shade in the shade, passed. It passed close to them, near
enough to touch them. They felt the warmth of its cloak upon them. For they could
distinguish the shade sufficiently to see that it wore a cloak which
shrouded it from head to foot. On its head it had a soft felt hat ... It moved away, drawing its feet against the walls and sometimes giving
a kick into a corner. "Whew!" said the Persian. "We've had a narrow escape; that shade knows
me and has twice taken me to the managers' office." "Is it some one belonging to the theater police?" asked Raoul. "It's some one much worse than that!" replied the Persian, without
giving any further explanation. [3]

"It's not ... he?" "He? ... If he does not come behind us, we shall always see his yellow
eyes! That is more or less our safeguard to-night. But he may come
from behind, stealing up; and we are dead men if we do not keep our
hands as though about to fire, at the level of our eyes, in front!" The Persian had hardly finished speaking, when a fantastic face came in
sight ... a whole fiery face, not only two yellow eyes! Yes, a head of fire came toward them, at a man's height, but with no
body attached to it. The face shed fire, looked in the darkness like a
flame shaped as a man's face. "Oh," said the Persian, between his teeth. "I have never seen this
before! ... Pampin was not mad, after all: he had seen it! ...  What
can that flame be? It is not HE, but he may have sent it! ... Take
care! ... Take care! Your hand at the level of your eyes, in Heaven's
name, at the level of your eyes! ... know most of his tricks ...  but
not this one ...  Come, let us run ...  it is safer. Hand at the level
of your eyes!" And they fled down the long passage that opened before them. After a few seconds, that seemed to them like long minutes, they
stopped. "He doesn't often come this way," said the Persian. "This side has
nothing to do with him. This side does not lead to the lake nor to the
house on the lake ... But perhaps he knows that we are at his heels
... although I promised him to leave him alone and never to meddle in
his business again!"