Chapter XXI  Interesting and Instructive Vicissitudes of a Persian in
the Cellars of the Opera


THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE

It was the first time that I entered the house on the lake. I had
often begged the "trap-door lover," as we used to call Erik in my
country, to open its mysterious doors to me. He always refused. I
made very many attempts, but in vain, to obtain admittance. Watch him
as I might, after I first learned that he had taken up his permanent
abode at the Opera, the darkness was always too thick to enable me to
see how he worked the door in the wall on the lake. One day, when I
thought myself alone, I stepped into the boat and rowed toward that
part of the wall through which I had seen Erik disappear. It was then
that I came into contact with the siren who guarded the approach and
whose charm was very nearly fatal to me. I had no sooner put off from the bank than the silence amid which I
floated on the water was disturbed by a sort of whispered singing that
hovered all around me. It was half breath, half music; it rose softly
from the waters of the lake; and I was surrounded by it through I knew
not what artifice. It followed me, moved with me and was so soft that
it did not alarm me. On the contrary, in my longing to approach the
source of that sweet and enticing harmony, I leaned out of my little
boat over the water, for there was no doubt in my mind that the singing
came from the water itself. By this time, I was alone in the boat in
the middle of the lake; the voice--for it was now distinctly a
voice--was beside me, on the water. I leaned over, leaned still
farther. The lake was perfectly calm, and a moonbeam that passed
through the air hole in the Rue Scribe showed me absolutely nothing on
its surface, which was smooth and black as ink. I shook my ears to get
rid of a possible humming; but I soon had to accept the fact that there
was no humming in the ears so harmonious as the singing whisper that
followed and now attracted me. Had I been inclined to superstition, I should have certainly thought
that I had to do with some siren whose business it was to confound the
traveler who should venture on the waters of the house on the lake. Fortunately, I come from a country where we are too fond of fantastic
things not to know them through and through; and I had no doubt but
that I was face to face with some new invention of Erik's. But this
invention was so perfect that, as I leaned out of the boat, I was
impelled less by a desire to discover its trick than to enjoy its
charm; and I leaned out, leaned out until I almost overturned the boat. Suddenly, two monstrous arms issued from the bosom of the waters and
seized me by the neck, dragging me down to the depths with irresistible
force. I should certainly have been lost, if I had not had time to
give a cry by which Erik knew me. For it was he; and, instead of
drowning me, as was certainly his first intention, he swam with me and
laid me gently on the bank:

"How imprudent you are!" he said, as he stood before me, dripping with
water. "Why try to enter my house? I never invited you! I don't want
you there, nor anybody! Did you save my life only to make it
unbearable to me? However great the service you rendered him, Erik may
end by forgetting it; and you know that nothing can restrain Erik, not
even Erik himself." He spoke, but I had now no other wish than to know what I already
called the trick of the siren. He satisfied my curiosity, for Erik,
who is a real monster--I have seen him at work in Persia, alas--is
also, in certain respects, a regular child, vain and self-conceited,
and there is nothing he loves so much, after astonishing people, as to
prove all the really miraculous ingenuity of his mind. He laughed and showed me a long reed. "It's the silliest trick you ever saw," he said, "but it's very useful
for breathing and singing in the water. I learned it from the Tonkin
pirates, who are able to remain hidden for hours in the beds of the
rivers. "[1]

I spoke to him severely. "It's a trick that nearly killed me!" I said. "And it may have been
fatal to others! You know what you promised me, Erik? No more
murders!" "Have I really committed murders?" he asked, putting on his most
amiable air. "Wretched man!" I cried. "Have you forgotten the rosy hours of
Mazenderan?" "Yes," he replied, in a sadder tone, "I prefer to forget them. I used
to make the little sultana laugh, though!" "All that belongs to the past," I declared; "but there is the present
... and you are responsible to me for the present, because, if I had
wished, there would have been none at all for you. Remember that,
Erik:  I saved your life!" And I took advantage of the turn of conversation to speak to him of
something that had long been on my mind:

"Erik," I asked, "Erik, swear that ..."

"What?" he retorted. "You know I never keep my oaths. Oaths are made
to catch gulls with." "Tell me ... you can tell me, at any rate..."

"Well?" "Well, the chandelier ... the chandelier, Erik? ..."

"What about the chandelier?" "You know what I mean." "Oh," he sniggered, "I don't mind telling you about the chandelier! ... IT WASN'T I! ... The chandelier was very old and worn." When Erik laughed, he was more terrible than ever. He jumped into the
boat, chuckling so horribly that I could not help trembling. "Very old and worn, my dear daroga! [2]  Very old and worn, the
chandelier! ... It fell of itself! ... It came down with a smash! ...
And now, daroga, take my advice and go and dry yourself, or you'll
catch a cold in the head! ...  And never get into my boat again ...
And, whatever you do, don't try to enter my house:  I'm not always
there ... daroga! And I should be sorry to have to dedicate my Requiem
Mass to you!" So saying, swinging to and fro, like a monkey, and still chuckling, he
pushed off and soon disappeared in the darkness of the lake. From that day, I gave up all thought of penetrating into his house by
the lake. That entrance was obviously too well guarded, especially
since he had learned that I knew about it. But I felt that there must
be another entrance, for I had often seen Erik disappear in the third
cellar, when I was watching him, though I could not imagine how. Ever since I had discovered Erik installed in the Opera, I lived in a
perpetual terror of his horrible fancies, not in so far as I was
concerned, but I dreaded everything for others. [3]

And whenever some accident, some fatal event happened, I always thought
to myself, "I should not be surprised if that were Erik," even as
others used to say, "It's the ghost!" How often have I not heard
people utter that phrase with a smile! Poor devils! If they had known
that the ghost existed in the flesh, I swear they would not have
laughed!