Feeling something crack beneath our feet, hearing an appalling hiss
through the open trap-door, a hiss like the first sound of a rocket! It came softly, at first, then louder, then very loud. But it was not
the hiss of fire. It was more like the hiss of water. And now it
became a gurgling sound:  "Guggle! Guggle!" We rushed to the trap-door. All our thirst, which vanished when the
terror came, now returned with the lapping of the water. The water rose in the cellar, above the barrels, the
powder-barrels--"Barrels! ... Barrels! Any barrels to sell?" --and we
went down to it with parched throats. It rose to our chins, to our
mouths. And we drank. We stood on the floor of the cellar and drank. And we went up the stairs again in the dark, step by step, went up with
the water. The water came out of the cellar with us and spread over the floor of
the room. If, this went on, the whole house on the lake would be
swamped. The floor of the torture-chamber had itself become a regular
little lake, in which our feet splashed. Surely there was water enough
now! Erik must turn off the tap! "Erik! Erik! That is water enough for the gunpowder! Turn off the
tap! Turn off the scorpion!" But Erik did not reply. We heard nothing but the water rising: it was
half-way to our waists! "Christine!" cried M. de Chagny. "Christine! The water is up to our
knees!" But Christine did not reply ...  We heard nothing but the water rising. No one, no one in the next room, no one to turn the tap, no one to turn
the scorpion! We were all alone, in the dark, with the dark water that seized us and
clasped us and froze us! "Erik! Erik!" "Christine! Christine!" By this time, we had lost our foothold and were spinning round in the
water, carried away by an irresistible whirl, for the water turned with
us and dashed us against the dark mirror, which thrust us back again;
and our throats, raised above the whirlpool, roared aloud. Were we to die here, drowned in the torture-chamber? I had never seen
that. Erik, at the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan, had never
shown me that, through the little invisible window. "Erik! Erik!" I cried. "I saved your life! Remember! ... You were
sentenced to death! But for me, you would be dead now! ... Erik!" We whirled around in the water like so much wreckage. But, suddenly,
my straying hands seized the trunk of the iron tree! I called M. de
Chagny, and we both hung to the branch of the iron tree. And the water rose still higher. "Oh! Oh! Can you remember? How much space is there between the
branch of the tree and the dome-shaped ceiling? Do try to remember! ...  After all, the water may stop, it must find its level! ... There,
I think it is stopping! ... No, no, oh, horrible! ... Swim! Swim for
your life!" Our arms became entangled in the effort of swimming; we choked; we
fought in the dark water; already we could hardly breathe the dark air
above the dark water, the air which escaped, which we could hear
escaping through some vent-hole or other. "Oh, let us turn and turn and turn until we find the air hole and then
glue our mouths to it!" But I lost my strength; I tried to lay hold of the walls! Oh, how
those glass walls slipped from under my groping fingers! ... We whirled
round again! ... We began to sink! ... One last effort! ... A last
cry:  "Erik! ... Christine! ..."

"Guggle, guggle, guggle!" in our ears. "Guggle! Guggle!" At the
bottom of the dark water, our ears went, "Guggle! Guggle!" And, before losing consciousness entirely, I seemed to hear, between
two guggles:

"Barrels! Barrels! Any barrels to sell?" Chapter XXVI  The End of the Ghost's Love Story


The previous chapter marks the conclusion of the written narrative
which the Persian left behind him. Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to
abandon them to their deaths, M. de Chagny and his companion were saved
by the sublime devotion of Christine Daae. And I had the rest of the
story from the lips of the daroga himself. When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the
Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries. He was very ill, and it
required all my ardor as an historian pledged to the truth to persuade
him to live the incredible tragedy over again for my benefit. His
faithful old servant Darius showed me in to him. The daroga received
me at a window overlooking the garden of the Tuileries. He still had
his magnificent eyes, but his poor face looked very worn. He had
shaved the whole of his head, which was usually covered with an
astrakhan cap; he was dressed in a long, plain coat and amused himself
by unconsciously twisting his thumbs inside the sleeves; but his mind
was quite clear, and he told me his story with perfect lucidity. It seems that, when he opened his eyes, the daroga found himself lying
on a bed. M. de Chagny was on a sofa, beside the wardrobe. An angel
and a devil were watching over them. After the deceptions and illusions of the torture-chamber, the
precision of the details of that quiet little middle-class room seemed
to have been invented for the express purpose of puzzling the mind of
the mortal rash enough to stray into that abode of living nightmare. The wooden bedstead, the waxed mahogany chairs, the chest of drawers,
those brasses, the little square antimacassars carefully placed on the
backs of the chairs, the clock on the mantelpiece and the
harmless-looking ebony caskets at either end, lastly, the whatnot
filled with shells, with red pin-cushions, with mother-of-pearl boats
and an enormous ostrich-egg, the whole discreetly lighted by a shaded
lamp standing on a small round table:  this collection of ugly,
peaceable, reasonable furniture, AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OPERA CELLARS,
bewildered the imagination more than all the late fantastic happenings. And the figure of the masked man seemed all the more formidable in this
old-fashioned, neat and trim little frame. It bent down over the
Persian and said, in his ear:

"Are you better, daroga? ... You are looking at my furniture? ... It
is all that I have left of my poor unhappy mother." Christine Daae did not say a word:  she moved about noiselessly, like a
sister of charity, who had taken a vow of silence. She brought a cup
of cordial, or of hot tea, he did not remember which. The man in the
mask took it from her hands and gave it to the Persian. M. de Chagny
was still sleeping. Erik poured a drop of rum into the daroga's cup and, pointing to the
viscount, said:

"He came to himself long before we knew if you were still alive,
daroga. He is quite well. He is asleep. We must not wake him." Erik left the room for a moment, and the Persian raised himself on his
elbow, looked around him and saw Christine Daae sitting by the
fireside. He spoke to her, called her, but he was still very weak and
fell back on his pillow. Christine came to him, laid her hand on his
forehead and went away again.