Hardly breathing, he went up to the dressing-room and, with his ear to
the door to catch her reply, prepared to knock. But his hand dropped. He had heard A MAN'S VOICE in the dressing-room, saying, in a curiously
masterful tone:

"Christine, you must love me!" And Christine's voice, infinitely sad and trembling, as though
accompanied by tears, replied:

"How can you talk like that? WHEN I SING ONLY FOR YOU!" Raoul leaned against the panel to ease his pain. His heart, which had
seemed gone for ever, returned to his breast and was throbbing loudly. The whole passage echoed with its beating and Raoul's ears were
deafened. Surely, if his heart continued to make such a noise, they
would hear it inside, they would open the door and the young man would
be turned away in disgrace. What a position for a Chagny! To be
caught listening behind a door! He took his heart in his two hands to
make it stop. The man's voice spoke again:  "Are you very tired?" "Oh, to-night I gave you my soul and I am dead!" Christine replied. "Your soul is a beautiful thing, child," replied the grave man's voice,
"and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. THE ANGELS
WEPT TONIGHT." Raoul heard nothing after that. Nevertheless, he did not go away, but,
as though he feared lest he should be caught, he returned to his dark
corner, determined to wait for the man to leave the room. At one and
the same time, he had learned what love meant, and hatred. He knew
that he loved. He wanted to know whom he hated. To his great
astonishment, the door opened and Christine Daae appeared, wrapped in
furs, with her face hidden in a lace veil, alone. She closed the door
behind her, but Raoul observed that she did not lock it. She passed
him. He did not even follow her with his eyes, for his eyes were fixed
on the door, which did not open again. When the passage was once more deserted, he crossed it, opened the door
of the dressing-room, went in and shut the door. He found himself in
absolute darkness. The gas had been turned out. "There is some one here!" said Raoul, with his back against the closed
door, in a quivering voice. "What are you hiding for?" All was darkness and silence. Raoul heard only the sound of his own
breathing. He quite failed to see that the indiscretion of his conduct
was exceeding all bounds. "You shan't leave this until I let you!" he exclaimed. "If you don't
answer, you are a coward! But I'll expose you!" And he struck a match. The blaze lit up the room. There was no one in
the room! Raoul, first turning the key in the door, lit the gas-jets. He went into the dressing-closet, opened the cupboards, hunted about,
felt the walls with his moist hands. Nothing! "Look here!" he said, aloud. "Am I going mad?" He stood for ten minutes listening to the gas flaring in the silence of
the empty room; lover though he was, he did not even think of stealing
a ribbon that would have given him the perfume of the woman he loved. He went out, not knowing what he was doing nor where he was going. At
a given moment in his wayward progress, an icy draft struck him in the
face. He found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which,
behind him, a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher,
covered with a white sheet. "Which is the way out, please?" he asked of one of the men. "Straight in front of you, the door is open. But let us pass." Pointing to the stretcher, he asked mechanically:  "What's that?" The workmen answered:

"'That' is Joseph Buquet, who was found in the third cellar, hanging
between a farm-house and a scene from the ROI DE LAHORE." He took off his hat, fell back to make room for the procession and went
out. Chapter III The Mysterious Reason


During this time, the farewell ceremony was taking place. I have
already said that this magnificent function was being given on the
occasion of the retirement of M. Debienne and M. Poligny, who had
determined to "die game," as we say nowadays. They had been assisted
in the realization of their ideal, though melancholy, program by all
that counted in the social and artistic world of Paris. All these
people met, after the performance, in the foyer of the ballet, where
Sorelli waited for the arrival of the retiring managers with a glass of
champagne in her hand and a little prepared speech at the tip of her
tongue. Behind her, the members of the Corps de Ballet, young and old,
discussed the events of the day in whispers or exchanged discreet
signals with their friends, a noisy crowd of whom surrounded the
supper-tables arranged along the slanting floor. A few of the dancers had already changed into ordinary dress; but most
of them wore their skirts of gossamer gauze; and all had thought it the
right thing to put on a special face for the occasion:  all, that is,
except little Jammes, whose fifteen summers--happy age!--seemed already
to have forgotten the ghost and the death of Joseph Buquet. She never
ceased to laugh and chatter, to hop about and play practical jokes,
until Mm. Debienne and Poligny appeared on the steps of the foyer, when
she was severely called to order by the impatient Sorelli. Everybody remarked that the retiring managers looked cheerful, as is
the Paris way. None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned
to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom
or indifference over his inward joy. You know that one of your friends
is in trouble; do not try to console him: he will tell you that he is
already comforted; but, should he have met with good fortune, be
careful how you congratulate him:  he thinks it so natural that he is
surprised that you should speak of it. In Paris, our lives are one
masked ball; and the foyer of the ballet is the last place in which two
men so "knowing" as M. Debienne and M. Poligny would have made the
mistake of betraying their grief, however genuine it might be. And
they were already smiling rather too broadly upon Sorelli, who had
begun to recite her speech, when an exclamation from that little madcap
of a Jammes broke the smile of the managers so brutally that the
expression of distress and dismay that lay beneath it became apparent
to all eyes:

"The Opera ghost!" Jammes yelled these words in a tone of unspeakable terror; and her
finger pointed, among the crowd of dandies, to a face so pallid, so
lugubrious and so ugly, with two such deep black cavities under the
straddling eyebrows, that the death's head in question immediately
scored a huge success. "The Opera ghost! The Opera ghost!" Everybody laughed and pushed his
neighbor and wanted to offer the Opera ghost a drink, but he was gone. He had slipped through the crowd; and the others vainly hunted for him,
while two old gentlemen tried to calm little Jammes and while little
Giry stood screaming like a peacock. Sorelli was furious; she had not been able to finish her speech; the
managers, had kissed her, thanked her and run away as fast as the ghost
himself.