People in the house shouted,
'That will do! Stop them! He'll kill him!' Then, at last, M. Isidore
Saack managed to run away." "Then the ghost had not broken his leg?" asked M. Moncharmin, a little
vexed that his figure had made so little impression on Mme. Giry. "He did break it for him, sir," replied Mme. Giry haughtily. "He broke
it for him on the grand staircase, which he ran down too fast, sir, and
it will be long before the poor gentleman will be able to go up it
again!" "Did the ghost tell you what he said in M. Maniera's right ear?" asked
M. Moncharmin, with a gravity which he thought exceedingly humorous. "No, sir, it was M. Maniera himself. So----"

"But you have spoken to the ghost, my good lady?" "As I'm speaking to you now, my good sir!" Mme. Giry replied. "And, when the ghost speaks to you, what does he say?" "Well, he tells me to bring him a footstool!" This time, Richard burst out laughing, as did Moncharmin and Remy, the
secretary. Only the inspector, warned by experience, was careful not
to laugh, while Mme. Giry ventured to adopt an attitude that was
positively threatening. "Instead of laughing," she cried indignantly, "you'd do better to do as
M. Poligny did, who found out for himself." "Found out about what?" asked Moncharmin, who had never been so much
amused in his life. "About the ghost, of course! ... Look here ..."

She suddenly calmed herself, feeling that this was a solemn moment in
her life:

"LOOK HERE," she repeated. "They were playing La Juive. M. Poligny
thought he would watch the performance from the ghost's box... Well,
when Leopold cries, 'Let us fly!' --you know--and Eleazer stops them and
says, 'Whither go ye?' ... well, M. Poligny--I was watching him from
the back of the next box, which was empty--M. Poligny got up and walked
out quite stiffly, like a statue, and before I had time to ask him,
'Whither go ye?' like Eleazer, he was down the staircase, but without
breaking his leg. "Still, that doesn't let us know how the Opera ghost came to ask you
for a footstool," insisted M. Moncharmin. "Well, from that evening, no one tried to take the ghost's private box
from him. The manager gave orders that he was to have it at each
performance. And, whenever he came, he asked me for a footstool." "Tut, tut! A ghost asking for a footstool! Then this ghost of yours
is a woman?" "No, the ghost is a man." "How do you know?" "He has a man's voice, oh, such a lovely man's voice! This is what
happens:  When he comes to the opera, it's usually in the middle of the
first act. He gives three little taps on the door of Box Five. The
first time I heard those three taps, when I knew there was no one in
the box, you can think how puzzled I was! I opened the door, listened,
looked; nobody! And then I heard a voice say, 'Mme. Jules' my poor
husband's name was Jules--'a footstool, please.' Saving your presence,
gentlemen, it made me feel all-overish like. But the voice went on,
'Don't be frightened, Mme. Jules, I'm the Opera ghost!' And the voice
was so soft and kind that I hardly felt frightened. THE VOICE WAS
SITTING IN THE CORNER CHAIR, ON THE RIGHT, IN THE FRONT ROW." "Was there any one in the box on the right of Box Five?" asked
Moncharmin. "No; Box Seven, and Box Three, the one on the left, were both empty. The curtain had only just gone up." "And what did you do?" "Well, I brought the footstool. Of course, it wasn't for himself he
wanted it, but for his lady! But I never heard her nor saw her." "Eh? What? So now the ghost is married!" The eyes of the two
managers traveled from Mme. Giry to the inspector, who, standing behind
the box-keeper, was waving his arms to attract their attention. He
tapped his forehead with a distressful forefinger, to convey his
opinion that the widow Jules Giry was most certainly mad, a piece of
pantomime which confirmed M. Richard in his determination to get rid of
an inspector who kept a lunatic in his service. Meanwhile, the worthy
lady went on about her ghost, now painting his generosity:

"At the end of the performance, he always gives me two francs,
sometimes five, sometimes even ten, when he has been many days without
coming. Only, since people have begun to annoy him again, he gives me
nothing at all. "Excuse me, my good woman," said Moncharmin, while Mme. Giry tossed the
feathers in her dingy hat at this persistent familiarity, "excuse me,
how does the ghost manage to give you your two francs?" "Why, he leaves them on the little shelf in the box, of course. I find
them with the program, which I always give him. Some evenings, I find
flowers in the box, a rose that must have dropped from his lady's
bodice ... for he brings a lady with him sometimes; one day, they left
a fan behind them." "Oh, the ghost left a fan, did he? And what did you do with it?" "Well, I brought it back to the box next night." Here the inspector's voice was raised. "You've broken the rules; I shall have to fine you, Mme. Giry." "Hold your tongue, you fool!" muttered M. Firmin Richard. "You brought back the fan. And then?" "Well, then, they took it away with them, sir; it was not there at the
end of the performance; and in its place they left me a box of English
sweets, which I'm very fond of. That's one of the ghost's pretty
thoughts." "That will do, Mme. Giry. You can go." When Mme. Giry had bowed herself out, with the dignity that never
deserted her, the manager told the inspector that they had decided to
dispense with that old madwoman's services; and, when he had gone in
his turn, they instructed the acting-manager to make up the inspector's
accounts. Left alone, the managers told each other of the idea which
they both had in mind, which was that they should look into that little
matter of Box Five themselves. Chapter V The Enchanted Violin


Christine Daae, owing to intrigues to which I will return later, did
not immediately continue her triumph at the Opera. After the famous
gala night, she sang once at the Duchess de Zurich's; but this was the
last occasion on which she was heard in private. She refused, without
plausible excuse, to appear at a charity concert to which she had
promised her assistance. She acted throughout as though she were no
longer the mistress of her own destiny and as though she feared a fresh
triumph. She knew that the Comte de Chagny, to please his brother, had done his
best on her behalf with M. Richard; and she wrote to thank him and also
to ask him to cease speaking in her favor. Her reason for this curious
attitude was never known. Some pretended that it was due to
overweening pride; others spoke of her heavenly modesty. But people on
the stage are not so modest as all that; and I think that I shall not
be far from the truth if I ascribe her action simply to fear. Yes, I
believe that Christine Daae was frightened by what had happened to her.