It was
a bargain ...  Half a minute later, all the water was back in the lake;
and I had a hard job with you, daroga, for, upon my honor, I thought
you were done for! ... However! ... There you were! ... It was
understood that I was to take you both up to the surface of the earth. When, at last, I cleared the Louis-Philippe room of you, I came back
alone ..."

"What have you done with the Vicomte de Chagny?" asked the Persian,
interrupting him. "Ah, you see, daroga, I couldn't carry HIM up like that, at once. ... He was a hostage ... But I could not keep him in the house on the
lake, either, because of Christine; so I locked him up comfortably, I
chained him up nicely--a whiff of the Mazenderan scent had left him as
limp as a rag--in the Communists' dungeon, which is in the most
deserted and remote part of the Opera, below the fifth cellar, where no
one ever comes, and where no one ever hears you. Then I came back to
Christine, she was waiting for me." Erik here rose solemnly. Then he continued, but, as he spoke, he was
overcome by all his former emotion and began to tremble like a leaf:

"Yes, she was waiting for me ... waiting for me erect and alive, a
real, living bride ... as she hoped to be saved ...  And, when I ...
came forward, more timid than ... a little child, she did not run away
... no, no ... she stayed ... she waited for me ... I even believe ...
daroga ... that she put out her forehead ... a little ... oh, not much
... just a little ...  like a living bride ...  And ... and ... I ...
kissed her! ... I! ... I! ... I! ... And she did not die! ... Oh, how
good it is, daroga, to kiss somebody on the forehead! ... You can't
tell! ... But I! I! ... My mother, daroga, my poor, unhappy mother
would never ... let me kiss her ...  She used to run away ... and throw
me my mask! ... Nor any other woman ... ever, ever! ... Ah, you can
understand, my happiness was so great, I cried. And I fell at her
feet, crying ... and I kissed her feet ... her little feet ... crying. You're crying, too, daroga ... and she cried also ... the angel cried! ..." Erik sobbed aloud and the Persian himself could not retain his
tears in the presence of that masked man, who, with his shoulders
shaking and his hands clutched at his chest, was moaning with pain and
love by turns. "Yes, daroga ... I felt her tears flow on my forehead ... on mine,
mine! ... They were soft ... they were sweet! ... They trickled under
my mask ... they mingled with my tears in my eyes ... yes ... they
flowed between my lips ... Listen, daroga, listen to what I did ... I
tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her tears ... and she did not
run away! ... And she did not die! ...  She remained alive, weeping
over me, with me. We cried together! I have tasted all the happiness
the world can offer!" And Erik fell into a chair, choking for breath:

"Ah, I am not going to die yet ... presently I shall ... but let me
cry! ... Listen, daroga ... listen to this ... While I was at her feet
... I heard her say, 'Poor, unhappy Erik!' ...  AND SHE TOOK MY HAND! ... I had become no more, you know, than a poor dog ready to die for
her ... I mean it, daroga! ... I held in my hand a ring, a plain gold
ring which I had given her ... which she had lost ... and which I had
found again ...  a wedding-ring, you know ... I slipped it into her
little hand and said, 'There! ... Take it! ... Take it for you ... and
him! ... It shall be my wedding-present a present from your poor,
unhappy Erik ... I know you love the boy ... don't cry any more! ...
She asked me, in a very soft voice, what I meant ...  Then I made her
understand that, where she was concerned, I was only a poor dog, ready
to die for her ... but that she could marry the young man when she
pleased, because she had cried with me and mingled her tears with mine! ..."

Erik's emotion was so great that he had to tell the Persian not to look
at him, for he was choking and must take off his mask. The daroga went
to the window and opened it. His heart was full of pity, but he took
care to keep his eyes fixed on the trees in the Tuileries gardens, lest
he should see the monster's face. "I went and released the young man," Erik continued, "and told him to
come with me to Christine ... They kissed before me in the
Louis-Philippe room ...  Christine had my ring ... I made Christine
swear to come back, one night, when I was dead, crossing the lake from
the Rue-Scribe side, and bury me in the greatest secrecy with the gold
ring, which she was to wear until that moment. ... I told her where
she would find my body and what to do with it...  Then Christine kissed
me, for the first time, herself, here, on the forehead--don't look,
daroga!--here, on the forehead ... on my forehead, mine--don't look,
daroga!--and they went off together...  Christine had stopped crying
... I alone cried ...  Daroga, daroga, if Christine keeps her promise,
she will come back soon! ..."

The Persian asked him no questions. He was quite reassured as to the
fate of Raoul Chagny and Christine Daae; no one could have doubted the
word of the weeping Erik that night. The monster resumed his mask and collected his strength to leave the
daroga. He told him that, when he felt his end to be very near at
hand, he would send him, in gratitude for the kindness which the
Persian had once shown him, that which he held dearest in the world:
all Christine Daae's papers, which she had written for Raoul's benefit
and left with Erik, together with a few objects belonging to her, such
as a pair of gloves, a shoe-buckle and two pocket-handkerchiefs. In
reply to the Persian's questions, Erik told him that the two young
people, at soon as they found themselves free, had resolved to go and
look for a priest in some lonely spot where they could hide their
happiness and that, with this object in view, they had started from
"the northern railway station of the world." Lastly, Erik relied on
the Persian, as soon as he received the promised relics and papers, to
inform the young couple of his death and to advertise it in the EPOQUE. That was all. The Persian saw Erik to the door of his flat, and Darius
helped him down to the street. A cab was waiting for him. Erik
stepped in; and the Persian, who had gone back to the window, heard him
say to the driver:

"Go to the Opera." And the cab drove off into the night. The Persian had seen the poor, unfortunate Erik for the last time. Three weeks later, the Epoque published this advertisement:

"Erik is dead." Epilogue. I have now told the singular, but veracious story of the Opera ghost. As I declared on the first page of this work, it is no longer possible
to deny that Erik really lived. There are to-day so many proofs of his
existence within the reach of everybody that we can follow Erik's
actions logically through the whole tragedy of the Chagnys. There is no need to repeat here how greatly the case excited the
capital.