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.




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