de Chagny was still sleeping.Įrik poured a drop of rum into the daroga's cup and, pointing to the viscount, said: The man in the mask took it from her hands and gave it to the Persian. She brought a cup of cordial, or of hot tea, he did not remember which. It is all that I have left of my poor unhappy mother."Ĭhristine Daae did not say a word: she moved about noiselessly, like a sister of charity, who had taken a vow of silence. "Are you better, daroga?.You are looking at my furniture?. It bent down over the Persian and said, in his ear: 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.Īnd the figure of the masked man seemed all the more formidable in this old-fashioned, neat and trim little frame. An angel and a devil were watching over them.Īfter 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. de Chagny was on a sofa, beside the wardrobe. It seems that, when he opened his eyes, the daroga found himself lying on a bed. 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. He still had his magnificent eyes, but his poor face looked very worn. The daroga received me at a window overlooking the garden of the Tuileries. His faithful old servant Darius showed me in to him. 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. When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries. And I had the rest of the story from the lips of the daroga himself. de Chagny and his companion were saved by the sublime devotion of Christine Daae. Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to abandon them to their deaths, M. The previous chapter marks the conclusion of the written narrative which the Persian left behind him. Previous Chapter Next Chapter Chapter XXVI: The End of the Ghost's Story
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