Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 180, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 July 1912 — Page 2

The PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

by Gaston Leroux

TME • MYSTERY • Of • THE • YELLOW -ROOMind TrtE-PERFUME-OfTHE-LADY-INbLACK-Illust.rc3tion» by MG/fett/ie.r' Copyright /g// by 77? e fiobbs-Merr/7/ Company

SYNOPSIS. Consternation is caused on the last night that the Opera is managed by Debienne and Poligny because of the appearance of a ghost, said to have been in evidence on several previous occasions. Christine Daae, a member of the opera company, is called upon to fill a very important part and scores a great success. Count de Chagny and' his brother Raoul are among those who applaud the singer. Raoul tries to see Christine in the dressing room, but is unable to do so and later discovers that some one is making love to her. She emerges alone, and upon entering the room he finds it empty. While the farewell ceremony for the retiring managers is going on, the Opera Ghost appears and informs the new managers that Box No. 5 is reserved for him. Box No. 5 is sold with disastrous results. The managers receive a letter from the Opera Ghost calling attention to the efror. Christine Daae writes Raoul that she had gone to visit the grave of her father. He goes also, and in the night follows her to the church. Wonderful violin music is heard. Raoul visits a graveyard. Raoul is found next morning almost frozen. Moncharmin and Richard investigate Box No. 5 and decide to see the performance of "Faust" from front seats of that box. Carlotta, who sings the leading part in ’Faust,” is warned to give the part to Christine. CHAPTER Vll—(Continued). There was consternation on Carlotta's* face and consternation on the faces of all the audience. The two managers in their box could not suppress an exclamation of horror. Every one felt that the thing was not natural, that there was witchcraft behind it. That toad smelt of brimstone. The uproar in the house was indescribable. If the thing had happened to any one but Carlotta, she would have been hooted. But everybody knew how perfect an instrument her voice was; and there was no display of anger, but only of horror and dismay, the sort of dismay which men would have felt if they had witnessed the catastrophe that broke the arms of the Venus de Milo. . . And even then they would have seen . . and understood ... * But here that toad was incomprehensible! So much so that, after some seconds spent in asking herself if she had really heard that note, that sound, that infernal noise issue from her throat, she tried to persuade herself that it was not so. that she was the victim of an illusion, an illusion of the ear, and hot of an act of treachery on the part of her voice. . . . Meanwhile, in Box Five,, Monchar-

Released From Its Hook, It Plunged From the Celling.

tarn and Richard had turned very pale. This extraordinary and inexplicable Incident filled them with a dread which was the mere mysterious inasmuch as for some little while, they had fallen within the direct influence of the ghost. They had felt his breath. Moncharmin's hair stood on end. Richard wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Yes, the ghost was there, around them, behind them, beside them; they felt his presence without teeing him, they heard his breath, close, close. close to them! . . . They were sure that there were three people in the box. . . . They trem-

bled. . . . They thought of running away. . . .They dared not. . . . They dared not make a movement or exchange a word that would have told the ghost that they .knew that he was there! . . . What was going to happen? This happened. “Co-ack!” Their joint exclamation “of horror was heard all over the house. They felt that they were smarting under the ghost’s attacks. Leaning over the ledge of their box, they stared at Carlotta as though they did not recognize her. That infernal girl must have given the signal for some catastrophe. Ah, they were waiting for the catastrophe! The ghost had told them it would come! The house had a curse upon it! The two managers gasped and panted under the weight of the catastrophe. Richard’s stifled voice was heard calling to Carlotta: "Well, goon!" No, Carlotta did not go on. . . . Bravely, heroically, she started afresh on the fatal line at the end of which the toad had appeared. An awful silence succeeded the uproar. Carlotta’s voice alone once more filled the resounding house: "I feel without alarm . . The audience also felt, but not without alarm. . . ' **l feel without alarm . . . I feel without alarm—co-ack! With his melody enwind me—co-ack! And all my heart sub-cb-ack!” The toad also had started afresh! The house broke into a wild tumult. The two managers collapsed in their chairs and dared not even turn round; they had not the strength; the ghost was chuckling behind their backs! And, at last, they distinctly heard his voice in their right ears, the impossible voice, the mouthless voice, saying: "She is singing tonight to bring the chandelier down!” With one accord, they raised their eyes to the ceiling and uttered a terrible cry. The chandelier, the immense mass 'of the chandelier was slipping down, coming toward them, at the call of that fiendish voice. Released from its hook, it plunged from

the celling and came smashing into the middle of the stalls, amid a thousand shouts of terror. wild rush for the doors followed. The papers of the day state that there were numbers wounded and one killed. The chandelier had crashed down upon the head of the wretched woman who had come to the opera for the first time In her life; the one whom M. Richard had appointed to succeed Marne Glry, the ghost's boxkeeper, in her functions! She' died on the spot and, the next morning, a newspaper appeared with this heading:

"Two Hundred Kilos on the Head of a'Concierge.” That was her sole epitaph!

CHAPTER VIII. . The Mysterious Brougham. That tragic evening was bad tor everybody. , Carlotta fell ill. As for Christine Daae, she disappeared after the performance. A fortnight elapsed during which she was seen neither at the opera nor outside. Raoul, of course, was the first to be astonished at the prima ; donna’s absence. He wrote to her at Mme. Valerius’ flat and received no reply. His grief increased and he ended by being seriously alarmed at never seeing her name on the program. Faust was played without her. One afternoon he went to the managers’ office to ask the reason of Christine’s disappearance. He found them both looking extremely worried. Their own friends did not recognize them; they had “Ibst all their gaiety and spirits. They were seen crossing the stage with hanging beads, careworn, brows, pale cheeks, as though pursued by some abominable thought or a prey to some persistent sport of fate. The fall of the chandelier had involved them in no little responsibility; but it was difficult to make them speak about it The Inquest had ended in a verdict of accidental death, caused by the wear and tear of the chains by which the chandelier was hung from the celling; but it was the duty of both the old and the new managers to have discovered this wear and tear and to have remedied it in time. And I feel bound to say that MM. Richard and Moncharmin at this time appeared so changed, so absentminded, so mysterious, so incomprehensible that.many of the subscribers thought that some event even more horrible than the fall of the chande4ier must have affected their state of mind.

In their dally Intercourse, they showed themselves very impatient, except with Mme. Giry, who had been reinstated in her functions. And their reception of the Vicomte de Chagny, when he came to ask about Christine, was anything but cordial. They merely told him that she was taking a holiday. He asked how long the holiday was for, and they replied curtly that it was for an unlimited period, as Mlle. Daae had requested leave of absence for reasons of health. “Then she is ill!" he cried. “What is the matter with her?” “We don’t know.” "Didn’t you send the doctor of the opera to see her?” “No, she did not ask for him; and, as we trust her, we took her word.” Raoul left the building a prey to the gloomiest thoughts. He resolved, come what might, to go and inquire of Mamma Valerius. He remembered the strong phrases in Christine’s letter, forbidding him to make any attempt to see her. But what he had seen at - Perros, what he had heard behind the dressing-room door, his conversation with Christine at the edge of the moor made him suspect some machination which, devilish though it might be, was none the less human. The girl’s highly strung imagination, her affectionate and credulous mind, the primitive education which had surrounded her childhood with a circle of legends, the constant brooding over her dead father apd, above all, the state of sublime ecstasy into which music threw her from the moment that this art was made manifest to her in certain exceptional conditions, as in the churchyard at Perros; all this seemed to him to constitute a moral ground only too favorable for the malevolent designs of some mysterious and unscrupulous person. Of whom was Christine Daae the victim? This was the very reasonable question which Raoul put to himself as he hurried off to Mamma Valerius.

He trembled as he rang at a little flat in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Vic-toires. The door was opened by the maid when he had seen coming out of Christine's dressing-room one evening. He asked if he could speak to Mme. Valerius. He was told that she was ill in bed and was not receiving visitors. “Take in my card, please," he said. The maid soon returned and showed him into a small and scantily furnished drawing-room, in which portraits of Professor Valerius and old Daae hung on opposite, walls. “Madame begs monsieur le vicomte to excuse her," said the servant. “She can only see him in her bedroom, because she can no longer stand on her poor legs.” Five minutes later, Raoul was ushered into an ill-lit room where he atonce recognized the good, kind face of 4 Christine’s benefactress In the semi-darkness of an alcove. Mamma Valerius' hair was now quite white, but her eyes had grown no older; never, on the contrary, had their expression been so bright, so pure, so child-like. . J*M. de Chagny!" she cried gaily, putting out both her hands to her visitor. “Ah, it's heaven that sends you here! . . . We can talk of her." This last sentence sounded very gloomily in the young man’s ears. He at once asked: “Madame ... where Is Christine?” And the old lady replied calmly: “She Is with her good genius!” “What good genius?" exclaimed poor Raoul. "Why, the Angel of Music!” The viscount dropped into a chair. Really? Christine was with the Angel of Music? And there lay Mamma Valerius in bed, smiling to him and putting her finger to her lips, to warn him to be silent; And she added: "You must not tell anybody!"

"You can rely on me,” said Raoul.' He hardly knew what he was saying, for his ideas about Christine, already greatly confused, were beconn Ing more and more entangled; and it seemed as if everything was beginning to turn around him, around the room, around that extraordinary good lady with- the white hair and forget-me-not eyes. “I know! I know I can!” she said, with a happy laugh. "But why don’t you come near me, as you used to do when you were a little boy? Give me your hands, as when you brought me the story of little Lotte, which Daddy Daae had told you. I am very fond bf you, M. Raoul, you know. And so is Christine too!” “She Is fond of me!” sighed the young man. He found a difficulty in collecting his thoughts and bringing them to bear on Mamma Valerius’ “good genius,” on the Angel of Music of whom Christine bad spoken to him so strangely, on the death’s head which he had seen in a sort of nightmare on the high altar at Ferros and also on the opera ghost, whose fame had come to his ears one evening when he was standing behind the scenes, within hearing of a group of sceneshifters who were repeating the ghastly description which the hanged man, Joseph Buquet, had given of the ghost before his mysterious death. He asked In a low voice: “What makes you think that Christine is fond of me, madame?" “She used to speak of you every day.” J " ... “Really? . . .And what did she tell you?” “She told me that you had made her a proposal!” ■ And the good old lady began laughing whole-heartedly. Raoul sprang from his chair, flushing to the temples, suffering agonies. “What’s this? Where are you going? ... Sit down again at once, will you? . . . Do you think I will let you go like that? ... If you’re angry with me for laughing, 1 beg your pardon. . . After all, what has happened isn’t your fault. . . Didn’t you know? . . . Did you think that Christine was free? . . .’’ “Is Christine engaged to b.e married?” the wretched Raoul asked, in a choking voice. Why no! . . . You know as well as I do that Christine couldn’t marry, even if she wanted to! . . .’’ /.‘But I don’t know Anything about it! . . . And why can’t Christine marry?” “Because of the Angel of Music, of course! . . “I don’t follow . . .” “Yes, he forbids her to . . .” “He forbids her! . . . The Angel of Music forbids her to marry! “Oh, he forbids her . . . without forbidding her. It’s like this: he tells her that, if she got married, she would never hear him again. That’s ahi . . . And that he would go away for ever! . . . So, you understand, she can’t let the Angel of Music go. It’s' quite natural." “Yes, yes,” echoed Raoul submissively, “it’s quite natural.”

As for Her Companion, Only His Shadowy Outline Was Distinguished Leaning Back In the Dark.

“Besides, I thought Christine had told you all that, when she met you at Perros, where she went with her good genius.” “Oh, she went to Perros with her good genius, did she?" *- . “That Is to say, he arranged to meet her down there, in Perros churchyard, at Daae’s grave. He promised to play her The, Resurrection of Lazarus on her father's violin!" Raoul de Chagny rose and, with a very authoritative air, pronounced these peremptory words: ■ "Madame, you will have the goodness to tell mb where , that genius lives."

The old lady did not seem surprised at this indiscreet command. She raised her eyes and said: “In heaven!" Such simplicity baffled him. He did not know what to say in the presence of this candid and perfect faith in a genius who came down nightly from heaven to haunt the dressing-rooms at the opera. He now realized the possible state' of mind of a girl brought up between a superstitious fiddler and a visionary old lady and he shuddered when he thought of the consequences of it all. “Is Christine still a good girl?" he asked suddenly, in spite of himself. "I swear it, as I hope to be saved!" exclaimed the old woman, who, this time, seemed to be incensed? “And, if you doubt it, sir, I don’t what you are here for!” Raoul tore at his gloves. “How long has she known this ‘genius?’ ”. “About three months. . . . Yes, it’s quite three months sipce he began to give her lessons.” The viscount threw up his arms with a gesture of despair. “The genius gives her lessons! . . . And where, pray?” “Now that she has gone away with him, I can’t say; but, up to a fortnight ago, it was in Christine’s dress-ing-room. It would be impossible in this little flat. The whole house would hear them. Whereas, at the opera, at eight o’clock in the morning, there is no one about, do you see!" “Yes, I see-! I see!" cried the viscount. And he hurriedly took leave of Mme. Valerius, who asked herself if the young nobleman was not a little off his head. _ He walked home to his brothers house in a pitiful state. He could have struck himself, banged his head against the walls! To think that he had believed in her innocence, in her purity! The Angel of Music! He knew him now! He saw him! Lt was beyond a doubt some unspeakable tenor, a good-looking jackanapes, who mouthed and simpered as he sang! He thought himself as absurd and as wretched as could be. Oh, what a miserable, little, insignificant, silly young man was M. le Vicomte da Chagny! thought Raoul furiously. And she, what a bold and damnable sly creature! His brother was waiting for him and Raoul fell into his arms, like a child. The count consoled him, without asking for explanations; and Raoul would certainly have long hesitated before telling him the story of the Angel of Muslo. His brother suggested taking him out to dinner. Overcome as he • was with despair, Raoul would probably have refused any invitation that evening, if the count had not, as an inducement, told him that the lady of his thoughts had been seen, the night before, in company of the other sex in the Bois. At first, the viscount refused to believe; but he received such exact details that he ceased protesting. She had been seen, it appeared, driving in a brougham, with the window down. She seemed to ba slowly taking In the icy night atr ' There

was a glorious moon shining. She wai recognized beyond a doubt As for her companion, only his shadowy out line was distinguished leaning back in the dark. The carriage was going at a walking pace in a lonely drive be hind the grandstand at Longchamp. .(TO BE CONTINUED.)

A Slight Error.

First Physician—There goes th* rich Mr. Jones. Second Physician—No; it is hli brother who is rich. • First Physician—Then I have mads a wrong diagnosis in his case, as 1 have told him that he has a diseas* which It will cost big money to cure

OCT WIT.nxJR D.NESI3IT OLDSTOPIES - ~ & ..... —. ||||||r Bfe* KEcfcz vSni ll - KZZZz kA- • A v- WH KWs ./ A !' 8 We sing old songs—their melody Calls up the olden days, And paints us pictures of the past On which we fondly gaze. We sing the old songs—their cadence gives A softer light on life— But when old stories strike our ears We straightway rise In strife. We hail old friends—we clasp their bands. And vow they cheer our sight; We greet them with true happiness And comradeship we plight. We hail old friends—we swear the tie Is one that never ends, But goojd old stories we’ll not hear— Not even from our friends. We praise old wine—its bubbles smile As though to echo back The smiles It coaxes to our lips; We talk of “good old sack;” We pralpe old wines—their mellow warmth Goes tingling through and through; But those j?ld stories—when they start We call for something new. We sing old songs; we hall old friends; We praise old wine; why, then, Let’s call the good old stories up, And tell them all again. The old tales are the friends of youth— They hold the song and wine. Old friends, old wine, old songs, old . tales— Of memory divine!

Same Man.

The Fourth of July orator is approaching his peroration: “Our country,” he exclaimes, “is the proudest land upon which the orb of day smiles in its pilgrimage. Our nation is the grandest that ever sprung from the mind of man and was thrilled with the pulsebeats of the hearts of the patriots- Never before in the history of the world has there been a realm so thoroughly exemplifying the highest Ideals of government. Never before has there been a land whose rulers have given it the richest, rarest Impulses of their souls. Never before in all time has there been a country so supremely blessed in its statesmen —men who have undoubtedly been inspired—men who have sacrificed all personal ambition for the good of the peoplemen who have” “Who is the wonderful orator?” we ask. v "That is the Honorable Slzzlan Howie, who got up at the convention last week and said the government was a failure, that our country was tottering on the brink of destruction, and that we hadn't had an honest official In seventy years.”

Explaining the Map.

"Well,” said the first bicyclist, "we ought to be right in the middle of Bliggvllle, according to the map, yet as you may see for yourself, we are on a mud road some miles from anywhere.” “I can’t understand it,” said the second bicyclist, "unless the map was made by some of those naval experts.”

The Carnegie System.

"Don’t go in dere, Pete,” said Musty Milton, “Dat’s not a good back door to strike." "Why?” inquired Perambulating Pete. "Dat's where Andy Carnegie lives, an* he’ll make you tote a library out o’ town wit’ you.”

Couldn't Fool Him.

"You are the apple dt my eye,” declared the Fortune Hunter to the Wise Heiress. "I think,” mused the Wise Heiress, "that I will keep my eye peeked, nevertheless.” Naturally, this evidence of astuteness on her part thrilled him to the* cofe. ,

Didn’t Seem Right.

•"The title you have chosen for your story does not seem exactly correct,” said the Astute Publisher. "I don’t see why,” replied the Ambitious Author. "Btrt don’t you think 'The Knights of Other Days* is rather ambiguous?"