Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 181, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 July 1912 — Page 2

The PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

By Gaston Leroux

Author* o/° ■ TAE • MYSTERY • OE • THE • YELLOW -ROOMancf TnE-PEREUME OF-THE-LADY IN bLACKIllii3tr<a6.zon& £>y Af-G-/[&-bt;j2er' Copyright /g// by 77>e bobbs-Merr/// Company

8 SYNOPSIS. Consternation is caused on the last night That 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. 6 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 error. Christine Daae writes Raoul that shd 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. 6 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. Carlotta, refusing, loses her voice in the of a down, killing a woman and wounding many. CHAPTER Vlll—(Continued). Raoul dressed in frantic haste, prepared to forget his distress by flinging himself, as people say, into '“the vortex of pleasure.” Alas, he was a very sorry guest and, leaving his brother early, found himself, by ten o’clock in the evening, in a cab, behind the Longchamp race-course. It was bitterly cold. The road seemed deserted and very bright under the moonlight. He told the driver to wait for him patiently at the corner of a near turning and, hiding himself as well as'he could, stood stamping his feet to keep warm. He had been Indulging in this healthy exercise for half an hour or so, when a carriage turned the corner of the road and came quietly in his direction, at a walking pace. As it approached, he saw that a woman was leaning her head from the window. And, suddenly, the moon shed a pale gleam over her features. "Christine!” The sacred name of his love had sprung from his heart and his lipa He could not keep it back. . . He would have given anything to withdraw it, for that name, proclaimed in the stillness of the night, had acted as though it were the preconcerted signal for a furious rush on the part of the whole turn-out, which dashed past him before he could put into execution his plan of leaping at the horses* heads. The carriage window had been closed and the girl’s face had disappeared. And the brougham, behind which he was now running, was no more than a black spot on the white road. He called out again: “Christine!" No reply. And he stopped in the midst of the silence. With a lack-luster eye, he stared down that cold, desolate road and into the pale, dead night/ Nothing was colder than his /heart, nothing half so dead; he had loved an angel and now he despised a woman! Raoul, how that little fairy of the north has trifled with you! Was it really, was it really necessary to have so fresh and young a face, a forehead so shy and always ready to cover itself with the pink blush of modesty in order to pass in the lonely night, in a carriage and pair, accompanied by a mysterious lover? Surely there should be some limit to hypocrisy and lying! . . . She had passed without answering his cry. ... And he was thinking of dying; and he was twenty years old! His valet found him in the morning sitting on his bed. He had not undressed and the servant feared, at the sight of his face, that some disaster had occurred. Raoul snatched his letters from the man's hands. He had recognized Christine's paper and hand-writing. She said: “Dear: “Go to the masked bail at the opera on the night after tomorrow. At twelve o’clock, be in the little room behind the chimney-place of the big crush-room. Stand near the door that leads to the Rotunda. Don't mention this appointment ,to any one on earth. Wear a white domino and toe carefully masked. As you love me, do not let yourself be recognized. “CHRISTINE."

CHAPTER IX. At the Masked Ball. The envelope was covered with mud and unstamped- it bore the words, “To be handed to M. le Vicomte Raoul do Chagny,” with the address in pencil. It must have been flung out in the hope that a passer-by would pick up the note and deliver it, which was ; what happened. The note had been picked up on the pavement of 'j the Place de I’Opera. ~ v Babul read it over again with fev-

ered eyes. No more was needed to. revive his hope. The somber picture which be had for | moment Imagined of a Christine forgetting her duty to herself made way for his original conception of an unfortunate, Innocent child, the victim of imprudence and exaggerated sensibility.. 'To what extent, at this tim?, was she really a victim? Whose prisoner was she? Into what whirlpool had she been dragged? He asked himself these questions with a cruel anguish; but even this pain seemed endurable beside the frenzy into which he was thrown at the thought of a lying and deceitful Christine. What had happened? What influence had she undergone? What monster had carried her off and by what means? . 7 . By what means indeed but that of music? He knew Christine’s story. After her father’s death, she acquired a distaste of everything in life, including her art She went through the conservatoire like a poor soulless singing-machine. “And, suddenly, she awoke as though through the intervention of a god. The Angel of Music appeared upon the scene! She sang Margarita in Faust and triumphed! The Angel of Music! . . . For three months the Angel of Music had been giving Christine lessons. . . . Ah, he was a punctual singing-master! . . . And now he was taking her for drives in the Bois! . . . Raoul’s fingers clutched at his flesh, above his jealous heart. In his inexperience, he now asked, himself with terror what game the girl was playing? Up to what point could an op-era-singer make a fool of a good-nat-ured young man, quite new to love? O misery! ... Thus did Raoul’s thoughts fly from one extreme to the other. He no longer knew whether to pity Christine or to curse her; and he pitied and cursed her turn and turn about. At all events, he bought a white domino. The hour of the appointment came at last. With his face in a mask tnmmed with long, thick lace, looking like a pierrot in his white wrap, the viscount thought himself very ridiculous. Men of the world do not go to the opera ball in fancy-dress! It was absurd. One thought, however, consoled the viscount: he would certainly never be recognized! This ball was an exceptional affair, given some time before Shrovetide, in honor of the anniversary of the birth of a famous draftsman; and R was expected to be much gayer, noisier, more Bohemian than the ordinary masked ball. Numbers of artists had arranged to go, accompanied by a whole cohort of models land pupils, who, by midnight, began to create a tremendous din. Raoul climbed the grand staircase at five minutes to twelve, did not linger to look at the motley dresses displayed all the way up the marble steps, one of the richest settings in the world, allowed no facetious mask to draw him into a war of wits, replied to no jests and shook off the bold familiarity of a number of couples who had already become a trifle too gay. * Crossing the big crush-room and escaping from a mad whirl of dancers in which he was caught for a moment, he at last entered the room mentioned in Christine’s letter. He found it crammed; for this small space was the point where all those who were going to supper in the Rotunda crossed those who were returning from taking a glass of champagne. The fun, here, waxed fast and furious. Raoul leaned against a door-post and waited. He did not wait long. A black domino passed and gave a quick squeeze to the tips of his fingers. He understood “ that it was she and followed her:

“Is that you, Christine?” he asked, between his teeth. The black domino turned round promptly and raised her finger to her lips, no doubt to warn him not to mention her name again. Raoul continued to follow her in silence. He was afraid of losing her, after meeting her again in such strange circumstances. His grudge against her was gone. He no longer doubted that she had “nothing to reproach herself with,” however peculiar ana inexplicable her conduct might seem. He was ready to make any display of clemency, forgiveness or cowardice. He was in love. And, no doubt, he would soon receive a very natural explanation of her curious absence. The black domino tunited back from time to time to see if the white domino was still following. As Raoul once more passed through the great crush-room, this time in the wake of his guide, he could not help noticing a group crowding round a person whose' disguise, eccentric air and gruesome appearance were causing a sensation. It was a man dressed all in scarlet, with a huge bat and leathers on the top of a wonderful death's head. From his shoulders hung

an immense red-velvet cloak, which trailed along the floor like a king’s train; and on this cloak was embroidered, in gold letters, which every one read and repeated aloud, “Don’t touch me! lam Red Death stalking abroad!” Then one, greatly daring, did try ; to touch him . . . but a skeleton hand shot out of a crimson sleeve and violently seized the rash one’s wrist; and he, feeling the clutch of the knucklebones, the furious grasp of Death, uttered a cry of pain and terror. When Red Death released him at last, he ran away like a very madman, pursued by the jeers of the bystanders. '. . It was at this moment that Raoul passed in front of the funereal masquerader, who had just happened to turn in his direction. And he nearly exclaimed: “The’ death’s head of PerrosGuirec!” He had recognized him! ... He wanted to dart forward, forgetting • Christine; but the black domino, who also seemed a prey to some strange excitement, caught him by the arm and dragged him from the crush-room, far from the mad crowd through which Red Death was stalking. . . . The black domino kept on turning back and, apparently, on two occasions saw something that startled her, for she hurried her pace and Raoul’s as though they were being pursued. They went up two floors. Here, the stairs and corridors were almost deseirted. The black domino dpened the door of a private box and beckoned to the white domino .to follow her. Then Christine, whom he recognized by the sound of her voice, closed the door behind them and warned him, in a whisper, to remain at the back of the box and on no account to show himself. Raoul took, off his mask. Christine kept hers on. And, Raoul was about to ask her to remove it, he was surprised to see her put her ear to the partition and listen eagerly for a sound outside. Then she opened the- door ajar, looked out into the corridor and, in a low voice, said: « ' “He must have gone tip higher." Suddenly she exclaimed: “He is coming down again!” She tried to close the door, but Raoul prevented her; for he had seen, on the top step of the staircase that

From His Shoulders Hung an immense Red-Velvet Cloak, Which Trailed Along the Floor Like a King’s Train.

led to the floor above, a red foot, fo£ lowed by another ... and slowly, majestically, the whole scarlet dress of Red Death met his eyes. And he once more saw the death’s head of Perros-Gulrec. “It’s hel’Utee exclaimed. “This time, he shall not escape me! . . .” But Christine had slammed she door at the moment when Raoul was on the point of rushing out. He tried to push her aside. “Whom do you mean by *he?’ ” she asked, in a changed voice. “Who shall not escape you?” Raoul tried to overcome the girl's resistance by force, but she repelled him with a strength which he would not have suspected in her. He understood, or thought he understood, and at once lost his temper. “Who?" he repeated angrily. “Why, he, - the man who hides behind that hideous mask of death! ... The evil genius of the churchyard at Perros! . .• Red Death! ... In a word,’ madam, your friend . . . your Angel of Music! . .'. But 1 shall snatch off his mask, as I shall snatch off m/ own; and, this time, we shall look each the face, he and'l, with no veil and no lies, between us; and I shall know whom you love and who loves you!” He burst into a mad laugh, while Christine gave a disconsolate moan hshfnii her velvet mask. With a trade

Al ' gesture, she flung out her two arms, which fixed a barrier of white flesh against the door. “In the name of our love, Raoul, you shall not pass! . . ." He stopped. What had she said? . . . In the name of their love? . . . Never before had she confessed that she loved him. And yet she had had opportunities enough. . . . Pooh, her only object was to gain a few seconds! . . . She wished to give the Red Death time to escape. . . And, in accents of childish hatred, he said: "You lie, madam, for you do not love me and you have never loved me! What a poor fellow I must be to let you mock and flout me as you have done! Why did you give me every reason for hope, at Perros . for honest hope, madam, for I am an honest man and I believed you to be an honest woman, when your only intention was to deceive me!? Alas, you hate deceived us all! You have taken a shameful advantage of the candid affection, of your benefactress herself, who continues to believe in your sincerity while you go about the opera ball with Red Death! . . . I despise you! ...” And be burs,t into tears. She allowed him to insult her. She thought of but one thing, to keep him from leaving the box. “You will beg my pardon, one day, for all those ugly words, Raoul, and when you do I shall forgive you! ” He shook his head. “No, no, you have driven me mad! When I think that I had only one object in life: to give my name to an opera wench!” “Raoul! . . . How can you?" "I shall die of shame!” “No, dear, live!" said Christine’s grave and changed voice. “And . . good-by. Good-by, Raoul . . .” The boy stepped forward, staggering as he went, tie risked one more sarcasm: “Oh, you must let me come and applaud you from time to time!” “I shall never sing again, Raoul!" “Really?” he replied, still more satirically. “S<? he is taking you off the stage; I congratulate you! . . . But we shall meet in the Bois, one of these evenings!” “Not in the Bois nor anywhere, Raoul; you shall not see me—again? 4 “May one ask at least to what darkness you are returning? . . . For

what hell are you leaving, mysterious lady .... or for what paradise?” “I came to tell you, dear’ but I can’t tell you now . . . you would not believe me! You have lost faith in me, Raoul; it is finished!” She spoke in such a despairing voice that the lad began to feel remorse for his cruelty. “But look here!” he cried. “Can’t you tell me what all this means!

Danger of Gasolene Fumes

in a letter to tne new xora Medical Journal Dr. T. D. W. Pinckney declares that public warning should be given in regard to danger from fumes where gasolene is burned and cites the case of a man who was found unconscious and near death after being for a short time in a small room in which an automobile engine was running. “Some time ago,” he says, “I was also called to see a plumber who was rendered helpless and almost unconscious by fumes from his gasolene torch. It appears that only a small amount of the fumes is necessary to cause helplessness and that there is little or no warning of danger In the feeling of the one affected. “Persons working alone in their

. . . You are free, there Is no one to interfere with you. . . . You go about Paris. . . . You put on a /domino to come to the ball. . • • Why do you not go home? . . What have you been doing this past fortnight? . . . j What is this tale about the Angel of Music, which you have been telling Mamma Valerius? Some one may have taken you in, played upon your Innocence. I was a witness of it myself, at Perros . . . but you know what to believe now! You seem to me quite sensible, Christine. You know what you are doing . . . And meanwhile Mamma Valerius lies waiting for you at home and appealing to your ’good genius!’ . . . Explain yourself, Christine, I beg of you! Any one might have been deceived as I was. What is this farce?” Christine simply took off her mask and said: “Dear, it is-a tragedy!” Raoul now saw her face and could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and terror. The fresh complexion of former days was gone. A mortal pallor covered those features, which he had known so charming and so gentle, and sorrow had furrowed them, with pitiless lines and traced dark and unspeakably sad shadows under her eyes.

“My dearest! My dearest!" he moaned, holding out his arms. “You promised to forgive me : . .” “Perhaps! . . , Some day, perhaps!” she said, resuming her mask; and she went away, forbidding him, with a gesture, to follow her. He tried to disobey her ; but she turned round and repeated her gesture of farewell with such authority that he dared not move a step; He watched her till she was out of sight. Then he also went down among the crowd, hardly knowing what he was doing, with throbbing temples and an aching heart; and, as be crossed the dancing-floor, he asked if anybody had seen Red Death. Yes, every one had seen Red Death; but Raoul could not find him; and, at two o’clock in the morning, he turned down the passage, behind the scenes, that led to Christine Daae’s- dressingroom. His footsteps took him to that room where he had first known suffering. He tapped at the door. There was n 6 answer. He entered, as hs had entered when he looked everywhere for “the man’s voice." The room was empty. A gas-jet was burning, turned down low. He saw some writing-pa-per on a little desk. He thought of writing to Christine, but he heard steps in the passage. He had only time to hide in the inner room, which was separated from the' dressingroom by a curtain.' Christine entered, took off her mask with a weary movement and flung it on the table. She sighed and let her pretty head fall Into her two hands. What was she thinking of? Of Raoul? No; for Raoul heard her murmur: “Poor Erik!” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Bunting Thoroughly Tested.

In very truth a modern battleship does, In modern phrasing, carry some bunting. About $150,000 is spent by the United States navy for flags each year. Every Case of bunting costs the government $560; every roll costs $11.25. The bunting comes from Massachusetts. Every piece is subjected to' the most severe test. It must weigh five pounds to every forty yards and stand the weight test of seventy pounds to two square inches, it is steeped in salt water for six hours and then exposed to the sun for the same period of time. If after this treatment it continues to be bunting of a distinguishable color it is pronounced fit for service.

Will Try to Outlive AH Others.

The oldest member of Parliament in the world, the Hungarian deputy, M. Joseph Madarasz, who is now in his ninety-ninth year, Issues a denial of the statement that he is about to retire into private life. M. Madarasz says that he means to retain his mandate till he has completed his one hundredth year, if not longer. He carries a list of all the centenarians in the world constantly with him, and marks them off as they die. He is determined to- outlive them all, and some day to have the distinction of being the oldest man in the world.

Practically Immune.

Curacoa, the most Important of the Dutch West Indies, is without fire insurance and a. fire department, though the Island has a population of over 50,000, The buildings In the town are all of stone, hence this happy condition of affairs. Recently the first sawmill was Installed, being furnished by an American firm. “It is hoped,” says a consular report, "that this will not Increase the erection of wooden buildings and necessitate Insurance and a fire department”

small private garages are in grave danger when they let their engines run for even a short time,” says Dr. Pinckney. ' “Chance alone saved the men in the two cases I mention."

Appeal to National Pride.

The Italian wrestler Brugglio was proceeding cautiously, says a writer in the Chicago Evening Post He was feeling his opponent out stalling him off with various pokes and not showing that daring in attack that the crowd likes. Most of them were silent, but one adviser, seated far away, kept yelling to him to “take a chance." As this seemed to make no Impression with repetition, he shouted finally: “Take a chance, you wop lobster. Columbus took a chance."

LESSON OF INTEREST

FIGURES THAT ARE CALCULATED TO BTAGGER IMAGINATION. What Old King Midas Might HaveAocumulated Starting With the Modest Saving of Ten Cents a Week. Why didn’t King Midas, the gold lover, try to save ten cents a week? says the Chicago Tribune. He could have given the world a wonderful example of the value of the saving habit Besides, he would have left money for the members of his family alive today. Midas was one of the kings of Phrygia. As the Phrygian line was wiped out by the Cimmerians about 670 B. C., we may assume he lived about 800 B. C, or at least 2,711 years ago. If King Midas had started in saving ten cents a &eek he would have saved a dime, therefore, on each of the 140,870 weeks. This would make him the neat little sum of $14,097.20. Although not a fortune in these days, 114,097.20 is quite a fair sum to save by giving up one cigar a week. But there is more to follow. In those days of political upheaval and commercial uncertainty, capital •was entitled to a bigger return on its investment than it would be today. The risk was much greater. Though, we have no actual records of Phrygian rates of usury, it is fair to assume that the Midas’ account drew ten per cent interest compounded annually for at least the first 2,000 years, or until the commercial world had reached a comparatively recent stage of development Beginning, therefore, 800 years before Christ, Midas put into his savings ten cents every week. At the end of the first ten weeks he had a dollar. The interest on one dollar for one year is not great, even at ten per cent., but it adds another dime to the ten already saved. At the end of the second year there is something more than two dimes to be added. At the end of the first hundred years the accumulation on the first dollar, at ten per cent, compounded, would be $13,780.66. Thus Midas, In the year 700 B. C. would have had 113,780.66, resulting from his first ten weeks’ savings. The compounding -goes on through the next century so that at the end of 200 years, in the year 600 B. C., Midas would have had 1189,906,590.04 from his first dollar. At the end of the next hundred years, or in 500 B. C., the results from, those first ten dimes put away would be $2,619,038,149,100.63. Continuing this compounding through the following 2,411 years it is not a complicated mathematical problem to arrive at the sum Midas would have today from hie first one dollar saved.

Remember, moreover, this sum, which would be up among the uncountable trillions of dollars, would represent the increment of only one dollar put away by Midas. Midas himself, busily saving dimes, would have started a new series of dollar pyramids every ten weeks. At the end of the first year’s saving he would have started five and a half of these stupendous fortunes. To compare any one of these with the $14,097.20 he would have saved if he had received no interest, certainly represents the interest habit In a favorable light

Tribute to the Onion.

Kill the onion and you leave a gap in the universe. Kill anything else and there is a substitute. The potato is akin to the cereals, squash and cabbage and turnips and cauliflowers are of the same family, beans are elongated peas, the lemon is a pessismistio orange, beef reincarnated grass, watermelons just the survivor of a very fit cucumber, and so on. But the onion is sui generis, alone, unique, triumphant. It is a special creation to tempt the palate of a weary world. It proves the futility of man’s wisdom. He might have guessed at everything else under the sun, but he would have never guessed an onion. Science may deduce a new star before it becomes visible, or radium before its discovery, but this succulent, fragrant, starry vegetable would have gone uninvented forever, had not its own insinuating, yet not bashful qualities forced themselves into tear-brimmed eyes and liquescent anticipatory lips. With what a mixture* of gratitude and awe should we view the spectacle of nature turning hei* enrgies to the transmuting of mere clay into a vegetable with an artistic temperament -I I I IB \

American Architecture.

“There Is an American architecture,” said the traveler, “but not many Americans will believe it until they have taken a course in moving picture shows in foreign countries. That was what convinced me. Owing to ignorance of foreign languages ~we sought most of our dramatic entertainment in Europe from the cinema- . tograph. Nd matter where we went one-half the pictures were American. Sometimes they were so labeled, sometimes not, but whether they were or not we soon learned to tell American pictures by the architecture. Skyscrapers, of course, were the chief distinguishing mark, but high-Btooped stone houses and frame cottages with two or three wooden steps leading up to a porch were just as unmistakably American. All the way from Inverness to Cairo the minute we set eyes on one of those houses we knew we were looking at something that couldn’t be duplicated outside the United States, and all the rest of the audience knew it, too?* ■■ -