THE PERSIAN'S NARRATIVE
It was the first time that I entered the house on the lake. I had
often begged the "trap-door lover," as we used to call Erik in my
country, to open its mysterious doors to me. He always refused. I
made very many attempts, but in vain, to obtain admittance. Watch him
as I might, after I first learned that he had taken up his permanent
abode at the Opera, the darkness was always too thick to enable me to
see how he worked the door in the wall on the lake. One day, when I
thought myself alone, I stepped into the boat and rowed toward that
part of the wall through which I had seen Erik disappear. It was then
that I came into contact with the siren who guarded the approach and
whose charm was very nearly fatal to me.
I had no sooner put off from the bank than the silence amid which I
floated on the water was disturbed by a sort of whispered singing that
hovered all around me. It was half breath, half music; it rose softly
from the waters of the lake; and I was surrounded by it through I knew
not what artifice. It followed me, moved with me and was so soft that
it did not alarm me. On the contrary, in my longing to approach the
source of that sweet and enticing harmony, I leaned out of my little
boat over the water, for there was no doubt in my mind that the singing
came from the water itself. By this time, I was alone in the boat in
the middle of the lake; the voice--for it was now distinctly a
voice--was beside me, on the water. I leaned over, leaned still
farther. The lake was perfectly calm, and a moonbeam that passed
through the air hole in the Rue Scribe showed me absolutely nothing on
its surface, which was smooth and black as ink. I shook my ears to get
rid of a possible humming; but I soon had to accept the fact that there
was no humming in the ears so harmonious as the singing whisper that
followed and now attracted me.
Had I been inclined to superstition, I should have certainly thought
that I had to do with some siren whose business it was to confound the
traveler who should venture on the waters of the house on the lake.
Fortunately, I come from a country where we are too fond of fantastic
things not to know them through and through; and I had no doubt but
that I was face to face with some new invention of Erik's. But this
invention was so perfect that, as I leaned out of the boat, I was
impelled less by a desire to discover its trick than to enjoy its
charm; and I leaned out, leaned out until I almost overturned the boat.