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 he 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
dressing-room.
His footsteps took him to that room where he had first known suffering.
He tapped at the door. There was no answer. He entered, as he 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-paper 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 dressing-room 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!"
At first, he thought he must be mistaken. To begin with, he was
persuaded that, if any one was to be pitied, it was he, Raoul. It
would have been quite natural if she had said, "Poor Raoul," after what
had happened between them. But, shaking her head, she repeated: "Poor
Erik!"
What had this Erik to do with Christine's sighs and why was she pitying
Erik when Raoul was so unhappy?
Christine began to write, deliberately, calmly and so placidly that
Raoul, who was still trembling from the effects of the tragedy that
separated them, was painfully impressed.
"What coolness!" he said to himself.
She wrote on, filling two, three, four sheets. Suddenly, she raised
her head and hid the sheets in her bodice ... She seemed to be
listening ... Raoul also listened ... Whence came that strange sound,
that distant rhythm? ... A faint singing seemed to issue from the walls
... yes, it was as though the walls themselves were singing! ... The
song became plainer ... the words were now distinguishable ... he heard
a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very captivating voice ... but,
for all its softness, it remained a male voice ... The voice came
nearer and nearer ... it came through the wall ... it approached ...
and now the voice was IN THE ROOM, in front of Christine. Christine
rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to some one: "Here I am, Erik," she said. "I am ready. But you are late."