seeing all of it as a mere prelude to the dance of the nuns—much more so at any rate, than a preparation for the denouement, in which Bertram, who is actually Robert’s father, fails to keep the bargain he has made with the Devil to deliver his son’s soul, and is dragged off to hell, like all the other devil-led fools of the genre, in imitation of the prototypical Don Giovanni.
The dance of the nuns actually adds nothing to the opera’s plot, being merely an arbitrary intrusion of a scene in which Robert has to recover a magic branch from the ruined convent of Saint Rosalia, in order to render himself invisible—which will allow him to gain the access to Isabelle that he has been forbidden. The ballet does, however, add a strong, and arguably unhealthy, dose of eroticism to the story, because the ghostly nuns dance in remembrance of a debauched past grotesquely unbefitting their vocation. Knowing that the erotic ballet was to come, it was difficult to see the machinations of the first two acts as anything but teasing foreplay, or mere delay. I told myself, however, that it was merely my annoyance at Saint-German and Dupin that was making me impatient, and that I really ought to try to enter into the true spirit of the piece, savoring the music as if I were hearing it for the first time.
I could not do it. Other thoughts kept getting in the way, in spite of all my efforts—not merely the question of where Dupin was now, but the question of exactly when and where he had seen the play before. Obviously, it had been before my arrival in Paris, and if it had been at the Opéra-Comique, it must have been before the fire in 1838, quite probably the 1834 revival to which Saint-Germain had made oblique reference. That had been some while before Lucien Groix had worked his way up to his present position, but he and Dupin had already been old friends. Was it possible that Dupin and Groix had seen the opera together thirteen years ago? Did that have something to do with the singular circumstance of Groix coming here tonight, expecting to see Dupin?
Tormented by such unanswerable questions, I could not even keep my eyes on the stage. I looked across at Chapelain’s box repeatedly—and then looked away again, ashamed of my rudeness, scanning the upper galleries as if I were merely parading my gaze around the entire house. In spite of the poor light, I was convinced that I saw Saint-Germain on the far side of the upper gallery, in one of the worst seats in the house. That would have been extremely atypical of him, but the abormality did not make me any less certain of the identification, which I checked with further glances every time the lighting of the stage was bright enough to allow the possibility of a glimpse.
My restlessness lasted all the way to the interval, when I remained in my seat rather than going down to the foyer, hoping that Dupin might appear at any moment, having been waiting outside for the opportunity to come in without creating a disturbance—but he did not, and after ten minutes, my patience ran out.
If the Comte de Saint-German and Lucien Groix thought that it was acceptable behavior to burst into other people’s theater-boxes uninvited, I thought—atypically, I ought to say—then why should I not do the same? If all the other mysteries of the evening were insoluble, one, at least, was within my potential grasp.
Pierre Chapelain and the masked woman had also remained in their seats, and showed no sign of budging—so I got up, stamped around the circular corridor behind the boxes, and barged into theirs.
CHAPTER TWO
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
Having seen me leave my box, and perhaps having deduced my reason for doing so, Chapelain was by no means as startled by my appearance as I had been by Saint-Germain’s or the Prefect’s—and unlike them, I had had the grace to knock and wait to be admitted.
Chapelain’s greeting, although polite enough, was more than a trifle frosty—perhaps because he had caught a glimpse of Saint-German in my company, although I remembered that he had seemed sulky even before then. He was obviously curious, though—perhaps almost as much as I was.
“Is Monsieur Dupin not with you?” he asked.
The question was in no way surprising in itself, but the fact that it had been asked before I had been introduced to the masked lady was. My surprise must have shown, because Chapelain blushed, thus revealing an honesty of expression that neither Saint-German nor the Prefect had condescended to do.
“My apologies,” he murmured, “but you will appreciate, I think, that as a physician, I have a duty of confidentiality to my patients, and I regret that I am unable to introduce you to my companion.”
I had, in expecting the introduction, reflexively turned toward the lady, who was studying me carefully from behind her mask. “You are a friend of Monsieur Dupin?” she asked. Her voice immediately dispelled any suspicion that she might be an American, although it was very difficult to identify an alternative place of origin from such a brief sentence
“Yes, I am,” I told her.
“And he was supposed to be here tonight?”
“Yes, he was—and still is, although he is very late. Do you know him, Madame?” That was slightly impertinent, but I thought that the circumstances permitted me a certain license.
“We met once, very briefly,” she said, “in 1834—here at the Comique, as it happens...or rather, in the old theater...in the Green Room.”
That surprised me; I had not thought Dupin the sort of person to visit the Green Rooms of theaters in order to socialize with the artistes after a performance. Lucien Groix, on the other hand, in his younger days....
I ventured a further impertinence. “I would be happy to remember you to him,” I said, “if I knew your name.”
“If even half of what Monsieur Chapelain has been telling me about him is true,” the lady said, with a slight chuckle, “he will be able to deduce my identity from what I have already told you. Monsieur Groix could not stay for the performance, I assume? Pierre tells me that he is now the Prefect of Police. And poor Professor Thibodeaux is dead, alas.”
It was not the first time I had heard the name of Thibodeaux mentioned, but I could not for the life of me remember when I had heard it before, or in what context. The calculus of probability suggested that it must have been Dupin who had mentioned it to me—but he mentioned so many names, while he was using me as a sounding-board in helping himself to organize his ideas.
My own powers of ratiocination were no match for Dupin’s, but my long acquaintance with him had taught me something of his methods, and perhaps even communicated a little of his ingenuity...or perhaps not.
“Perhaps it was in memory of Monsieur Thibodeaux’s death that Monsieur Dupin asked me to hire a three-seater box, but to leave one of the seats empty,” I suggested.
The lady’s surprise was half-masked, but Chapelain’s was not. “But what about Groix?” He said. “Was he not taking the third seat? I assumed that he was making his apologies to you, because he had been called away.”
I realized my mistake too late, but tried to gloss over it as best I could. “The plot thickens,” I remarked—in English, because the phrase has no exact equivalent in French. I switched back to French in order to explain my meaning, however, even though I had deduced by now from the lady’s indeterminate accent that it was probably not her first language. “Monsieur Dupin did not ask me to invite Monsieur Groix, and I had no idea that the two of them had seen the opera together thirteen years ago, or that there had been a third party present.”
“But surely Dupin told you...,” Chapelain began—and then shut up abruptly, not so much because it was obvious that Dupin had not told me what he thought I ought to know, but because he had realized that he could not tell me either; the information had evidently come from his patient, and was thus protected by the veil of confidentiality.
“Did you deliberately leave a seat in your own box empty?” I took the risk of asking.
The question was aimed at Chapelain, but it was the lady who answered.
“Our intended companion is slightly indisposed,” she said. There was a slight edge of sarcasm in her voice. The masked woman was not showing any obvious signs of physical illness, but there