Chapter I Is it the Ghost?

It was the evening on which MM. Debienne and Poligny, the managers of

the Opera, were giving a last gala performance to mark their

retirement. Suddenly the dressing-room of La Sorelli, one of the

principal dancers, was invaded by half-a-dozen young ladies of the

ballet, who had come up from the stage after "dancing" Polyeucte. They

rushed in amid great confusion, some giving vent to forced and

unnatural laughter, others to cries of terror. Sorelli, who wished to

be alone for a moment to "run through" the speech which she was to make

to the resigning managers, looked around angrily at the mad and

tumultuous crowd. It was little Jammes--the girl with the tip-tilted

nose, the forget-me-not eyes, the rose-red cheeks and the lily-white

neck and shoulders--who gave the explanation in a trembling voice:

"It's the ghost!" And she locked the door.

Sorelli's dressing-room was fitted up with official, commonplace

elegance. A pier-glass, a sofa, a dressing-table and a cupboard or two

provided the necessary furniture. On the walls hung a few engravings,

relics of the mother, who had known the glories of the old Opera in the

Rue le Peletier; portraits of Vestris, Gardel, Dupont, Bigottini. But

the room seemed a palace to the brats of the corps de ballet, who were

lodged in common dressing-rooms where they spent their time singing,

quarreling, smacking the dressers and hair-dressers and buying one

another glasses of cassis, beer, or even rhum, until the call-boy's

bell rang.

Sorelli was very superstitious. She shuddered when she heard little

Jammes speak of the ghost, called her a "silly little fool" and then,

as she was the first to believe in ghosts in general, and the Opera

ghost in particular, at once asked for details:

"Have you seen him?"

"As plainly as I see you now!" said little Jammes, whose legs were

giving way beneath her, and she dropped with a moan into a chair.

Thereupon little Giry--the girl with eyes black as sloes, hair black as

ink, a swarthy complexion and a poor little skin stretched over poor

little bones--little Giry added:

"If that's the ghost, he's very ugly!"

"Oh, yes!" cried the chorus of ballet-girls.

And they all began to talk together. The ghost had appeared to them in

the shape of a gentleman in dress-clothes, who had suddenly stood

before them in the passage, without their knowing where he came from.

He seemed to have come straight through the wall.

"Pooh!" said one of them, who had more or less kept her head. "You see

the ghost everywhere!"

And it was true. For several months, there had been nothing discussed

at the Opera but this ghost in dress-clothes who stalked about the

building, from top to bottom, like a shadow, who spoke to nobody, to

whom nobody dared speak and who vanished as soon as he was seen, no one

knowing how or where. As became a real ghost, he made no noise in

walking. People began by laughing and making fun of this specter

dressed like a man of fashion or an undertaker; but the ghost legend

soon swelled to enormous proportions among the corps de ballet. All

the girls pretended to have met this supernatural being more or less

often. And those who laughed the loudest were not the most at ease.

When he did not show himself, he betrayed his presence or his passing

by accident, comic or serious, for which the general superstition held

him responsible. Had any one met with a fall, or suffered a practical

joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powderpuff, it

was at once the fault of the ghost, of the Opera ghost.

After all, who had seen him? You meet so many men in dress-clothes at

the Opera who are not ghosts. But this dress-suit had a peculiarity of

its own. It covered a skeleton. At least, so the ballet-girls said.

And, of course, it had a death's head.

Was all this serious? The truth is that the idea of the skeleton came

from the description of the ghost given by Joseph Buquet, the chief

scene-shifter, who had really seen the ghost. He had run up against

the ghost on the little staircase, by the footlights, which leads to

"the cellars." He had seen him for a second--for the ghost had

fled--and to any one who cared to listen to him he said:

"He is extraordinarily thin and his dress-coat hangs on a skeleton

frame. His eyes are so deep that you can hardly see the fixed pupils.

You just see two big black holes, as in a dead man's skull. His skin,

which is stretched across his bones like a drumhead, is not white, but

a nasty yellow. His nose is so little worth talking about that you

can't see it side-face; and THE ABSENCE of that nose is a horrible

thing TO LOOK AT. All the hair he has is three or four long dark locks

on his forehead and behind his ears."

This chief scene-shifter was a serious, sober, steady man, very slow at

imagining things. His words were received with interest and amazement;

and soon there were other people to say that they too had met a man in

dress-clothes with a death's head on his shoulders. Sensible men who

had wind of the story began by saying that Joseph Buquet had been the

victim of a joke played by one of his assistants. And then, one after

the other, there came a series of incidents so curious and so

inexplicable that the very shrewdest people began to feel uneasy.

For instance, a fireman is a brave fellow! He fears nothing, least of

all fire! Well, the fireman in question, who had gone to make a round

of inspection in the cellars and who, it seems, had ventured a little

farther than usual, suddenly reappeared on the stage, pale, scared,

trembling, with his eyes starting out of his head, and practically

fainted in the arms of the proud mother of little Jammes.[1] And why?

Because he had seen coming toward him, AT THE LEVEL OF HIS HEAD, BUT

WITHOUT A BODY ATTACHED TO IT, A HEAD OF FIRE! And, as I said, a

fireman is not afraid of fire.

The fireman's name was Pampin.

The corps de ballet was flung into consternation. At first sight, this

fiery head in no way corresponded with Joseph Buquet's description of

the ghost. But the young ladies soon persuaded themselves that the

ghost had several heads, which he changed about as he pleased. And, of

course, they at once imagined that they were in the greatest danger.

Once a fireman did not hesitate to faint, leaders and front-row and

back-row girls alike had plenty of excuses for the fright that made

them quicken their pace when passing some dark corner or ill-lighted

corridor. Sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the

fireman, placed a horseshoe on the table in front of the

stage-door-keeper's box, which every one who entered the Opera

otherwise than as a spectator must touch before setting foot on the

first tread of the staircase. This horse-shoe was not invented by

me--any more than any other part of this story, alas!--and may still be

seen on the table in the passage outside the stage-door-keeper's box,

when you enter the Opera through the court known as the Cour de

l'Administration.

To return to the evening in question.

"It's the ghost!" little Jammes had cried.

An agonizing silence now reigned in the dressing-room. Nothing was

heard but the hard breathing of the girls. At last, Jammes, flinging

herself upon the farthest corner of the wall, with every mark of real

terror on her face, whispered:

"Listen!"

Everybody seemed to hear a rustling outside the door. There was no

sound of footsteps. It was like light silk sliding over the panel.

Then it stopped.

Sorelli tried to show more pluck than the others. She went up to the

door and, in a quavering voice, asked:

"Who's there?"

But nobody answered. Then feeling all eyes upon her, watching her last

movement, she made an effort to show courage, and said very loudly:

"Is there any one behind the door?"

"Oh, yes, yes! Of course there is!" cried that little dried plum of a

Meg Giry, heroically holding Sorelli back by her gauze skirt.

"Whatever you do, don't open the door! Oh, Lord, don't open the door!"

But Sorelli, armed with a dagger that never left her, turned the key

and drew back the door, while the ballet-girls retreated to the inner

dressing-room and Meg Giry sighed:

"Mother! Mother!"

Sorelli looked into the passage bravely. It was empty; a gas-flame, in

its glass prison, cast a red and suspicious light into the surrounding

darkness, without succeeding in dispelling it. And the dancer slammed

the door again, with a deep sigh.

"No," she said, "there is no one there."

"Still, we saw him!" Jammes declared, returning with timid little

steps to her place beside Sorelli. "He must be somewhere prowling

about. I shan't go back to dress. We had better all go down to the

foyer together, at once, for the 'speech,' and we will come up again

together."

And the child reverently touched the little coral finger-ring which she

wore as a charm against bad luck, while Sorelli, stealthily, with the

tip of her pink right thumb-nail, made a St. Andrew's cross on the

wooden ring which adorned the fourth finger of her left hand. She said

to the little ballet-girls:

"Come, children, pull yourselves together! I dare say no one has ever

seen the ghost."

"Yes, yes, we saw him--we saw him just now!" cried the girls. "He had

his death's head and his dress-coat, just as when he appeared to Joseph

Buquet!"

"And Gabriel saw him too!" said Jammes. "Only yesterday! Yesterday

afternoon--in broad day-light----"

"Gabriel, the chorus-master?"

"Why, yes, didn't you know?"

"And he was wearing his dress-clothes, in broad daylight?"

"Who? Gabriel?"

"Why, no, the ghost!"

"Certainly! Gabriel told me so himself. That's what he knew him by.

Gabriel was in the stage-manager's office. Suddenly the door opened

and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eye----"

"Oh, yes!" answered the little ballet-girls in chorus, warding off

ill-luck by pointing their forefinger and little finger at the absent

Persian, while their second and third fingers were bent on the palm and

held down by the thumb.

"And you know how superstitious Gabriel is," continued Jammes.

"However, he is always polite. When he meets the Persian, he just puts

his hand in his pocket and touches his keys. Well, the moment the

Persian appeared in the doorway, Gabriel gave one jump from his chair

to the lock of the cupboard, so as to touch iron! In doing so, he tore

a whole skirt of his overcoat on a nail. Hurrying to get out of the

room, he banged his forehead against a hat-peg and gave himself a huge

bump; then, suddenly stepping back, he skinned his arm on the screen,

near the piano; he tried to lean on the piano, but the lid fell on his

hands and crushed his fingers; he rushed out of the office like a

madman, slipped on the staircase and came down the whole of the first

flight on his back. I was just passing with mother. We picked him up.

He was covered with bruises and his face was all over blood. We were

frightened out of our lives, but, all at once, he began to thank

Providence that he had got off so cheaply. Then he told us what had

frightened him. He had seen the ghost behind the Persian, THE GHOST

WITH THE DEATH'S HEAD just like Joseph Buquet's description!"

Jammes had told her story ever so quickly, as though the ghost were at

her heels, and was quite out of breath at the finish. A silence

followed, while Sorelli polished her nails in great excitement. It was

broken by little Giry, who said:

"Joseph Buquet would do better to hold his tongue."

"Why should he hold his tongue?" asked somebody.

"That's mother's opinion," replied Meg, lowering her voice and looking

all about her as though fearing lest other ears than those present

might overhear.

"And why is it your mother's opinion?"

"Hush! Mother says the ghost doesn't like being talked about."

"And why does your mother say so?"

"Because--because--nothing--"

This reticence exasperated the curiosity of the young ladies, who

crowded round little Giry, begging her to explain herself. They were

there, side by side, leaning forward simultaneously in one movement of

entreaty and fear, communicating their terror to one another, taking a

keen pleasure in feeling their blood freeze in their veins.

"I swore not to tell!" gasped Meg.

But they left her no peace and promised to keep the secret, until Meg,

burning to say all she knew, began, with her eyes fixed on the door:

"Well, it's because of the private box."

"What private box?"

"The ghost's box!"

"Has the ghost a box? Oh, do tell us, do tell us!"

"Not so loud!" said Meg. "It's Box Five, you know, the box on the

grand tier, next to the stage-box, on the left."

"Oh, nonsense!"

"I tell you it is. Mother has charge of it. But you swear you won't

say a word?"

"Of course, of course."

"Well, that's the ghost's box. No one has had it for over a month,

except the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it

must never be sold."

"And does the ghost really come there?"

"Yes."

"Then somebody does come?"

"Why, no! The ghost comes, but there is nobody there."

The little ballet-girls exchanged glances. If the ghost came to the

box, he must be seen, because he wore a dress-coat and a death's head.

This was what they tried to make Meg understand, but she replied:

"That's just it! The ghost is not seen. And he has no dress-coat and

no head! All that talk about his death's head and his head of fire is

nonsense! There's nothing in it. You only hear him when he is in the

box. Mother has never seen him, but she has heard him. Mother knows,

because she gives him his program."

Sorelli interfered.

"Giry, child, you're getting at us!"

Thereupon little Giry began to cry.

"I ought to have held my tongue--if mother ever came to know! But I

was quite right, Joseph Buquet had no business to talk of things that

don't concern him--it will bring him bad luck--mother was saying so

last night----"

There was a sound of hurried and heavy footsteps in the passage and a

breathless voice cried:

"Cecile! Cecile! Are you there?"

"It's mother's voice," said Jammes. "What's the matter?"

She opened the door. A respectable lady, built on the lines of a

Pomeranian grenadier, burst into the dressing-room and dropped groaning

into a vacant arm-chair. Her eyes rolled madly in her brick-dust

colored face.

"How awful!" she said. "How awful!"

"What? What?"

"Joseph Buquet!"

"What about him?"

"Joseph Buquet is dead!"

The room became filled with exclamations, with astonished outcries,

with scared requests for explanations.

"Yes, he was found hanging in the third-floor cellar!"

"It's the ghost!" little Giry blurted, as though in spite of herself;

but she at once corrected herself, with her hands pressed to her mouth:

"No, no!--I, didn't say it!--I didn't say it!----"

All around her, her panic-stricken companions repeated under their

breaths:

"Yes--it must be the ghost!"

Sorelli was very pale.

"I shall never be able to recite my speech," she said.

Ma Jammes gave her opinion, while she emptied a glass of liqueur that

happened to be standing on a table; the ghost must have something to do

with it.

The truth is that no one ever knew how Joseph Buquet met his death.

The verdict at the inquest was "natural suicide." In his Memoirs of

Manager, M. Moncharmin, one of the joint managers who succeeded MM.

Debienne and Poligny, describes the incident as follows:

"A grievous accident spoiled the little party which MM. Debienne and

Poligny gave to celebrate their retirement. I was in the manager's

office, when Mercier, the acting-manager, suddenly came darting in. He

seemed half mad and told me that the body of a scene-shifter had been

found hanging in the third cellar under the stage, between a farm-house

and a scene from the Roi de Lahore. I shouted:

"'Come and cut him down!'

"By the time I had rushed down the staircase and the Jacob's ladder,

the man was no longer hanging from his rope!"

So this is an event which M. Moncharmin thinks natural. A man hangs at

the end of a rope; they go to cut him down; the rope has disappeared.

Oh, M. Moncharmin found a very simple explanation! Listen to him:

"It was just after the ballet; and leaders and dancing-girls lost no

time in taking their precautions against the evil eye."

There you are! Picture the corps de ballet scuttling down the Jacob's

ladder and dividing the suicide's rope among themselves in less time

than it takes to write! When, on the other hand, I think of the exact

spot where the body was discovered--the third cellar underneath the

stage!--imagine that SOMEBODY must have been interested in seeing that

the rope disappeared after it had effected its purpose; and time will

show if I am wrong.

The horrid news soon spread all over the Opera, where Joseph Buquet was

very popular. The dressing-rooms emptied and the ballet-girls,

crowding around Sorelli like timid sheep around their shepherdess, made

for the foyer through the ill-lit passages and staircases, trotting as

fast as their little pink legs could carry them.

[1] I have the anecdote, which is quite authentic, from M. Pedro

Gailhard himself, the late manager of the Opera.