Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the second chapter of The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux.

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Take a look in a book and let's see what we can find take a chapter by chapter, one by one at a time so many adventures and mountains we can climb take it word for word, line by line we fight at a time.

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Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we'll be continuing the Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Larro.

Chapter Two the New Margherita.

On the first landing, Cereli ran against the Count DA Shanghi, who was coming upstairs.

The Count, who was generally so calm, seemed greatly excited.

It was just going to you, he said, taking off his hat.

Oh, Cerelli, what an evening.

And Christine Daie.

What a triumph.

Impossible.

Said Meg Jiree six months ago.

She used to sing like a crock.

But do let us get by, my dear Count, continues the brat with a saucy curtsy.

We're going to inquire after a poor man who was found hanging by the neck.

Just an acting manager came fussing past and stopped when he heard this remark.

What?

He exclaimed roughly.

Have you girls heard already?

Well, please forget about it for tonight.

And above all, don't let Monsieur Debine And Em Poligne here.

It would upset them too much.

On their last day, they all went on to the Fourier of the ballet, which was already full of people.

The Countdation was right no gala performance ever equaled this one.

All the great composers of the day had conducted their own works and turns.

Fire and Krause had sung.

And on that evening, Christine Daier had revealed her true self for the first time to the astonished and enthusiastic audience.

Gunyon had conducted the funeral march of a Marionette Rayner his beautiful overture to Sigyor St sons, the dance Macabre and a reverie Oriental massonet an unpublished Hungarian march gueryade his carnival de libis, the vals Linte from Sylvia and the pizza kadi from Copelia.

Monsieur Kraus had sung the Balero in the Vespre Siciliani and Monsieur Denise block the drinking song in Lucretia Borgia.

But the real triumph was reserved for Christine Dale who had begun by singing a few passages from Romeo and Juliet.

It was the first time that the young artists sang in this work of Ganrod which had not been transferred to the opera and which was revived at the Opera Comic after it had been produced at the old theatre lyric by Monsieur Cavalho.

Those who heard her say that her voice in these passages was seraphic.

But this was nothing to the superhuman notes that she gave forth in the prison scene and the final trio in Faust which she sang in the place of La Carlada, who was ill.

No one had ever heard or seen anything like it.

Daier revealed a new Margarita that night a Margarita of a splendor, a radiance hitherto unsuspected.

The whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, while Christine sobbed and fainted in the arms of her fellow singers and had to be carried to her dressing room.

A few subscribers, however, protested.

Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all that time?

Till then, Christine Dyet had played a good sibyl to Carlota's rather too splendidly material Margarita and it had needed Carlota's incomprehensible and inexcusable absence from the Scala knight for the little Daie at a moment's warning to show all that she could do in a part of the program reserved for the Spanish diva.

Well, what the subscribers wanted to know was why had Debunien and Poligni applied to Daie when Carlota was taken ill?

Did they know of her hidden genius?

And if they knew of it, why had they kept it hidden?

And why had she kept it hidden?

Oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at that moment.

She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future.

The whole thing was a mystery.

The Count Dacianee, standing up in his box, listened to all this frenzy and took part in it by loudly applauding Philippe.

George Marie countdation was just 41 years of age.

He was a great aristocrat and a goodlooking man, above middle height and with attractive features.

In spite of his hard forehead and his rather cold eyes, he was exquisitely polite to the women and a little haughty to the men who did not always forgive him for his successes in society.

He had an excellent heart and an irreproachable conscience.

On the death of the old Count Filiburt, he became the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France, whose arms dated back to the 14th century.

The Xin Yangs owned a great deal of property and when the old count, who was a widower, died, it was no easy task for Philippe to accept the management of so large an estate.

His two sisters and his brother Raoul would not hear of a division and waved their claim to their shares, leaving themselves entirely in Philippe's hands as though the right of primal ginger had never ceased to exist.

When the two sisters married on the same day, they received their portion from their brother, not as a thing rightfully belonging to them, but as a dowry for which they thanked him.

The Contest desiani Ne Morgis de la Martineer had died in giving birth to Raul, who was born 20 years after his elder brother.

At the time of the old count's death, Raul was twelve years of age.

Philippe busied himself actively with the youngster's education.

He was admirably assisted in the work, first by his sisters and afterward by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer who lived at Breast and gave young Raul a taste for the sea.

The lad entered the board a training ship, finished his course with honors and quietly made his trip around the world.

Thanks to a powerful influence, he had just been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the Requin, which was to be sent to the Arctic Circle in search of the survivors of the deartois expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years.

Meanwhile, he was enjoying a long furlough which would not be over for six months, and already the dowagers of the FAUBURG St.

Germain were pitying the handsome and apparently delicate stripling for the hard work in store for him.

The shyness of the sailor lad, I was almost saying his innocence was remarkable.

He seemed to have but just left the woman's apron strings.

As a matter of fact, petted as he was by his two sisters and his old aunt, he had retained from this purely feminine education manners that were almost candid and stamped with a charm that nothing had yet been able to solely.

He was a little over 21 years of age and looked 18.

He had a small, fair mustache, beautiful blue eyes and a complexion like a girl's.

Philippe spoiled Raoul to begin with.

He was very proud of him and pleased to foresee a glorious career for his junior in the navy, in which one of their ancestors, the famous Shagney de la Roche, had held the rank of admiral.

He took advantage of the young man's leave of absence to show him Paris with all its luxurious and artistic delights.

The count considered that at Raoul's age it is not good to be too good.

Philippe himself had a character that was very well balanced in work and pleasure alike.

His demeanor was always faultless and he was incapable of setting his brother a bad example.

He took him with him wherever he went.

He even introduced him to the Fourier of the ballet.

I know that the count was said to be on terms with Sorelli, but it could hardly be reckoned as a crime for this nobleman, a bachelor with plenty of leisure, especially since his sisters were settled to come and spend an hour or two after dinner in the company of a dancer who, though not so very, very witty had the finest eyes that ever were seen.

And besides, there are places where a true Parisian, when he has the rank of the Countessagni, is bound to show himself, and at that time the Fourier of the ballet of the opera was one of those places.

Lastly, Philippe would perhaps not have taken his brother behind the scenes of the opera if Raoul had not been the first to ask him, repeatedly renewing his request with a gentle obstinacy, which the count remembered at a later date.

On that evening, Philippe, after applauding the Daie, turned to Raoul and saw that he was quite pale.

Don't you see, said Raoul, that the woman's fainting?

You look like fainting yourself, said the count.

What's the matter?

But Raoul had recovered himself and was standing up.

Let's go and see, he said.

She never sang like that before.

Account gave his brother a curious, smiling glance and seemed quite pleased.

They were soon at the door leading from the house to the stage.

Numbers of subscribers were slowly making their way through.

Raoul tore his gloves without knowing what he was doing, and Philippe had much too kind a heart to laugh at him for his impatience.

But he now understood why Raul was absentminded when spoken to and why he always tried to turn every conversation to the subject of the opera.

They reached the stage and pushed through the crowd of gentlemen, scene shifters, supers and chorus girls, raoul leading the way, feeling that his heart no longer belonged to him, his face set with passion, while Count Philippe followed him with difficulty and continued to smile at the back of the stage.

Raoul had to stop before the inrush of the little troop of ballet girls who blocked the passage which he was trying to enter.

More than one chafing phrase darted from little made up lips to which he did not reply, and at last he was able to pass and dived into the semidarkness of a corridor ringing with the name of DIY di.

The count was surprised to find that Raoul knew the way.

He had never taken him to Christine's himself and came to the conclusion that Raul must have gone there alone.

While Account stayed talking in the foyer with Cereli.

Who often asked him to wait until it was her time to go on.

And sometimes handed him to little Gators.

In which she ran down from her dressing room to preserve the spotlessness of her satin dancing shoes and her flesh colored tights sorelli had an excuse she had lost her mother.

Postponing his usual visit to Sorrelli.

For a few minutes.

The count followed his brother down the passage that led to Daie's dressing room and saw that it had never been so crammed as on that evening.

When the whole house seemed excited by her success and also by her fainting fit.

For the girl had not yet come too.

And the doctor of the theatre had just arrived at the moment when Raoul entered at his heels.

Christine therefore received the first aid of the one while opening her eyes and the arms of the other.

The Count and many more remained crowding in the doorway.

Do you think, Doctor, that those gentlemen had better clear the room?

Asked raoul coolly.

There's no breathing here.

You're quite right, said the doctor, and he sent everyone away except Raoul and the maid, who looked at Raoul with eyes of the most undisguised astonishment.

She had never seen him before and yet dared not question him.

And the doctor imagined that the young man was only acting as he did because he had the right to.

The vai count, therefore, remained in the room, watching Christina as she slowly returned to life, while even the joint managers, Demyen and Paulingi had come to offer their sympathy and congratulations, found themselves thrust into the passage among the crowd of dandies.

The Count stationI, who was one of those standing outside, laughed oh, the rogue, the rogue.

And he added under his breath those youngsters with their schoolgirl heirs.

So he's a shingi after all.

He turned to go to Sorelli's dressing room, but met her on the way with her little troop of trembling ballet girls, as we have seen.

Meanwhile, Christine d'a uttered a deep sigh, which was answered by a groan.

She turned her head, saw Raoul and started.

She looked at the doctor, on whom she bestowed a smile, then at her maid, then at Raoul again.

Monsieur, she said in a voice not much above a whisper, who are you?

Mademoiselle, replied the young man, kneeling on one knee and pressing a fervent kiss on the diva's hand, I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf.

Christine again looked at the doctor and the maid, and all three began to laugh.

Raoul turned very red and stood up.

Mademoiselle, he said, since you are pleased not to recognize me, I should like to say something to you in private, something very important when I am better.

Do you mind?

And her voice shook you have been very good.

Yes, you must go, said the doctor with his pleasantest smile.

Leave me to attend to, mademoiselle.

I am not ill now, said Christine.

Suddenly, with strange and unexpected energy, she rose and passed her hand over her eyelids.

Thank you, Doctor.

I should like to be alone.

Please go away, all of you.

Leave me.

I feel very restless this evening.

The doctor tried to make a short protest, but perceiving the girl's evident agitation, he thought the best remedy was not to thwart her, and he went away, saying to Raul outside, she's not herself tonight.

She's usually so gentle.

Then he said good night, and Raul was left alone.

The whole of this part of the theater was now deserted.

The farewell ceremony was no doubt taking place in the foyer of the ballet.

Raoul thought that Daie might go to it, and he waited.

In the silent solitude, even hiding in the favoring shadow of a doorway, he felt a terrible pain at his heart, and it was of this that he wanted to speak to Daie without delay.

Suddenly the dressing room door opened and the maid came out by herself, carrying bundles.

He stopped her and asked how her mistress was.

The woman laughed and said that she was quite well, but that he must not disturb her, for she wished to be left alone, and she passed on.

One idea alone filled Raoul's burning brain.

Of course, Dia wished to be left alone for him.

Had he not told her that he wanted to speak to her privately?

Hardly breathing, he went up to the dressing room and with his ear to the door to catch a reply, prepared to knock.

But his hand dropped.

He had heard a man's voice in the dressing room saying in a curiously masterful tone, christine, you must love me.

And Christine's voice, infinitely sad and trembling, as though accompanied by tears, replied how can you talk like that when I sing only for you?

Raoul leaned against the panel to ease his pain.

His heart, which had seemed gone forever, returned to his breast and was throbbing loudly.

The whole passage echoed with its beating, and Raoul's ears were deafened.

Surely if his heart continued to make such a noise, they would hear it inside they would open the door, and the young man would be turned away in disgrace.

What a position for a Shanghi to be caught listening behind a door.

He took his heart in his two hands to make it stop.

The man's voice spoke again.

Are you very tired?

Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead, Christine replied.

Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, replied the grave man's voice, and I thank you.

No emperor ever received so far a gift.

The angels wept tonight.

Raoul heard nothing after that.

Nevertheless, he did not go away.

But as though he feared lest he should be caught, he returned to his dark corner, determined to wait for the man to leave the room.

At one and the same time he had learned what love meant and hatred.

He knew that he loved.

He wanted to know whom he hated.

To his great astonishment, the door opened and Christine Daie appeared wrapped in furs, with her face hidden in a lace veil.

Alone she closed the door behind her, but Raoul observed that she did not lock it.

She passed him.

He did not even follow her with his eyes, for his eyes were fixed on the door, which did not open again.

When the passage was once more deserted, he crossed it, opened the door of the dressing room, went in and shut the door.

He found himself in absolute darkness.

The gas had been turned out.

There's someone here, said Raoul, with his back against the closed door in a quivering voice what are you hiding for?

All was darkness and silence.

Raoul heard only the sound of his own breathing.

He quite failed to see that the indiscretion of his conduct was exceeding all bounds.

You shouldn't leave this until I let you, he exclaimed.

If you don't answer, you are a coward.

But I'll expose you.

And he struck a match.

The blaze lit up the room.

There was no one in the room.

Raoul, first turning the key in the door, lit the gas jets.

He went into the dressing closet, opened the cupboards, hunted about, felt the walls with his moist hands.

Nothing.

Look here, he said aloud.

Am I going mad?

He stood for 10 minutes listening to the gas flaring in the silence of the empty room.

Lover though he was, he did not even think of stealing a ribbon that would have given him the perfume of the woman he loved.

He went out, not knowing what he was doing, nor where he was going.

At a given moment in his wayward progress, an icy draught struck him in the face.

He found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which, behind him a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher covered with a white sheet.

Which is the way out, please?

He asked one of the men, straight in front of you.

The door is open, but let us pass.

Pointing to the stretcher, he asked mechanically what's that?

The workman answered, that is Joseph Bucket, who was found in the third cellar, hanging between a farmhouse and a scene from the Royde Lahore.

He took off his hat, fell back to make room for the procession, and went out.

Thank you for joining Byte at the Time books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

Again, my name is Brie Carlyle and I hope you come back tomorrow for the next bite of The Phantom of the Opera.

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