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

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

Chapter 26 the end of the ghosts love story.

The previous chapter marks the conclusion of the written narrative which the Persian left behind him.

Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to abandon them to their deaths, monsieur Deshagni and his companion were saved by the sublime devotion of Christine Dale, and I had the rest of the story from the lips of the Duroga himself.

When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the Rueday Rivioli, opposite of Chileris.

He was very ill and it required all my ardor as a historian pledge to the truth to persuade him to live the incredible tragedy over again.

For my benefit, his faithful old servant Darius showed me into him.

The Duroga received me at a window overlooking the Garden of the Turries.

He still had his magnificent eyes, but his poor face looked very worn.

He had shaved the whole of his head, which was usually covered with an astrokin cap.

He was dressed in a long plain coat and amused himself by unconsciously twisting his thumbs inside the sleeves.

But his mind was quite clear and he told me his story with perfect lucidity.

It seems that when he opened his eyes, the Duroga found himself lying on a bed.

Monsieur Deshagni was on a sofa beside the wardrobe.

An angel and a devil were watching over them.

After the deceptions and illusions of the torture chamber, the precision of the details of that quiet little middleclass room seemed to have been invented for the express purpose of puzzling the mind of the mortal rash enough to stray.

Into that abode of living nightmare the wooden bedstead and waxed mahogany chairs, the chest of drawers, those brasses, the little square into messers carefully placed on the backs of the chairs, the clock on the mantelpiece and the harmless looking ebony caskets on either end.

Lastly, the whatnot filled with shells, with red pin cushions, with mother of pearl boats and an enormous ostrich egg, the whole discreetly lighted by a shade lamp standing on a small round table.

This collection of ugly, peaceable, reasonable furniture at the bottom of the opera cellars bewildered the imagination more than all the late fantastic happenings.

And the figure of the masked man seemed all the more formidable in this oldfashioned, neat and trim little frame.

It bent down over the Persian and said in his ear, are you better, Deroga?

You were looking at my furniture.

It is all that I have left of my poor, unhappy mother.

Christine Dale did not say a word.

She moved about noiselessly, like a sister of charity who had taken a vow of silence.

She brought a cup of cordial or of hot tea, he did not remember which.

The man in the mask took it from her hands and gave it to the Persian.

Monsieur Deshagni was still sleeping.

Eric poured a drop of rum into the diroga's cup and pointing to the.

Vikalt, said he came to himself long.

Before we knew if you were asleep.

Deroga.

He is quite well.

He is asleep.

We must not wake him.

Eric left the room for a moment, and the Persian raised himself on his elbow, looked around him, and saw Christine Daie sitting by the fireside.

He spoke to her, called her, but he was still very weak and fell back on his pillow.

Christine came to him, laid her hand on his forehead and went away again.

And the Persian remembered that as she went she did not give a glance at Monsieur de Chagney, who, it is true, was sleeping peacefully, and she sat down again in her chair by the chimney corner.

Silent is a sister of charity who had taken a vow of silence.

Eric returned with some little bottles which she placed on the mantelpiece, and again in a whisper, so as not to wake Montre.

Deshagni, he said to the Persian after sitting down and feeling his pulse, you.

Are now saved, both of you, and.

Soon I shall take you up to the surface of the earth to please my wife.

Thereupon he rose without any further explanation and disappeared once more.

The Persian now looked at Christine's quiet profile under the lamp.

She was reading a tiny book with gilt edges, like a religious book.

There are additions of the imitation that look like that.

The Persian still had in his ears the natural tone in which the other had said to please my wife.

Very gently he called her again, but Christine was wrapped up in her book and did not hear him.

Eric returned, mixed the duroga adraft and advised him not to speak to his wife again, nor to anyone, because it might be very dangerous to everybody's health.

Eventually the Persian fell asleep, like Monsieur Deshagni, and did not wake up until he was in his own room, nursed by his faithful Darius, who told him that on the night before, he was found propped against the door of his flat, where he had been brought by a stranger who rang the bell before going away.

As soon as the Duroga recovered his strength and his wits, he sent to Count Philippe's house to inquire after the VI count's health.

The answer was that the young man had not been seen and that Count Philippe was dead.

His body was found on the bank of the Opera Lake on the Rue Scribe side.

The Persian remembered the requiem Mass, which he had heard from behind the wall of the torture chamber and had no doubt concerning the crime and the criminal.

Knowing Eric as he did, he easily reconstructed the tragedy.

Thinking that his brother had run away with Christine Dale, philippe had dashed in pursuit of him along the Brussels road, where he knew that everything was prepared for the elopement.

Failing to find the pair, he hurried.

Back to the opera, remembered Raoul's strange confidence about his fantastic rival, and learned that the vai count had made every effort to enter the cellars of the theater and that he had disappeared, leaving his hat in the Primadona's dressing room beside an empty pistol case.

And the count, who no longer entertained any doubt of his brother's madness in its turn, darted into that infernal underground maze.

This was enough in the Persians eyes to explain the discovery of the Countess Deshangese corpse.

On the shore of the lake were the Siren.

Eric's siren kept watch.

The Persian did not hesitate.

He determined to inform the police.

Now the case was in the hands of an examining magistrate called Faro an incredulous, commonplace, superficial sort of person.

I write as I think, with a mind utterly unprepared to receive a confidence of this kind.

Monsieur Faraux took down the Duroga's depositions and proceeded to treat him as a madman, despairing ever obtaining a hearing, the Persian sat down to write.

As the police did not want his evidence, perhaps the press would be glad of it.

And he had just written the last line of the narrative I have quoted in the preceding chapters.

When Darius announced the visit of a stranger who refused his name, who would not show his face, and declared simply that he did not intend to leave the place until he had spoken to the Duroga, the Persian at once felt to who a singular visitor was and ordered him to be shown in.

The duroga was right.

It was the ghost.

It was Eric.

He looked extremely weak and leaned against the wall as though he were afraid of falling.

Taking off his hat, he revealed a forehead wide as wax.

The rest of the horrible face was hidden by the mask.

The Persian rose to his feet as Eric entered.

Murderer of Count Philippe.

What have you done with his brother and Christine?

Dale Erik staggered under this direct attack, kept silent for a moment, dragged himself to a chair and heaved a deep sigh then speaking in short phrases and gasping for breath between the words DA roga.

Don't talk to me about Count Philippe.

He was dead by the time I left my house.

He was dead when the siren sang.

It was an accident, a sad, a very sad accident.

He fell awkwardly, but simply and naturally into the lake.

You lie.

Shouted the Persian.

Eric bowed his head and said I.

Have not come here to talk about Count Philippe, but to tell you that I'm going to die.

Where are Raul De Shegni and Christine Dye?

I'm going to die.

Raul de Shegni and Christine daie of love daroga, I'm dying of love.

That is how it is.

Loved her so.

And I love her still deroga and I'm dying of love for her.

I I tell you, if you knew how beautiful she was when she let me kiss her alive.

It was the first time, Duroga the first time I ever kissed a woman.

Yes, alive.

I kissed her alive and she looked as beautiful as if she had been dead.

The Persian shook Eric by the arm.

Will you tell me if she is alive or dead?

Why do you shake me like that?

Asked Eric, making an effort to speak more connectedly.

I tell you that I'm going to die.

Yes, I kissed her alive and now she is dead.

I tell you, I kissed her just like that on her forehead and she did not draw back her forehead from my lips.

Oh, she's a good girl.

As to her being dead, I don't think so but it has nothing to do with me.

No, no, she's not dead and no one shall touch a hair on her head.

She's a good, honest girl and she saved your life.

To Roga at a moment when I would not have given two pence for your Persian skin.

As a matter of fact, nobody bothered about you.

Why were you there with that little chap?

You would have died as well as he.

My word, how she entreated me for her little chap.

But I told her that as she had turned at the scorpion, she had, through that very fact and of her own free will, become engaged to me and that she did not need to have two men engaged to her, which was true enough.

As for you, you did not exist.

You had ceased to exist, I tell you, and you were going to die with the other.

Only mark me, Duroga, when you were yelling like the devil because of the water, christine came to me with her beautiful blue eyes wide open and swore to me, as she hoped to be saved, that she consented to be my living wife.

Until then, in the depths of her eyes, Duroga, I had always seen my dead wife.

It was the first time I saw my living wife.

There she was, sincere as she hoped to be saved.

She would not kill herself.

It was a bargain.

Half a minute later all the water was back in the lake and I had a hard job with you, Daroga, for upon my honor, I thought you were done for.

However, there you were.

It was understood that I was to take you both up to the surface of the earth.

When at last I cleared the Louis Philippe room of you, I came back alone.

What have you done with the vikaunt, Deshagni?

Asked the Persian, interrupting him.

Ah, you see, Duroga, I couldn't carry him up like that at once.

He was a hostage.

But I could not keep him in the house on the lake either, because of Christine.

So I locked him up comfortably.

I chained him up nicely.

A whiff of the mazenderan scent had left him as limp as a rag in the communist dungeon, which is in the most deserted and remote part of the opera below the fist cellar when no one ever comes and where no one ever hears you.

Then I came back to Christine.

She was waiting for me, Eric hero solemnly.

Then he continued.

But as he spoke, he was overcome by all his former emotion and began to tremble like a leave.

Yes, she was waiting for me, waiting for me to erect and alive a real living bride as she hoped to be saved.

And when I came forward, more timid than a little child, she did not run away.

No, no, she stayed.

She waited for me.

I even believed, Oroga, that she put out her forehead a little.

Oh, not much, just a little, like a living bride.

And I kissed her.

I-I-I and she did not die.

Oh, how good it is, DA Roga, to kiss somebody on the forehead.

You can't tell.

But I, I my mother, DA Roga, my poor, unhappy mother would never let me kiss her.

She used to run away and throw me my mask.

Not any other woman ever, ever.

You can understand.

My happiness was so great.

I cried and I fell at her feet, crying.

And I kissed her feet, her little feet, crying, you're crying too, Deroga.

And she cried also.

The angel cried.

Eric sobbed aloud, and the Persian himself could not retain his tears in the presence of that masked man, who, with his shoulders shaking and his hands clutched at his chest, was moaning with pain and love by turns.

Yes, Duroga, I felt her tears flow on my forehead, on mine, unmine.

They were soft, they were sweet.

They trickled under my mask.

They mingled with my tears in my eyes.

Yes, they flowed between my lips.

Listen to Roga.

Listen to what I did.

I tore off my mask so as to not lose one of her tears.

And she did not run away and she did not die.

She remained alive, weeping over me.

With me we cried together.

I've tasted all the happiness the world.

Can offer and Eric fell into a chair, choking for breath.

I'm not going to die yet.

Presently I shall.

But let me cry.

Listen to Roga.

Listen to this.

While I was at her feet I heard her say, poor unhappy Eric.

And she took my hand.

I had become no more, you know, than a poor dog ready to die for her.

I mean it, deroga.

I held in my hand a ring, a plain gold ring which I had given her, which she had lost and which I had found again.

A wedding ring, you know.

I slipped it into her little hand.

And said there, take it.

Take it for you and him it shall be my wedding present.

A present from your poor, unhappy Eric.

I know you loved the boy.

Don't cry anymore.

She asked me in a very soft voice what I meant.

Then.

I made her understand that where she was concerned I was only a poor dog ready to die for her but that she could marry the young man when she pleased because she had cried with me and mingled her tears with mine.

Eric's emotion was so great that he had to tell the Persian not to look at him for he was choking and must take off his mask.

The durogo went to the window and opened it.

His heart was full of pity but he took care to keep his eyes fixed on the trees in the Tullory's gardens lest he should see the monster's face.

I went and released the young man.

Eric continued and told him to come.

With me to Christine.

They kissed before me in the Louis Philippe room.

Christine had my ring.

I made Christine swear to come back one night when I was dead crossing the lake from the rue Scribe side and bury me in the greatest secrecy with the gold ring which she was to wear until that moment.

I told her where she would find my body and what to do with it.

Then Christine kissed me for the first time herself.

Here on the forehead.

Don't look deroga.

Here on the forehead.

On my forehead.

Mine.

Don't look DA, Roga.

And they went off together.

Christine had stopped crying.

I alone cried Niroga Niroga.

If Christine keeps her promise, she will come back soon.

The Persian asked him no questions.

He was quite reassured as to the fate of Raul Shanghi and Christine Daie.

No one could have doubted the words of the weeping Erik.

That night the monster resumed his mask and collected his strength to leave the duroga.

He told him that when he felt his end to be very near at hand, he would send him in gratitude for the kindness which the Persian had once shown him that which he held dearest in the world.

All Christine Dyet's papers which she had written for Raoul's benefit and left with.

Eric, together with a few objects belonging.

To her, such as a pair of gloves, a shoe buckle and two pocket handkerchiefs.

In reply to the Persians questions, Erik told him that the two young people, as soon as they found themselves free, had resolved to go and look for a priest in some lonely spot where they could hide their happiness, and that with this object in view, they had started from the Northern railway station of the world.

Lastly, Eric relied on the Persian as soon as he received the promised relics and papers to inform the young couple of his death and to advertise it in the epic.

That was all.

The Persian saw Eric to the door of his flat and Darius helped him down to the street.

A cab was waiting for him.

Eric stepped in and the Persian, who had gone back to the window, heard him say to the driver, go to the opera.

And the cab drove off into the night.

The Persian had seen the poor, unfortunate Eric for the last time.

Three weeks later, the epic published this advertisement eric is dead.

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