Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the first 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.

Video welcome to Bite at a Time Books, where we read you your favorite classics one byte at a time.

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Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we'll be continuing the Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Laru chapter One Is It the Ghost?

It was the evening on which Monsieur's Debine and Poligni, the managers of the Opera, were given a last gala performance to mark their retirement.

Suddenly, the dressing room of Lazarelli, 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 Polly Yuked.

They rushed in amid great confusion, some giving vent to forced and unnatural laughter, others to cries of terror.

Sorrelli 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 James, the girl with the tiptilted nose, the ForgetMeNot eyes, the red rose 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.

Sorrelli's dressing room was fitted up with official, commonplace elegance.

A pure 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 Roulet Peletier portraits of Vestri Gardell Dupont Bigotini.

But the room seemed a palace to the brats of the Corde Ballet, who were lodged in common dressing rooms where they spent their time singing, quarreling, smacking the dressers and hairdressers and buying one another glasses of cases, beer or even rum until the callboys bell rang.

Cereli was very superstitious.

She shuddered when she heard little Jamis speak of the ghost, called her a silly little fool and then 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 Jamis, whose legs were giving way beneath her, and she dropped with a moan into a chair.

Thereupon little Jirey, the girl, with eyes black as slows, hair black as ink, a swarthy complexion and a poor little skin stretched over poor little bones.

Little Jirey 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 there knowing where he came from.

He seemed to have come straight through the wall.

Who?

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 Corde 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 anyone 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 were not ghosts.

But this dress suit had a peculiarity of its own.

It covered a skeleton, at least so the ballet girl 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 Buuquette, 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 led to the cellars.

He had seen him for a second, for the ghost had fled, and anyone who cared to listen to him, he said he is extraordinarily thin and his dress code 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 skull.

His skin, which is stretched across his bones like a drum head, 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 sceneshifter was a serious, sober, steadyman, 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 its shoulders.

Sensible men who had wind of the story began by saying that Joseph Buuquette 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.

While the fireman in question, who had gone to make a round of inspection in the cellars, and who it seems had ventured a little further 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 James.

And why?

Because he had seen coming toward him at the level of his head, but without a body attached to it, ahead of fire.

And as I said, a fireman is not afraid of fire.

The fireman's name was Pampin.

The Corde ballet was flung into consternation at first sight.

This fiery head in no way corresponded with Joseph Buckett's description of the ghost.

But the young lady 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 quick in their pace when passing some dark corridor or illighted corridor.

Sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the fireman, placed a horseshoe on the table in front of the stage doorkeeper's box with everyone who entered the opera otherwise then, as a spectator must touch before setting foot on the first tread of the staircase.

This horseshoe 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 doorkeeper's box when you enter the opera through the court known as the Cord de Lesion to return to the evening in question.

It's the ghost.

Little jamus had cried.

An agonizing silence now reigned in the dressing room.

Nothing was heard but the hard breathing of the girls.

At last Jamus flinging herself upon the furthest 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 anyone behind the door?

Oh, yes, yes, of course there is.

Cried that little dry plumb of Meg Geary, heroically holding Cerelli back by her gauss 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 made Gary sighed, mother.

Mother.

Cereli 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's no one there.

Still we saw him.

Jamis declared, returning with timid little steps to her place beside.

Sorrelli 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 thumbnail, 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 daresay no one has ever seen the ghost.

Yes, yes, we saw him.

We saw him just now.

Cried the girls.

He had his desk head in his dress coat, just as when he appeared to Joseph Buuquette.

And Gabriel saw him too, said James.

Only yesterday.

Yesterday afternoon, in broad daylight.

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 side 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 Jamus.

However, he is always polite when he meets the Persian.

He just puts his hand in his pocket and touches his keys, while 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 tag 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 hole 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 Buchett's description.

Jamis 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 Jirey, who said Joseph Buquette 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 Jirey 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 a door.

Well?

It's because of the private box.

What private box?

The ghosts 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 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's 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's never seen him, but she has heard him.

Mother knows because she gives him his program.

Cerrelli interfered.

Jirey, child, you're getting at us thereupon.

Little Jirey began to cry.

I ought to have held my tongue.

If Mother ever came to know that I was quite right.

Joseph Buuquette 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 cecil.

Cecil, are you there?

It's Mother's voice, said Jamis.

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 armchair.

Her eyes rolled madly in her brick dustcolored face.

How awful, she said.

How awful.

What?

What?

Joseph Buquette.

What about him?

Joseph Buquette 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 Jirey blurred 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.

Several was very pale.

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

Jamis 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 Buquette met his death.

The verdict at the inquest was natural suicide.

In his memoirs of manager Monsieur Montcharmaine, one of the joint managers who succeeded Monsieur's Debunyne and Pauligni, describes the incident as follows a grievous accident spoiled the little party which Monsieurs Debunier and Pauling 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 farmhouse and a scene from the Roy de Lahore.

I shouted Come and cut him down.

By the time I had rushed down the staircase in the Jacob's ladder, the man was no longer hanging from his robe.

So this is an event which Monsieur Moncharmaine thinks natural.

A man hangs at the end of a rope, they go to cut him down and the rope has disappeared.

Oh, Monsieur Moncharmaine 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 kurd de ballet scuttling down the Jacob's ladder and dividing the suicides 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 affected its purpose.

And time will show if I'm wrong.

The horde news soon spread all over the Opera, where Joseph Buquette was very popular.

The dressing rooms emptied and the ballet girls crowding around Cerelli like timid sheep around their shepherdess made for the foyer, through the illlit passages and staircases trotting as fast as their little pink legs could carry them.

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

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