“It’s the ghost!” And she locked the door.
Sorelli’s dressing-room was fitted up with official, commonplace elegance4. A pier-glass, a sofa, a dressing-table and a cupboard or two provided the necessary furniture. On the walls hung a few engravings, relics5 of the mother, who had known the glories of the old Opera in the Rue6 le Peletier; portraits of Vestris, Gardel, Dupont, Bigottini. But the room seemed a palace to the brats7 of the corps8 de ballet, who were lodged9 in common dressing-rooms where they spent their time singing, quarreling, smacking10 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 superstitious11. She shuddered12 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 complexion13 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 spoke14 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 swelled15 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 superstition16 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 peculiarity17 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 extraordinarily18 thin and his dress-coat hangs on a skeleton frame. His eyes are so deep that you can hardly see the fixed19 pupils. You just see two big black holes, as in a dead man’s skull20. 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 amazement21; 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 inexplicable22 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 inspection23 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 consternation24. At first sight, this fiery25 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, alas26! — 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 agonizing27 silence now reigned28 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 rustling29 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 dagger30 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 dispelling31 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 reverently32 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 adorned33 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, warding34 off ill-luck by pointing their forefinger35 and little finger at the absent Persian, while their second and third fingers were bent36 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 doorway37, 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 bruises38 and his face was all over blood. We were frightened out of our lives, but, all at once, he began to thank Providence39 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 reticence40 exasperated41 the curiosity of the young ladies, who crowded round little Giry, begging her to explain herself. They were there, side by side, leaning forward simultaneously42 in one movement of entreaty43 and fear, communicating their terror to one another, taking a keen pleasure in feeling their blood freeze in their veins44.
“I swore not to tell!” gasped45 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 interfered46.
“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 groaning47 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 exclamations48, with astonished outcries, with scared requests for explanations.
“Yes, he was found hanging in the third-floor cellar!”
“It’s the ghost!” little Giry blurted49, 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 standing50 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 Memoirs51 of Manager, M. Moncharmin, one of the joint52 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 darting53 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 scuttling54 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 underneath55 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 horrid56 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, trotting57 as fast as their little pink legs could carry them.
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1
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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7
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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8
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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9
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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10
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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12
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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13
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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15
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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16
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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17
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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18
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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19
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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20
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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21
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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22
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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23
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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24
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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25
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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26
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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27
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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28
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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29
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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30
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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31
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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32
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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33
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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34
warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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35
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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38
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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39
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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40
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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41
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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42
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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43
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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44
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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45
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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46
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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47
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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48
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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49
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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51
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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52
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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53
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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54
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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55
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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56
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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57
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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