"I say that these gentlemen have heard of him."
"Gentlemen, it appears that you know the Opera ghost?"
Richard rose, with the remaining hairs of his mustache in his hand.
"No, M. Commissary, no, we do not know him, but we wish that we did,
for this very evening he has robbed us of twenty-thousand francs!"
And Richard turned a terrible look on Moncharmin, which seemed to say: "Give me back the twenty-thousand francs, or I'll tell the whole story."
Moncharmin understood what he meant, for, with a distracted gesture, he
said: "Oh, tell everything and have done with it!"
As for Mifroid, he looked at the managers and at Raoul by turns and
wondered whether he had strayed into a lunatic asylum. He passed his
hand through his hair.
"A ghost," he said, "who, on the same evening, carries off an
opera-singer and steals twenty-thousand francs is a ghost who must have
his hands very full! If you don't mind, we will take the questions in
order. The singer first, the twenty-thousand francs after. Come, M.
de Chagny, let us try to talk seriously. You believe that Mlle.
Christine Daae has been carried off by an individual called Erik. Do
you know this person? Have you seen him?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"In a church yard."
M. Mifroid gave a start, began to scrutinize Raoul again and said: "Of course! ... That's where ghosts usually hang out! ... And what were
you doing in that churchyard?"
"Monsieur," said Raoul, "I can quite understand how absurd my replies
must seem to you. But I beg you to believe that I am in full
possession of my faculties. The safety of the person dearest to me in
the world is at stake. I should like to convince you in a few words,
for time is pressing and every minute is valuable. Unfortunately, if I
do not tell you the strangest story that ever was from the beginning,
you will not believe me. I will tell you all I know about the Opera
ghost, M. Commissary. Alas, I do not know much! ..."
"Never mind, go on, go on!" exclaimed Richard and Moncharmin, suddenly
greatly interested.
Unfortunately for their hopes of learning some detail that could put
them on the track of their hoaxer, they were soon compelled to accept
the fact that M. Raoul de Chagny had completely lost his head. All
that story about Perros-Guirec, death's heads and enchanted violins,
could only have taken birth in the disordered brain of a youth mad with
love. It was evident, also, that Mr. Commissary Mifroid shared their
view; and the magistrate would certainly have cut short the incoherent
narrative if circumstances had not taken it upon themselves to
interrupt it.
The door opened and a man entered, curiously dressed in an enormous
frock-coat and a tall hat, at once shabby and shiny, that came down to
his ears. He went up to the commissary and spoke to him in a whisper.
It was doubtless a detective come to deliver an important communication.