The cellars of the Opera are enormous and they are five in number.
Raoul followed the Persian and wondered what he would have done without
his companion in that extraordinary labyrinth. They went down to the
third cellar; and their progress was still lit by some distant lamp.
The lower they went, the more precautions the Persian seemed to take.
He kept on turning to Raoul to see if he was holding his arm properly,
showing him how he himself carried his hand as if always ready to fire,
though the pistol was in his pocket.
Suddenly, a loud voice made them stop. Some one above them shouted: "All the door-shutters on the stage! The commissary of police wants
them!"
Steps were heard and shadows glided through the darkness. The Persian
drew Raoul behind a set piece. They saw passing before and above them
old men bent by age and the past burden of opera-scenery. Some could
hardly drag themselves along; others, from habit, with stooping bodies
and outstretched hands, looked for doors to shut.
They were the door-shutters, the old, worn-out scene-shifters, on whom
a charitable management had taken pity, giving them the job of shutting
doors above and below the stage. They went about incessantly, from top
to bottom of the building, shutting the doors; and they were also
called "The draft-expellers," at least at that time, for I have little
doubt that by now they are all dead. Drafts are very bad for the
voice, wherever they may come from.[1] The two men might have stumbled over them, waking them up and provoking
a request for explanations. For the moment, M. Mifroid's inquiry saved
them from any such unpleasant encounters.
The Persian and Raoul welcomed this incident, which relieved them of
inconvenient witnesses, for some of those door-shutters, having nothing
else to do or nowhere to lay their heads, stayed at the Opera, from
idleness or necessity, and spent the night there.
But they were not left to enjoy their solitude for long. Other shades
now came down by the same way by which the door-shutters had gone up.
Each of these shades carried a little lantern and moved it about,
above, below and all around, as though looking for something or
somebody.
"Hang it!" muttered the Persian. "I don't know what they are looking
for, but they might easily find us ... Let us get away, quick! ...
Your hand up, sir, ready to fire! ... Bend your arm ... more ... that's
it! ... Hand at the level of your eye, as though you were fighting a
duel and waiting for the word to fire! Oh, leave your pistol in your
pocket. Quick, come along, down-stairs. Level of your eye! Question
of life or death! ... Here, this way, these stairs!" They reached the
fifth cellar. "Oh, what a duel, sir, what a duel!"