"Well, what did you see, sir, or think you saw?"
"I saw your ecstasy AT THE SOUND OF THE VOICE, Christine: the voice
that came from the wall or the next room to yours ... yes, YOUR
ECSTASY! And that is what makes me alarmed on your behalf. You are
under a very dangerous spell. And yet it seems that you are aware of
the imposture, because you say to-day THAT THERE IS NO ANGEL OF MUSIC!
In that case, Christine, why did you follow him that time? Why did you
stand up, with radiant features, as though you were really hearing
angels? ... Ah, it is a very dangerous voice, Christine, for I myself,
when I heard it, was so much fascinated by it that you vanished before
my eyes without my seeing which way you passed! Christine, Christine,
in the name of Heaven, in the name of your father who is in Heaven now
and who loved you so dearly and who loved me too, Christine, tell us,
tell your benefactress and me, to whom does that voice belong? If you
do, we will save you in spite of yourself. Come, Christine, the name
of the man! The name of the man who had the audacity to put a ring on
your finger!"
"M. de Chagny," the girl declared coldly, "you shall never know!"
Thereupon, seeing the hostility with which her ward had addressed the
viscount, Mamma Valerius suddenly took Christine's part.
"And, if she does love that man, Monsieur le Vicomte, even then it is
no business of yours!"
"Alas, madame," Raoul humbly replied, unable to restrain his tears,
"alas, I believe that Christine really does love him! ... But it is not
only that which drives me to despair; for what I am not certain of,
madame, is that the man whom Christine loves is worthy of her love!"
"It is for me to be the judge of that, monsieur!" said Christine,
looking Raoul angrily in the face.
"When a man," continued Raoul, "adopts such romantic methods to entice
a young girl's affections. .."
"The man must be either a villain, or the girl a fool: is that it?"
"Christine!"
"Raoul, why do you condemn a man whom you have never seen, whom no one
knows and about whom you yourself know nothing?"
"Yes, Christine ... Yes ... I at least know the name that you thought
to keep from me for ever ... The name of your Angel of Music,
mademoiselle, is Erik!"
Christine at once betrayed herself. She turned as white as a sheet and
stammered: "Who told you?"
"You yourself!"
"How do you mean?"
"By pitying him the other night, the night of the masked ball. When
you went to your dressing-room, did you not say, 'Poor Erik?' Well,
Christine, there was a poor Raoul who overheard you."