"But one can find out where he lives. One can go in search of him.
Now that we know that Erik is not a ghost, one can speak to him and
force him to answer!"
Christine shook her head.
"No, no! There is nothing to be done with Erik except to run away!"
"Then why, when you were able to run away, did you go back to him?"
"Because I had to. And you will understand that when I tell you how I
left him."
"Oh, I hate him!" cried Raoul. "And you, Christine, tell me, do you
hate him too?"
"No," said Christine simply.
"No, of course not ... Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, all
of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind
which people do not admit even to themselves," said Raoul bitterly.
"The kind that gives you a thrill, when you think of it... Picture it:
a man who lives in a palace underground!" And he gave a leer.
"Then you want me to go back there?" said the young girl cruelly.
"Take care, Raoul; I have told you: I should never return!"
There was an appalling silence between the three of them: the two who
spoke and the shadow that listened, behind them.
"Before answering that," said Raoul, at last, speaking very slowly, "I
should like to know with what feeling he inspires you, since you do not
hate him."
"With horror!" she said. "That is the terrible thing about it. He
fills me with horror and I do not hate him. How can I hate him, Raoul?
Think of Erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. He
accuses himself, he curses himself, he implores my forgiveness! ... He
confesses his cheat. He loves me! He lays at my feet an immense and
tragic love... He has carried me off for love! ... He has imprisoned
me with him, underground, for love! ... But he respects me: he crawls,
he moans, he weeps! ... And, when I stood up, Raoul, and told him that
I could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my
liberty ... he offered it ... he offered to show me the mysterious road
... Only ... only he rose too ... and I was made to remember that,
though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the
voice ... for he sang. And I listened ... and stayed! ... That night,
we did not exchange another word. He sang me to sleep.
"When I woke up, I was alone, lying on a sofa in a simply furnished
little bedroom, with an ordinary mahogany bedstead, lit by a lamp
standing on the marble top of an old Louis-Philippe chest of drawers.
I soon discovered that I was a prisoner and that the only outlet from
my room led to a very comfortable bath-room. On returning to the
bedroom, I saw on the chest of drawers a note, in red ink, which said,
'My dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. You have
no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. You are
alone, at present, in this home which is yours. I am going out
shopping to fetch you all the things that you can need.' I felt sure
that I had fallen into the hands of a madman. I ran round my little
apartment, looking for a way of escape which I could not find. I
upbraided myself for my absurd superstition, which had caused me to
fall into the trap. I felt inclined to laugh and to cry at the same
time.