'I might think that, as you hadn't left me by a foot's breadth and as, by your own wish, you were the only one to approach me, like last time, I might think that, if that twenty-thousand francs was no longer in my pocket, it stood a very good chance of being in yours!'
Moncharmin leaped up at the suggestion.
'Oh!' he shouted. 'A safety-pin!'
'What do you want a safety-pin for?'
'To fasten you up with!...A safety-pin!...A safety-pin!'
'You want to fasten me with a safety-pin?'
'Yes, to fasten you to the twenty-thousand francs! Then, whether it's here, or on the drive from here to your place, or at your place, you will feel the hand that pulls at your pocket and you will see if it's mine! Oh, so you're suspecting me now, are you? A safety-pin!'
And that was the moment when Moncharmin opened the door on the passage and shouted:
'A safety-pin!...somebody give me a safety-pin!'
And we also know how, at the same moment, Remy, who had no safety-pin, was received by Moncharmin, while a boy procured the pin so eagerly longed for. And what happened was this: Moncharmin first locked the door again. Then he knelt down behind Richard's back.
'I hope,' he said, 'that the notes are still there?'
'So do I,' said Richard.
'The real ones?' asked Moncharmin, resolved not to be 'had' this time.
'Look for yourself,' said Richard. 'I refuse to touch them.'
Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail- pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir.
'A little patience, Richard,' said Moncharmin. 'We have only a few minutes to wait....The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve.'
'Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!'
The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh.
'I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost,' he said. 'Just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?'
'You're quite right,' said Moncharmin, who was really impressed.
'The ghost!' continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. 'The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table ... who talks in Box Five...who killed Joseph Buquet... who unhooked the chandelier...and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost...in the ghost.'
At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck.
The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears.
When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs.
'I think we can go now,' said Moncharmin.
'I think so,' Richard a agreed.
'Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?'
'But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST!...Well?' he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket.
'Well, I can feel the pin.'
'Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it.'
But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed:
'I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!'
'Come, no joking, Moncharmin!...This isn't the time for it.'
'Well, feel for yourseIf.'
Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place.
Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft.
'The ghost!' muttered Moncharmin.
But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner.
'No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand francs!...Give me back my twenty-thousand francs!...'
'On my soul,' sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, 'on my soul, I swear that I haven't got it!'
Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate....
Chapter XVIII The Commissary, The Viscount and the Persian
The first words of the commissary of police, on entering the managers' office, were to ask after the missing prima donna.
'Is Christine Daae here?'
'Christine Daae here?' echoed Richard. 'No. Why?'
As for Moncharmin, he had not the strength left to utter a word.
Richard repeated, for the commissary and the compact crowd which had followed him into the office observed an impressive silence.
'Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. LE COMMISSAIRE?'
'Because she has to be found,', declared the commissary of police solemnly.
'What do you mean, she has to be found? Has she disappeared?'
'In the middle of the performance!'
'In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!'
'Isn't it? And what is quite as extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!'
'Yes,' said Richard, taking his head in his hands and muttering. 'What is this new business? Oh, it's enough to make a man send in his resignation!'
And he pulled a few hairs out of his mustache without even knowing what he was doing.
'So she...so she disappeared in the middle of the performance?' he repeated.
'Yes, she was carried off in the Prison Act, at the moment when she was invoking the aid of the angels; but I doubt if she was carried off by an angel.'
'And I am sure that she was!'
Everybody looked round. A young man, pale and trembling with excitement, repeated:
'I am sure of it!'
'Sure of what?' asked Mifroid.
'That Christine Daae' was carried off by an angel, M. LE COMMISSAIRE and I can tell you his name.'
'Aha, M. le Vicomte de Chagny! So you maintain that Christine Daae was carried off by an angel: an angel of the Opera, no doubt?'
'Yes, monsieur, by an angel of the Opera; and I will tell you where he lives...when we are alone.'
'You are right, monsieur.'
And the commissary of police, inviting Raoul to take a chair, cleared the room of all the rest, excepting the managers.
Then Raoul spoke:
'M. le Commissaire, the angel is called Erik, he lives in the Opera and he is the Angel of Music!'
'The Angel of Music! Really! That is very curious!...The Angel of Music!' And, turning to the managers, M.
