Призрак Оперы
I Is It A Ghost?
Onceafiremandidnothesitatetofaint,leadersandfront-rowandback-rowgirlsalikehadplentyofexcusesforthefrightthatmadethemquickentheirpacewhenpassingsomedarkcornerorill-lightedcorridor.Sorelliherself,onthedayaftertheadventureofthefireman,placedahorseshoeonthetableinfrontofthestage-door-keeper’sbox,whicheveryonewhoenteredtheOperaotherwisethanasaspectatormusttouchbeforesettingfootonthefirsttreadofthestaircase.Thishorse-shoewasnotinventedbyme—anymorethananyotherpartofthisstory,alas!—andmaystillbeseenonthetableinthepassageoutsidethestage-door-keeper’sbox,whenyouentertheOperathroughthecourtknownastheCourdel’Administration.
Toreturntotheeveninginquestion.
"It’stheghost!"littleJammeshadcried.
Anagonizingsilencenowreignedinthedressing-room.Nothingwasheardbutthehardbreathingofthegirls.Atlast,Jammes,flingingherselfuponthefarthestcornerofthewall,witheverymarkofrealterroronherface,whispered:
"Listen!"
Everybodyseemedtoheararustlingoutsidethedoor.Therewasnosoundoffootsteps.Itwaslikelightsilkslidingoverthepanel.Thenitstopped.
Sorellitriedtoshowmorepluckthantheothers.Shewentuptothedoorand,inaquaveringvoice,asked:
"Who’sthere?"
Butnobodyanswered.
