Призрак Оперы
XXVI The End Of The Ghost's Love Story
Thewoodenbedstead,thewaxedmahoganychairs,thechestofdrawers,thosebrasses,thelittlesquareantimacassarscarefullyplacedonthebacksofthechairs,theclockonthemantelpieceandtheharmless-lookingebonycasketsateitherend,lastly,thewhatnotfilledwithshells,withredpin-cushions,withmother-of-pearlboatsandanenormousostrich-egg,thewholediscreetlylightedbyashadedlampstandingonasmallroundtable:thiscollectionofugly,peaceable,reasonablefurniture,ATTHEBOTTOMOFTHEOPERACELLARS,bewilderedtheimaginationmorethanallthelatefantastichappenings.
Andthefigureofthemaskedmanseemedallthemoreformidableinthisold-fashioned,neatandtrimlittleframe.ItbentdownoverthePersianandsaid,inhisear:
"Areyoubetter,daroga?...Youarelookingatmyfurniture?...ItisallthatIhaveleftofmypoorunhappymother."
ChristineDaaedidnotsayaword:shemovedaboutnoiselessly,likeasisterofcharity,whohadtakenavowofsilence.Shebroughtacupofcordial,orofhottea,hedidnotrememberwhich.ThemaninthemasktookitfromherhandsandgaveittothePersian.M.deChagnywasstillsleeping.
Erikpouredadropofrumintothedaroga’scupand,pointingtotheviscount,said:
"Hecametohimselflongbeforeweknewifyouwerestillalive,daroga.Heisquitewell.Heisasleep.Wemustnotwakehim."
Eriklefttheroomforamoment,andthePersianraisedhimselfonhiselbow,lookedaroundhimandsawChristineDaaesittingbythefireside.Hespoketoher,calledher,buthewasstillveryweakandfellbackonhispillow.
