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The Phantom of the Opera

Chapter 26. The End of the Ghost's Love Story
The previous chapter marks the conclusion of the written narrative which the Persian left
behind him.
Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to abandon them to
their deaths, M. de Chagny and his companion were saved by the sublime devotion of
Christine Daae. And I had the rest of the story from the lips of the daroga himself.
When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite
the Tuileries. He was very ill, and it required all my ardor as an historian pledged to the
truth to persuade him to live the incredible tragedy over again for my benefit. His faithful
old servant Darius showed me in to him. The daroga received me at a window
overlooking the garden of the Tuileries. He still had his magnificent eyes, but his poor
face looked very worn. He had shaved the whole of his head, which was usually covered
with an astrakhan cap; he was dressed in a long, plain coat and amused himself by
unconsciously twisting his thumbs inside the sleeves; but his mind was quite clear, and he
told me his story with perfect lucidity.
It seems that, when he opened his eyes, the daroga found himself lying on a bed. M. de
Chagny was on a sofa, beside the wardrobe. An angel and a devil were watching over
them.
After the deceptions and illusions of the torture-chamber, the precision of the details of
that quiet little middle-class room seemed to have been invented for the express purpose
of puzzling the mind of the mortal rash enough to stray into that abode of living
nightmare. The wooden bedstead, the waxed mahogany chairs, the chest of drawers,
those brasses, the little square antimacassars carefully placed on the backs of the chairs,
the clock on the mantelpiece and the harmless-looking ebony caskets at either end, lastly,
the whatnot filled with shells, with red pin-cushions, with mother-of-pearl boats and an
enormous ostrich-egg, the whole discreetly lighted by a shaded lamp standing on a small
round table: this collection of ugly, peaceable, reasonable furniture, AT THE BOTTOM
OF THE OPERA CELLARS, bewildered the imagination more than all the late fantastic
happenings.
And the figure of the masked man seemed all the more formidable in this old-fashioned,
neat and trim little frame. It bent down over the Persian and said, in his ear:
"Are you better, daroga?...You are looking at my furniture?... It is all that I have left of
my poor unhappy mother."
Christine Daae did not say a word: she moved about noiselessly, like a sister of charity,
who had taken a vow of silence. She brought a cup of cordial, or of hot tea, he did not
 
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