He got out of bed, put on a dressing-gown and slippers, took a light from the hands of a servant and, opening the window, stepped out on the balcony.
The count saw that the window had been pierced by a bullet at a man’s height.
Raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle:
“Aha!” he said. “Blood! … Blood! … Here, there, more blood! … That’s a good thing! A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!” he grinned.
“Raoul! Raoul! Raoul!”
The count was shaking him as though he were trying to waken a sleepwalker.
“But, my dear brother, I’m not asleep!” Raoul protested impatiently. “You can see the blood for yourself. I thought I had been dreaming and firing at two stars. It was Erik’s eyes … and here is his blood! … After all, perhaps I was wrong to shoot; and Christine is quite capable of never forgiving me. … All this would not have happened if I had drawn the curtains before going to bed.”
“Raoul, have you suddenly gone mad? Wake up!”
“What, still? You would do better to help me find Erik … for, after all, a ghost who bleeds can always be found.”
The count’s valet said:
“That is so, sir; there is blood on the balcony.”
The other manservant brought a lamp, by the light of which they examined the balcony carefully. The marks of blood followed the rail till they reached a gutter-spout; then they went up the gutter-spout.