Suddenly, Raoul remembered something about a gate opening into the Rue Scribe, an underground passage running straight to the Rue Scribe from the lake. … Yes, Christine had told him about that. … And, when he found that the key was no longer in the box, he nevertheless ran to the Rue Scribe.
Outside, in the street, he passed his trembling hands over the huge stones, felt for outlets … met with iron bars … were those they? … Or these? … Or could it be that air-hole? … He plunged his useless eyes through the bars. … How dark it was in there! … He listened. … All was silence! … He went round the building … and came to bigger bars, immense gates! … It was the entrance to the Cour de l’Administration.
Raoul rushed into the doorkeeper’s lodge.
“I beg your pardon, madame, could you tell me where to find a gate or door, made of bars, iron bars, opening into the Rue Scribe … and leading to the lake? … You know the lake I mean? … Yes, the underground lake … under the Opera.”
“Yes, sir, I know there is a lake under the Opera, but I don’t know which door leads to it. I have never been there!”
“And the Rue Scribe, madame, the Rue Scribe? Have you never been to the Rue Scribe?”
The woman laughed, screamed with laughter! Raoul darted away, roaring with anger, ran upstairs, four stairs at a time, downstairs, rushed through the whole of the business side of the opera-house, found himself once more in the light of the stage.
He stopped, with his heart thumping in his chest: suppose Christine Daaé had been found? He saw a group of men and asked:
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen. Could you tell me where Christine Daaé is?”