Suddenly, a loud voice made them stop. Someone above them shouted:
“All the door-shutters on the stage! The commissary of police wants them!”
Steps were heard and shadows glided through the darkness. The Persian drew Raoul behind a set piece. They saw passing before and above them old men bent by age and the past burden of opera-scenery. Some could hardly drag themselves along; others, from habit, with stooping bodies and outstretched hands, looked for doors to shut.
They were the door-shutters, the old, worn-out scene-shifters, on whom a charitable management had taken pity, giving them the job of shutting doors above and below the stage. They went about incessantly, from top to bottom of the building, shutting the doors; and they were also called “The draft-expellers,” at least at that time, for I have little doubt that by now they are all dead. Drafts are very bad for the voice, wherever they may come from.
The Persian and Raoul welcomed this incident, which relieved them of inconvenient witnesses, for some of those door-shutters, having nothing else to do or nowhere to lay their heads, stayed at the Opera, from idleness or necessity, and spent the night there. The two men might have stumbled over them, waking them up and provoking a request for explanations. For the moment, M. Mifroid’s inquiry saved them from any such unpleasant encounters.
But they were not left to enjoy their solitude for long. Other shades now came down by the same way by which the door-shutters had gone up. Each of these shades carried a little lantern and moved it about, above, below and all around, as though looking for something or somebody.
“Hang it!” muttered the Persian. “I don’t know what they are looking for, but they might easily find us. … Let us get away, quick! … Your hand up, sir, ready to fire! … Bend your arm … more … that’s it! …