Of course, he had to leave the Sultan’s service for the same reasons that made him fly from Persia: he knew too much.
Then, tired of his adventurous, formidable and monstrous life, he longed to be someone “like everybody else.” And he became a contractor, like any ordinary contractor, building ordinary houses with ordinary bricks.
He tendered for part of the foundations in the Opera. His estimate was accepted. When he found himself in the cellars of the enormous playhouse, his artistic, fantastic, wizard nature resumed the upper hand.
Besides, was he not as ugly as ever? He dreamed of creating for his own use a dwelling unknown to the rest of the earth, where he could hide from men’s eyes for all time.
The reader knows and guesses the rest. It is all in keeping with this incredible and yet veracious story.
Poor, unhappy Erik! Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be “someone,” like everybody else. But he was too ugly! And he had to hide his genius or use it to play tricks with , when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind!
He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar.
Ah, yes, we must needs pity the Opera ghost.
I have prayed over his mortal remains, that God might show him mercy notwithstanding his crimes. Yes, I am sure, quite sure that I prayed beside his body, the other day, when they took it from the spot where they were burying the phonographic records. It was his skeleton. I did not recognize it by the ugliness of the head, for all men are ugly when they have been dead as long as that, but by the