acle? All exchanged glances
without understanding, and the excitement at once reached its height.
Nor was the tension any less great on the stage itself. Men rushed
from the wings to the spot where Christine had been singing that very
instant. The performance was interrupted amid the greatest disorder.

Where had Christine gone? What witchcraft had snatched her, away
before the eyes of thousands of enthusiastic onlookers and from the
arms of Carolus Fonta himself? It was as though the angels had really
carried her up "to rest."

Raoul, still standing up in the amphitheater, had uttered a cry. Count
Philippe had sprung to his feet in his box. People looked at the
stage, at the count, at Raoul, and wondered if this curious event was
connected in any way with the paragraph in that morning's paper. But
Raoul hurriedly left his seat, the count disappeared from his box and,
while the curtain was lowered, the subscribers rushed to the door that
led behind the scenes. The rest of the audience waited amid an
indescribable hubbub. Every one spoke at once. Every one tried to
suggest an explanation of the extraordinary incident.

At last, the curtain rose slowly and Carolus Fonta stepped to the
conductor's desk and, in a sad and serious voice, said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, an unprecedented event has taken place and
thrown us into a state of the greatest alarm. Our sister-artist,
Christine Daae, has disappeared before our eyes and nobody can tell us
how!"

Chapter XIV The Singular Attitude of a Safety-Pin

Behind the curtain, there was an indescribable crowd. Artists,
scene-shifters, dancers, supers, choristers, subscribers were all
asking questions, shouting and hustling one another.

"What became of her?"

"She's run away."

"With the Vicomte de Chagny, of course!"

"No, with the count!"

"Ah, here's Carlotta! Carlotta did the trick!"

"No, it was the ghost!" And a few laughed, especially as a careful
examination of the trap-doors and boards had put the idea of an
accident out of the question.

Amid this noisy throng, three men stood talking in a low voice and with
despairing gestures. They were Gabriel, the chorus-master; Mercier,
the acting-manager; and Remy, the secretary. They retired to a corner
of the lobby by which the stage communicates with the wide passage
leading to the foyer of the ballet. Here they stood and argued behind
some enormous "properties."

"I knocked at the door,"