Christine! Christine!

Such were the cruel thoughts that haunted Raoul as he ran to the
singer's dressing-room.

"Christine! Christine!"

Bitter tears scorched the boy's eyelids as he saw scattered over the
furniture the clothes which his beautiful bride was to have worn at the
hour of their flight. Oh, why had she refused to leave earlier?

Why had she toyed with the threatening catastrophe? Why toyed with the
monster's heart? Why, in a final access of pity, had she insisted on
flinging, as a last sop to that demon's soul, her divine song: "Holy angel, in Heaven blessed,
My spirit longs with thee to rest!"

Raoul, his throat filled with sobs, oaths and insults, fumbled
awkwardly at the great mirror that had opened one night, before his
eyes, to let Christine pass to the murky dwelling below. He pushed,
pressed, groped about, but the glass apparently obeyed no one but Erik
... Perhaps actions were not enough with a glass of the kind? Perhaps
he was expected to utter certain words? When he was a little boy, he
had heard that there were things that obeyed the spoken word!

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.