ostensibly highly amused and laughing at each other, moved the
furniture of the box, lifted the cloths and the chairs and particularly
examined the arm-chair in which "the man's voice" used to sit. But
they saw that it was a respectable arm-chair, with no magic about it.
Altogether, the box was the most ordinary box in the world, with its
red hangings, its chairs, its carpet and its ledge covered in red
velvet. After, feeling the carpet in the most serious manner possible,
and discovering nothing more here or anywhere else, they went down to
the corresponding box on the pit tier below. In Box Five on the pit
tier, which is just inside the first exit from the stalls on the left,
they found nothing worth mentioning either.

"Those people are all making fools of us!" Firmin Richard ended by
exclaiming. "It will be FAUST on Saturday: let us both see the
performance from Box Five on the grand tier!"

Chapter VII Faust and What Followed

On the Saturday morning, on reaching their office, the joint managers
found a letter from O. G. worded in these terms:

MY DEAR MANAGERS:

So it is to be war between us?

If you still care for peace, here is my ultimatum. It consists of the
four following conditions:

1. You must give me back my private box; and I wish it to be at my
free disposal from henceforward.

2. The part of Margarita shall be sung this evening by Christine Daae.
Never mind about Carlotta; she will be ill.

3. I absolutely insist upon the good and loyal services of Mme. Giry,
my box-keeper, whom you will reinstate in her functions forthwith.

4. Let me know by a letter handed to Mme. Giry, who will see that it
reaches me, that you accept, as your predecessors did, the conditions
in my memorandum-book relating to my monthly allowance. I will inform
you later how you are to pay it to me.

If you refuse, you will give FAUST to-night in a house with a curse
upon it.

Take my advice and be warned in time. O. G.

"Look here, I'm getting sick of him, sick of him!" shouted Richard,
bringing his fists down on his office-table.

Just then, Mercier, the acting-manager, entered.

"Lachenel would like to see one of you gentlemen," he said. "He says
that his business is urgent and he seems quite upset."

"Who's Lachenel?" asked Richard.

"He's your stud-groom."

"What do you mean? My stud-groom?"

"Yes, sir," explained Mercier, "there are several grooms at the Opera
and M. Lachenel is a