early elapsed and the scorpion and the
grasshopper were scratching at my brain. Nevertheless, I had
sufficient lucidity left to understand that, if the grasshopper were
turned, it would hop ... and with it many members of the human race!
There was no doubt but that the grasshopper controlled an electric
current intended to blow up the powder-magazine!

M. de Chagny, who seemed to have recovered all his moral force from
hearing Christine's voice, explained to her, in a few hurried words,
the situation in which we and all the Opera were. He told her to turn
the scorpion at once.

There was a pause.

"Christine," I cried, "where are you?"

"By the scorpion."

"Don't touch it!"

The idea had come to me--for I knew my Erik--that the monster had
perhaps deceived the girl once more. Perhaps it was the scorpion that
would blow everything up. After all, why wasn't he there? The five
minutes were long past ... and he was not back... Perhaps he had taken
shelter and was waiting for the explosion! ... Why had he not
returned? ... He could not really expect Christine ever to consent to
become his voluntary prey! ... Why had he not returned?

"Don't touch the scorpion!" I said.

"Here he comes!" cried Christine. "I hear him! Here he is!"

We heard his steps approaching the Louis-Philippe room. He came up to
Christine, but did not speak. Then I raised my voice:

"Erik! It is I! Do you know me?"

With extraordinary calmness, he at once replied:

"So you are not dead in there? Well, then, see that you keep quiet."

I tried to speak, but he said coldly:

"Not a word, daroga, or I shall blow everything up." And he added,
"The honor rests with mademoiselle ... Mademoiselle has not touched
the scorpion"--how deliberately he spoke!--"mademoiselle has not
touched the grasshopper"--with that composure!--"but it is not too late
to do the right thing. There, I open the caskets without a key, for I
am a trap-door lover and I open and shut what I please and as I please.
I open the little ebony caskets: mademoiselle, look at the little dears
inside. Aren't they pretty? If you turn the grasshopper,
mademoiselle, we shall all be blown up. There is enough gun-powder
under our feet to blow up a whole quarter of Paris. If you turn the
scorpion, mademoiselle, all that powder will be soaked and drowned.
Mademoiselle, to celebrate our wedding, you shall make a very handsome
present to a few hundred Parisians who are