But this invention was so perfect that, as I leaned out of the boat, I was impelled less by a desire to discover its trick than to enjoy its charm; and I leaned out, leaned out until I almost overturned the boat.
Suddenly, two monstrous arms issued from the bosom of the waters and seized me by the neck, dragging me down to the depths with irresistible force.
I should certainly have been lost, if I had not had time to give a cry by which Erik knew me.
For it was he; and, instead of drowning me, as was certainly his first intention, he swam with me and laid me gently on the bank:
"How imprudent you are!" he said, as he stood before me, dripping with water.
"Why try to enter my house?
I never invited you!
I don't want you there, nor anybody!
Did you save my life only to make it unbearable to me?
However great the service you rendered him, Erik may end by forgetting it; and you know that nothing can restrain Erik, not even Erik himself."
He spoke, but I had now no other wish than to know what I already called the trick of the siren.
He satisfied my curiosity, for Erik, who is a real monster—I have seen him at work in Persia, alas—is also, in certain respects, a regular child, vain and self-conceited, and there is nothing he loves so much, after astonishing people, as to prove all the really miraculous ingenuity of his mind.
He laughed and showed me a long reed.
"It's the silliest trick you ever saw," he said, "but it's very useful for breathing and singing in the water.
I learned it from the Tonkin pirates, who are able to remain hidden for hours in the beds of the rivers."
I spoke to him severely. "It's a trick that nearly killed me!" I said. "And it may have been fatal to others!
You know what you promised me, Erik? No more murders!"
"Have I really committed murders?" he asked, putting on his most amiable air.
"Wretched man!" I cried.
"Have you forgotten the rosy hours of Mazenderan?"
"Yes," he replied, in a sadder tone,
"I prefer to forget them. I used to make the little sultana laugh, though!"
"All that belongs to the past," I declared; "but there is the present ... and you are responsible to me for the present, because, if I had wished, there would have been none at all for you.
Remember that, Erik: I saved your life!"
And I took advantage of the turn of conversation to speak to him of something that had long been on my mind:
"Erik," I asked, "Erik, swear that ..."
"What?" he retorted.
"You know I never keep my oaths.
Oaths are made to catch gulls with."
"Tell me ... you can tell me, at any rate..."
"Well?"
"Well, the chandelier ... the chandelier, Erik? ..."
"What about the chandelier?"
"You know what I mean."
"Oh," he sniggered,
"I don't mind telling you about the chandelier! ... IT WASN'T I! ...
The chandelier was very old and worn."
When Erik laughed, he was more terrible than ever.
He jumped into the boat, chuckling so horribly that I could not help trembling.
"Very old and worn, my dear daroga!
Very old and worn, the chandelier! ...
It fell of itself! ... It came down with a smash! ...
And now, daroga, take my advice and go and dry yourself, or you'll catch a cold in the head! ...
And never get into my boat again ... And, whatever you do, don't try to enter my house: I'm not always there ... daroga! And I should be sorry to have to dedicate my Requiem Mass to you!"
So saying, swinging to and fro, like a monkey, and still chuckling, he pushed off and soon disappeared in the darkness of the lake.
From that day, I gave up all thought of penetrating into his house by the lake.
That entrance was obviously too well guarded, especially since he had learned that I knew about it.
But I felt that there must be another entrance, for I had often seen Erik disappear in the third cellar, when I was watching him, though I could not imagine how.
Ever since I had discovered Erik installed in the Opera, I lived in a perpetual terror of his horrible fancies, not in so far as I was concerned, but I dreaded everything for others.
And whenever some accident, some fatal event happened, I always thought to myself,