The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the
superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet,
their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in and blood, although
he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade. When I began to ransack the
archives of the National Academy of Music I was at once struck by the surprising coincidences between the phenomena
ascribed to the "ghost" and the most extraordinary and fantastic tragedy that ever excited the Paris upper classes; and
I soon conceived the idea that this tragedy might reasonably be explained by the phenomena in question. The events do
not date more than thirty years back; and it would not be difficult to find at the present day, in the foyer of the
ballet, old men of the highest respectability, men upon whose word one could absolutely rely, who would remember as
though they happened yesterday the mysterious and dramatic conditions that attended the kipping of Christine Daae,
the disappearance of the Vicomte de Chagny and the death of his elder brother, Count Philippe, whose body was found on
the bank of the lake that exists in the lower cellars of the Opera on the Rue-Scribe side. But none of those witnesses
had until that day thought that there was any reason for connecting the more or less legendary figure of the Opera ghost
with that terrible story. The truth was slow to enter my mind, puzzled by an inquiry that at every moment was
complicated by events which, at first , might be looked upon as superhuman; and more than once I was within an ace
of abandoning a task in which I was exhausting myself in the hopeless pursuit of a vain image. At last, I received the
proof that my presentiments had not deceived me, and I was rewarded for all my efforts on the day when I acquired the
certainty that the Opera ghost was more than a mere shade. On that day, I had spent long hours over THE MEMOIRS OF A
MANAGER, the light and frivolous work of the too-skeptical Moncharmin, who, during his term at the Opera, understood
nothing of the mysterious behavior of the ghost and who was making all the fun of it that he could at the very moment
when he became the first victim of the curious financial operation that went on inside the "magic envelope." I had just
left the library in despair, when I met the delightful acting-manager of our National Academy, who stood chatting on a
landing with a lively and well-groomed little old man, to whom he introduced me gaily. The acting-manager knew all about
my investigations and how eagerly and unsuccessfully I had been trying to discover the whereabouts of the examining
magistrate in the famous Chagny case, M. Faure. Nobody knew what had become of him, alive or dead; and here he was back
from Canada, where he had spent fifteen years, and the first thing he had done, on his return to Paris, was to come to
the secretarial offices at the Opera and ask for a free seat. The little old man was M. Faure himself. We spent a good
part of the evening together and he told me the whole Chagny case as he had understood it at the time. He was bound to
conclude in favor of the madness of the viscount and the accidental death of the elder brother, for lack of evidence to
the contrary; but he was nevertheless persuaded that a terrible tragedy had taken place between the two brothers in
connection with Christine Daae. He could not tell me what became of Christine or the viscount. When I mentioned the
ghost, he only laughed.