CHAPTER VIII
To Mademoiselle Caroline de Blois, the mistress of the Opera,
Since the Opera is reigned by two young ladies, I had a difficult choice to whom to address my advice and suggestion. And I am pleased to inform you that I have chosen you, Mademoiselle de Blois.
I had an opportunity to watch you during rehearsals. And I can tell that you do care about music. Having a good ear and voice, you, of course, have noticed the decline of the Opera.
Each performer individually can be criticized, but now I advise to stop on the diva of the Grand Opera, Carlotta, who has always been given major female roles. It must be admitted that she is old, her voice already thinned and became woolly. And the audience has to pinch their ears. Did you hear her voice rattling in the sixth octave?
Therefore, I suggest you an alternative. A person with the exquisite taste would have evaluated my decision. But read carefully.
There is one girl among the chorus girls, whose voice - I can guarantee that - will one day be the best in France. She does not look like a diva now. Rather, she looks like a scared child. But as time passes, her fear, uncertainty and tightness will disappear. Madame Giry can confirm my words. All this time she has been educating the girl as her own daughter.
The name of this little star is Christine Rossini, and she not only sings delightfully, but also is good-looking and young, and educated. Give this little one a chance and she will show all her best. The very next day after the premiere of Il Muto (provided that Mademoiselle Rossini gets the role of the Countess) there will be no room at all in the Opera.
It is profitable, is not it?
But I have to warn you that if you ignore the advice of the mysterious patron, it will hurt him a lot, and the troubles in the Opera will continue. Think hard, Mademoiselle de Blois.
Forever yours,
The mysterious patron
"Christine, huh?" Scratching her chin thoughtfully, Caroline murmured.
The letter fell on her when she crossed the main hall, but it wasn't surprising to the beauty. She already got used to the oddities of that place; moreover the ghost letters had not yet started to molest her.
Banging loud with her shoes, she hurried into the audience, and faced two dancers in the doors. They were late. In such circumstances, Caroline usually didn't miss the chance to use her Marseille vocabulary, which horrified young ballet dancer, even made them cry.
But that day, when Caroline looked up, the two girls, looking alike as if they were sisters, burst upon her eyes, shifting from foot to foot, - Christine Rossini and Meg Giry. Seeing the mistress they blushed. Seizing the moment, Caroline glared at the dark-haired chorus girl. And what was so special about her, that Mademoiselle Rossini?
Twice leaner than the Giry, with sharp shoulders, narrow neck and small, but expressive features, she looked like a clumsy teenage girl, though she had long been out of that age. She had very beautiful hair - thick and curly, - and her dark eyes were like black pearls.
That face looked so strange for that place! There was nothing in it either from the French or the English. The dark skin and eye color evoked something south. Caroline caught the charm in the chorus girl, but could not imagine how she could sing divinely. She would definitely be scared to death on the stage!
Meg slightly tilted her head to the mistress in a polite gesture, but Christine kept looking straight on Caroline, so that their eyes crossed. It could seem that the chorus girl looked at the mistress with the call. But even Caroline, with all her desire to quarrel with someone that day, figured out it was nothing but a modest interest. She seemed to ask "Why I deserve your attention?"
"Hello, girls," Caroline said quite kindly, answering the dancers with a nod, making the feathers on her hat sway. "Both of you, no doubt, are in a hurry to class."
"We are sorry," Meg laughed, her blue eyes flashed. "We were a bit late with hot breakfast, and then I promised Christine to go to the chapel with her. So we are late. Will you allow?"
But no, Caroline did not allow. She looked back at Christine and said:
"Do you pray every morning?"
"Yes, God was good to me, mademoiselle. You see, a long time ago my poor, dying of fever father bequeathed me the Angel of Music ..."
Caroline shrugged.
"Very interesting, but your marvelous tale will wait until the next meeting," with these words the mistress pushed past the chorus girls, still clutching the letter in her hand, and went into the hall. Remaining behind her, Christine protested.
"Mademoiselle, is in your hands..."
"Christine," Meg hissed, shoving her friend with an elbow. "No time for that."
"But the handwriting," the young Rossini looked mad. "It seems so familiar. Mademoiselle de Blois knows my teacher... Wait a minute, please!" The mistress stopped; such behavior seemed wild to her. "Let me take a look at a letter at least briefly."
"I do not think it's a good idea, Christine," Caroline replied coldly. It was permissible to her as a mistress. "And hurry, please, into the hall."
Christine, having lost her composure for just a second, quickly pulled together and nodded.
Entering the hall, Caroline almost immediately got up on the stage, cleared her throat and made a small announcement. The young Rossini absorbed her every word like life-giving moisture droplets. Black eyes widened and brightened.
"I want to announce," Caroline said in a loud voice, "that an unknown performer will take part in the upcoming production of Il Muto. I learned about her quite by accident. I can say that the singer is a rough diamond, a nugget, which I have not met before. Mademoiselle is very young and yet inexperienced, but it is not difficult to learn how to present yourself the stage. I think that this talent is in her blood," saying that, Caroline almost exactly repeated the contents of the letter. Perhaps the writer was watching his ideas coming to life. "So, the Duchess in Il Muto will be performed by..."
Christine stopped breathing. Everything floated before her eyes. He did it, really did! Her Angel of Music fulfilled his promise...
"Beatrice Nizzardo," Caroline gasped with such a pride, as if called her own name. It was quite clear that the name of the mysterious performer just come up to her mind, but in the hall it caused quite a stir.
Someone said that he had heard this name many times, while others swore that they were at her grand concert in Milan (completely missing the fact that Caroline called the singer "young " and "inexperienced"). Carlotta lost consciousness, and while Ubaldo Piangi tried to lift her (alone, without any help!), one of the chorus girls raced for smelling salts.
Most faces in the audience stretched. And that applied especially to Madame Giry, on the memory of which no opera was played without Carlotta, and unhappy Christine. She grieved the moment. At first it seemed like her unconditional triumph, her moment of glory...
Shaking her head, she backed away and ran from the hall in tears.
.
Margo was just entering the hall, when Christine bumped into her. She did not even apologize, but ran on, not paying attention to Marguerite.
"Christine! Christine, stop!"
The room was a sly, everyone argued on something. Marguerite saw Caroline near the orchestra pit, listening to screaming Carlotta with a deadpan look. Ubaldo Piangi stood near Carlotta and echoed her passionately, vigorously gesticulating.
"I think you have finished," Caroline said, as Marguerite approached her.
Carlotta, panting as if she had pulled out a tongue, turned on her heels and walked away, forcing the dancers to recoil.
"Maybe you can tell me what's going on here?" Marguerite asked.
"I have no idea what you mean," Caroline shrugged.
"I was almost knocked down by Rossini, Carlotta is ranting and raving..."
"I received a letter from our subterranean friend on the appointment of the actress for the leading role in Il Muto."
"From..." Margo trailed off, thinking how unlikely it was for Earl to worry about the company of the Opera.
"From the Phantom of the Opera, yes," Caroline nodded. "A stupid title. You could already tell me what his real name is."
"In any case," Marguerite frowned, "show me the letter."
Briefly viewing the note, she raised her eyebrows.
"Christine Rossini? But she dashed away in tears."
"It's true," Caroline nodded. "I said, I received a letter. I did not say I followed it. She does not deserve this role. It will be performed by Beatrice Nizzardo."
"Beatrice Nizzardo?" Marguerite's eyebrows went up again. "There is no such name."
"It's my stage name," Caroline announced calmly.
"Stage name... Caroline!" Maruerite shouted so loudly that the ballet dancer standing nearby turned. Realizing that they could not continue the conversation there, Margo grabbed Caroline and pulled her out of the room.
"You cannot perform!"
"I can. You can continue to try to save the Opera from its lack of money with your administrator's abilities and the affair with Gugot, and I will make viewers come here because of the talent of the performers."
Marguerite hid her face in her hands. She even missed the insulting words about her and Robert, so frightened she was by the prospect of Caroline's performances.
"Caroline, you're not even able to perform."
"For God's sake, Margo, it's an opera," was the reply, "I don't need to be a great actress. You'd better take care of yourself, cousin."
"What do you mean?" Looking around and lowering her voice, said Margo.
"Your frequent visits to the dungeons to a strange couple are not... normal… This frightening Earl, writing nasty letters to us, this mad boy... What's his name?"
"Ram," Marguerite answered through clenched teeth. "And he's not mad. He's just a very sick man. And I do have regrets that I told you about them."
"You're already talking like his elder brother." Caroline rolled her eyes and turned away.
Biting her lip, Marguerite departed. Taking advantage of the fact that the cousin was not looking at her, she leaned against the wall, pushed some bricks with her elbow and slipped in a secret passage...
"Well, that's enough of sulking," Caroline said. "Margo? Margo?.."
.
"At last!" Caroline thought. "Finally, my talent will be appreciated!"
Caroline winded the flower in her hands, admiring the rich scarlet hue of the petals. Her masquerade dress was the same colour. Was it a coincidence?..
Someone knocked on the door. It was a timid, hesitant knock. It could not be confused with any other. Caroline knew that Madame Giry knocked softly but confidently, and the sponsors bang on the door with their knuckles. Only her awkward cousin Simon knocked as if a mouse was scratching a wood.
"Caroline, are you soon?" Simon muttered. "The table is booked for eight o'clock. And where is Marguerite? I thought that she would go with us..."
Caroline dropped the flower in a vase with a hard breath and crossed the room. She wanted to tell Simon the whole truth about their discovery underneath the Opera, but the girl could hardly imagine her cousin's reaction. Most likely, he would call the police directly. Why risk the safety of his sisters?
Caroline paused for a moment, turning the knob.
"She feels sick," she said with a charming smile. Lies presented on a golden platter was one of the main advantages of the woman.
Simon frowned.
"She has been feeling sick in my company too often lately. If you know something, dear, do not be silent. After all, I'm not blind."
"Honestly," Caroline raised both hands, as if swearing in her ignorance. "You'll soon start talking poetry, Don Juan!"
And after a moment, Caroline loudly laughed at her own words, which seemed completely ridiculous to her cousin.
"Oh, and as far as I know the opera Don Juan has never been put on our scene. The musical material based on the play would have been just great," she admitted, pulling on gloves.
"It has already been written," Simon remarked patiently. "Maybe you have forgotten? By Mozart."
"No, this opera is terribly boring," Caroline snorted. "We need something special, something new..."
Simon coughed into his fist, showing his cousin the absence of any interest in her ideas. To Caroline such neglect seemed at least unfair and perhaps offensive.
Raising her head, she left the room and walked down the corridor. Echoing footsteps rang in the deserted lobby.
Frowning, Simon followed his cousin with his eyes. Lack of Marguerite darkened his mood. But there was one consolation: a contender for the right to possess the heart of a sweet lady, this brash Robert Gugot, felt the same devastation, and was probably angry.
"Simon, I'm starving, and I will not wait forever. Hurry!"
He seemed to awake from sleep. Wincing, fending off thoughts of Marguerite.
"I'm coming," Simon muttered.
Despite the whimsical tone, Caroline was obediently waiting for her cousin in the hallway near the main staircase, and her impatience was mainly expressed by the continuous flapping of the fan. In a moment the curtains behind the girl budged, as if from the soft breath of wind. The Voice came, instantly distracting Caroline from hunger.
"Don Juan", you say?" Heavy velvet curtains rustled. "Oh, this opera will burn."
Caroline snapped her fan and spun on the spot; her eyes flashed lightning. The mistress of the Opera was frightened and she put a lot of effort to keep from shouting and running away.
Behind the curtain there was a man; Caroline quickly held out her hand, but did not touch that velvet fabric, as she could not determine where the mysterious man stood. In addition, the girl did not want the Phantom to grab her arm.
"Who the hell are you?" Caroline asked, suddenly forgetting all her manners and remembering the language of Marseilles sailors. "Another Phantom of the Opera? I must say, you breed like rabbits. I'll have to take action…"
The man behind the curtain laughed quietly. Caroline shivered.
"The Opera is my property, mademoiselle," the Phantom reminded. "You have to express the hope that when you moved here you did not disturb me and my brothers. Well, well, you are agitated, Caroline. Do not try to find out who is talking to you. This is our first meeting, so to speak, face to face. Do not touch the curtains, please."
Caroline obeyed, coughed and took a small step back. Since that fateful day she forgot about the Phantom of the Opera, the dark dungeons, the cold walls and slippery steps, on which Caroline nearly sprained her foot.
She had enough of it! Let Margo chase a mysterious stranger, if she wanted. For the true lady the travel through the mirror was enough!
"Disgusting," she said with contempt.
"You think so?" The voice sounded somewhere from the ceiling, and Caroline stared suspiciously at the chandelier. She drew back the curtain, but there was no one behind it. "Be careful, such the opera as Don Juan can burn the entire Palais Garnier! But if you do decide to stage it, my brothers and I will offer a truly diabolical libretto. The opera has been waiting for its glory for twenty-five years, ever since it was written. Here, in these walls."
Caroline lifted her chin.
"I thought that there is only one Phantom and his mad brother. But you obviously are neither one nor the other. Who you are? An impostor?"
"Who are you talking to?"
That time the voice was right behind Caroline, and she almost jumped. Her heart was pounding. Raising his eyebrows, Simon was looking attentively at his cousin. Caroline shook her head.
"No one. Let's go."
.
Christine was sitting alone in the chapel, where the chorus girls went rarely. They did not have enough time for "such nonsense." But Christine went there every day, and not only to pray for her deceased father. It was here where her teacher, her protector, her Angel of Music spoke to her. From above, from the vaults of the chapel, she heard his soft, low voice.
That day, still crying, she came to demand his response: why did he do that to her? Why he lied to her expectations?
Why did he appoint an unknown singer for the main part in Il Muto, for the role which was promised to her?
She did not understand, she was almost disappointed in him.
Her shoulders trembled slightly.
"Christine?" Finally his voice came.
She did not answer him.
"What happened, my child?"
"As if you do not know!" Christine jumped up and seemed to explode. "You promised me that part! You promised me that I would be the primadonna of the Opera! You... you..."
"I sent a letter to the directors," the teacher remarked calmly. "In that letter I described your talent and the fact that the part of the Countess is yours."
Christine was silent. She did not understand anything.
"But... but Mademoiselle de Blois read the letter and said Beatrice Nizzardo gets the main part..."
"Beatrice Nizzardo?" He asked. "Beatrice Nizzardo? There is no such name. Your name was in the letter."
"That means... Mademoiselle de Blois ignored your request?"
"It turns out that way. But fear not, my child. She will pay for it. And you will get the part."
.
On the day of the premiere at the Opera there was an unprecedented stir. Yes, that event always excited not only the audience, but also the employees of the theater. But Il Muto was a completely different case.
The so-called Beatrice Nizzardo still had not arrived at the theater. And there was not even any news is she was in Paris or even in France.
Marguerite, knowing who she was, was tired of whispering in the hallways and, having fulfilled all her director's duties, was sitting in her office, looking through an article on Il Muto in the morning papers.
She was even a little grateful to her cousin for the whole story about that Italian singer, because the papers were no more interested in her unfortunate marriage.
Suddenly the door opened, and Caroline entered the office holding huge boxes. Putting them on the floor with a noise, she sat cross-legged on a chair in front of Marguerite. Her eyes sparkled, she was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. Everything showed her excitement.
Marguerite looked at her cousin. Caroline stared at her as if waiting that she would say something, but Margo was silent, her arms crossed over her chest.
Then Caroline, unable to wait for questions any longer, rattled:
"I have just been with the Opera's dressmaker. I told her that Beatrice Nizzardo would come to the theater just before the performance, and that I'll order her costume in advance. She was so worried, that old woman: But, mademoiselle", Caroline coughed, simulating old voice. "What if the dress does not fit Signora Nizzardo! I assured her that it would. It definitely will!"
Caroline laughed, but sobered when she saw that Marguerite's face remained unchanged.
"Will you be there?" Caroline asked her.
"No. I do not like Il Muto. A vulgar thing."
"Ooh..." Caroline said. "Now I understand why Monsieur Gugot grimaced so strangely when I asked him if he would watch she show. He said he wouldn't. You'll have fun together, won't you?"
"How dare you!" Margo hissed through clenched teeth.
"Well, you have been so warm to him since… well, since Simon and I caught you together..."
"It was nothing!" Marguerite answered sharply. "And do you even care? Should you not warm up? Try on your costume jewelry? Wait for your triumph?"
Caroline rolled her eyes and stood up, too, and the lowered to her boxes.
"You are just jealous," she said. "You do not have my talent, you are only able to ogle a cute sponsor... keep up with all your good work and I'll do more interesting things... hey, Margo! Margo? Oh no, not again."
.
Beatrice Nizzardo was preparing for the premiere in her dressing room. Candles, standing on the dressing table, could not completely dispel the darkness around, and a huge mirror, which occupied almost the entire wall, could only help to guess the shape of the room.
She came to shine.
Each rhinestone, each stone on her costume reflected the dim light of candles. Pink, red and white lace looked even nobler in the shadows. Silk and satin swirled and flowed into her fingers, caressing them, when she touched a luxurious robe. Her costume. Everything needed to conquer Paris.
She was there to win.
She would put Paris on its knees. She would make everyone adore her, but would not let anyone crawl too close. No one would ever know who was hiding under the guise of reliable makeup and theatrical costumes. No one would hail her on the street.
All of them would wrestle over how Beatrice Nizzardo managed to avoid pesky reporters and came into the Opera unnoticed. They would die from the desire to know her. She would always remain a distant star.
She would shine. And the nobles of Paris would give her standing ovations in their boxes. The rich would lash out the huge bouquets of roses. Then newspapers will be singing compliments. It would be impossible to buy tickets for her performances.
She would become a star.
There was no doubt, she would.
She walked down the hall. There was no one, because the show was about to begin. It was dark, she could see drawers and hanging ropes everywhere, but not a living soul.
She came closer to the stage exit. She saw the lights. She heard the noise of the audience.
She was on the scene. Everything gasped and stepped aside. They wanted to see her closer, but they could not as the play began.
The curtain rose...
.
Destler sneaked down the corridor near the lake. Each of them had their own lair, and nobody but they knew these secret passages. All the intruders drowned in the lake, if they wanted to get into the lair of the Phantom.
But there were options. Nobody ever could find Erik's Island. Everyone drowned in Gary's backwaters, but he did not reveal the secret. Near the Hugo's cave there must have been some mechanical monster that just went up from water, if the lake was touched by an intruder.
And the Destler's lake could hardly be called a lake. Rather, it was a small puddle in the farthest and most uncomfortable part of the Opera's dungeons. Hugo sometimes called him "The Phantom of the outskirts", for which Destler hated him even more.
It was his den, where he made his way, but not in order to spite his "brother", but in order to confirm the promise given to Christine. None of his letters with threats had the desired effect and, in addition, Destler did not manage to find out who this Beatrice Nizzardo was.
There was only one way to come out a winner - he was supposed to destroy the newfound prima right on the opening night.
He had already got to the den and stood in the middle of the room where Hugo kept his precious reagents. Intoxicating vapors hovered in the air. It made him feel dizzy, and smoky veil almost blinded his eyes.
In the den of this crazy demon everything was directly related to chemistry. It seemed that Hugo's life really started to make sense only when he became interested in this complex subject.
And under the tutelage of Eric he was able to delve into experiences and experiments. He seemed to understand chemistry better and better and identified it more with art than with science. But, of course, most of all he was interested in explosives and poisons.
That's why Destler knew that he would find all the necessary things in his "brother's" laboratory.
Having chosen one of the racks, Destler began to touch the bulbs on the shelves. He knocked one of them, and it broke with a loud clatter on the floor.
"What the hell is going on here?!" He heard from far away.
Spitting curses, Destler turned and looked at the rack again. He had no more time to think.
He saw the bottle with the liquid, which was usually used for heating singers' vocal chords. Seeing here such thing was unusual: Hugo would never put a cheap chemical near his precious ones.
And that meant... that meant that the liquid would cause the opposite effect.
Quickly grasping the bottle, he disappeared into the hallway before Hugo could catch him. But he still saw Destler's cloak waving from running.
.
In the hall there were heard loud applauses. The conductor waved his wand and the orchestra came to life. Music floated, excitement filled the hall, so loved by actors and singers. At this moment they finally dissolved in the roles and were ready to perform for their viewers.
Beatrice was fueled by the thoughts of her glory. Everyone was going to talk about her, the mysterious beauty who stroke the depths of people's hearts with her voice.
Finally, inspired, Beatrice waved a lace fan and began to sing. Her voice accompanied the music softly and gently, as if a sea siren sang the aria.
The audience, used to whisper in the Opera, glancing at each other through binoculars, - to cut a long story short, to do anything but watch the opera itself - focused on the singer.
By chance, always sour and tired audience began to laugh at the vulgar jokes. Everyone watched the action with interest.
A rebirth was happening. The absorption of one diva by another, a younger one, more talented.
Beatrice was not only an excellent singer, but also a good actress. She raises her eyebrows, ordering Serafimo "to kiss her in the absence of her husband," twisting the fan and pouring the finest laugh.
Next to her, Christine looked like a small, insecure kid. She moved around the stage almost blindly, performing basic movements and looking with frightened eyes framed by fluffy eyelashes.
Positively, the audience could see frozen tears in her eyes! The poor girl cried...
.
William Fairfax viewed the premiere of Il Muto in his own box. Usually, he shared it with Gugot, but that day he refused to come to the Opera, saying he did not want to look at an unknown singer.
Fairfax guessed that the reason probably was in Marguerite Firmin, who was absent as well. William was not irritated by Robert's passion for that girl, he treated it condescendingly, but for the most part of their relationship he did not care at all.
He was more interested in the opera itself. He was a fan of this grand theatre, although did not put his feelings on display often. But the very fact that he invested in its development a lot of money spoke for him.
He first learned about Beatrice Nizzardo from the programme, lying on the seat of the chair in the box. He was glad that Carlotta was not involved at all.
In fact, all true music lovers understood that she had no talent, she lost its last vestiges a long time ago.
Heavy velvet curtain rose, and William got ready to enjoy the action. No thoughts of money investing tonight. Gugot liked to talk about it a lot. That day, indeed, was a unique evening.
The actors ran on the scene, among them was the one who played the Countess - Beatrice Nizzardo.
Just a few phrases in her performance was enough for him to recognize the woman, just as he did at the ball.
Caroline de Blois sang in front of him.
Destler silently watched Christine's suffering on the stage. The more he looked at her pale, exhausted face, the more he was willing to hurt that new diva. Something in her features seemed vaguely familiar, but her persona worried him the least. He wanted revenge for his treasure.
Long ago, he promised that the girl would not shed a single tear under his care. How dared Mademoiselle de Blois deceive him!
But there was nothing to worry about, this sweet canary would pay first. And then the mistress. She would have to bring Christine on stage, no matter if she wanted it or not.
The coat rustled along the corridor. Just in front of the exit, leading to the scene, there was a small table, where artists left a jug of water to drink during intermission.
The reigning diva also kept there a bottle of medicine, soothing vocal chords. Being near this table, Destler pulled out a securely stoppered flask, which he had withdrawn from Hugo's stocks.
A strange smell exuded from the liquid, similar to argan oil. Wincing a little, Destler gently tilted the flask above the bottle, but something suddenly grabbed him around his neck.
Destler was pushed away from the table, the bulb fell from his hand and rolled across the surface of the table, leaving wet toxic-green spots.
Destler gasped quietly. His throat was squeezed, so the sound was hoarse and helpless.
The voice of Hugo sounded just near his ear, hissing, a little catty. This voice often terrified the impressionable chorus girls.
"Maybe you do not know," Hugo whispered to his brother, "but Erik bought this potion in the East. Such a rare chemical things are only sold there and, moreover, are very expensive. He did not know the recipe until my very appearance, and this is the first successfully arranged pattern. And you wanted to mix this miracle with the cheapest solution of the plebeians, those stupid pharmacists?" The noose tightened. Destler vainly clung it with his fingers. "You should be torn by remorse, my friend!"
He pulled Destler to the wall in a sharp jerk. Both figures plunged into semi-darkness, and just in time: one of the scenes workers entered the hall. Seeing spots on the table, he cursed and pulled a stained handkerchief out of the jacket, wiped the tabletop. Destler could only squeak teeth.
Waiting until the worker hid in the depths of the corridor, Hugo laughed. His voice grind and jumped, giving the laughter fraction of madness. But he was mad! All Erik's successors knew that!
"Let me go," Destler croaked.
He forcefully pushed Hugo by his elbow, but it did not bring any result. The noose scratched his neck, but Destler didn't feel that his brother wanted to strangle him to death. Rather, to present a memorable lesson. But you could never know for sure, when it came to Hugo!
"This liquid," continued the hissing voice, "could burn the vocal chords of this young diva like acid. She would remain voiceless, just as your Cristine."
"How dare you..."
"You're not in the right circumstances to argue," ironically remarked Hugo. "To spend such valuable materials on a second-class singers... You like vaunting a lot!"
He finally let him go. Destler almost fell on the floor, automatically clutching his throat, on which the mark of the rope remained. Hugo wanted to escape, but Destler jumped up and grabbed him by the elbow before striking...
