By the time Raoul left the opera house, the elite of Parisian society had filled the ballet foyer.
Sorelli, anxious to give her speech, waited impatiently for the arrival of the retiring managers.
Cecile, seeming to forget the death of Joseph Buquet, laughed and joked with everyone.
"Cecile, stop fooling around and be quiet!" Sorelli snapped as Debienne and Poligny made their way through the crowd.
When they reached the front of the room, she smiled and raised her glass to toast them. She had just begun her speech when Cecile screamed in terror.
"The phantom of the opera!" Cecile pointed at a pale man with black holes where his eyes should have been. "He's here!"
Everyone laughed and pushed, trying to see the opera ghost, but he slipped through the crowd.
The other dancers tried to calm Cecile and Meg, who were frantically screaming.
Sorelli struggled to smile while the managers kissed her, thanked her, and disappeared as quickly as the ghost.
"I didn't even get to finish my speech!" she complained to Count Philippe de Chagny.
"The beginning was wonderful!" he said. "The managers have to attend another reception in the singers' foyer, and then a supper for their friends in the lobby outside their office. They don't have time to appreciate you like I do."
Sorelli beamed at the count and let him kiss her hand.
When the managers finally arrived for supper, they were greeted by their successors:
Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard.
The new managers were passing around their master keys because the guests were fascinated that just two tiny keys could open the many doors of the opera house.
As the managers—old and new—took their seats at the center of a long table, not everyone was examining the keys.
Some people had noticed a strange, skeletal figure sitting silently at one end of the table.
"Have you heard about the opera ghost?" one man whispered to his wife. They were sitting among the new managers' friends.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "I was just thinking that person at the end of the table would make a good phantom."
"Yes, but he seems to have a nose, and the opera ghost supposedly doesn't have one."
The woman gave a skeptical frown as she furtively studied the stranger. "His nose looks so transparent that it can't be real."
"Fake nose or real, have you ever seen that man before?"
"No, he must be a friend of Debienne and Poligny's."
Meanwhile the former managers' friends were having similar conversations and deciding that the cadaverous figure must be a friend of the new managers.
All the managers were too busy talking and accepting congratulations to notice the stranger until he spoke.
"The ballet girls are saying that Joseph Buquet is dead," the mysterious man announced.
"What are you talking about?" Debienne asked.
"Is he really dead?" Poligny said.
"Yes," replied the man. "His body was found in the third cellar below the stage, where they keep the old sets.
Rather appropriate for the chief stagehand."
The former managers looked at the man and then at each other. They had both turned whiter than the tablecloth.
"You need to come with us," Debienne whispered to the new managers, while Poligny muttered an excuse to the guests.
All four went into the managers' office and Debienne closed the door.
"Do either of you know that man who told us about Joseph Buquet?" Poligny looked concerned.
"I've never seen him before," Moncharmin said.
"I'd certainly remember if I'd ever met someone who looked like that!" Richard added.
"We have something to tell you—," Debienne began.
"Change all the locks immediately!" Poligny interrupted.
"But don't tell anyone you changed them!" his former partner added.
They said this in such a peculiar way that the new managers began to laugh.
"What's the problem?" Moncharmin asked. "Are there thieves at the opera house?"
"It's worse than that," Debienne said. "There's a ghost! And he's given us explicit orders to tell you to be pleasant to him and grant any request he makes."
Poligny nodded in agreement. "We wouldn't have mentioned him, but Joseph Buquet's death reminded us that whenever we've disregarded the ghost's wishes, something terrible has happened."
The new managers laughed again, certain that this was some kind of joke.
Richard had a reputation for practical jokes, so he was sure someone was trying to fool him.
"And what does this ghost of yours want?" he asked, playing along.
Poligny went over to his desk and picked up a black book.
"You gentlemen have a copy of the contract for the operation of the opera house." He turned the pages until he came to one written in red ink.
"Oh, I don't think ours contains that page," Richard said. "What strange handwriting."
"It looks like the writing of a child who's just learning to print." Moncharmin studied the page.
"And I'm positive that our book doesn't contain this clause."
Pointing to the page with a shaking finger, he read aloud:
"The managers must pay the opera ghost an allowance of 240,000 francs a year, with 20,000 francs due each month in cash."
Unlike his partner, Richard did not appear troubled by the phantom's demands.
"Is that all he wants?" he asked sarcastically. "Doesn't he have any other demands?"
"As a matter of fact, he does." Poligny flipped the pages until he came to the section about boxes for viewing performances.
Certain boxes were reserved for free use by important people such as the president of France.
At the end of this section of the contract, another line had been added in the crude red handwriting:
"Box five on the grand tier shall be made available for the opera ghost for every performance."
"Well, gentlemen, it seems to me that you were much too kind to this ghost." Richard gave them a patronizing smile.
"If I were dealing with such a troublesome phantom, I wouldn't hesitate to have him arrested."
"But how?" the former managers cried in unison.
"When he arrives at his box, obviously," Richard said.
"But we've never seen him in his box!" Debienne said.
"Then I'd sell the seats to someone else," Richard replied.
"Sell the ghost's box? I'd like to see what happens when you try that!" Poligny said, while Debienne looked grim.
Richard, convinced this was all a joke, began laughing hard.
Soon Moncharmin joined in, tears streaming down his cheeks.
