Erik: Are you very tired?Christine: Oh, tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead.Erik: Your soul is a beautiful thing, child. No emperor received so fair a gift. The angels wept to-night.

Rien n’était plus froid, rien n’était plus mort que son cœur : il avait aimé un ange et il méprisait une femme.

Then I made her understand that, where she was concerned, I was only a poor dog, ready to die for her. But that she could marry the young man she pleased because she had cried...

when a man”, continued Raoul,”adopts such romantic methods to entice a young girl’s affections. ..””The man must be either a villain, or the girl a fool: is that it?

I say, `Woe to them that have a nose, a real nose,and come to look round the torture-chamber! Aha, aha, aha!

You must know that I am made of death, from head to foot, and it is a corpse who loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you!

Know that it is a corpse who loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you!…Look, I am not laughing now, crying, crying for you, Christine, who have torn off my mask and...

Erik, Erik! I saved your life! Remember? You were scentenced to death! But for me you would be dead by now.

… My mother, daroga, my poor, unhappy mother would never… let me kiss her… She used to run away… and throw me my mask!… Nor any other woman… ever, ever!… Ah, you can understand, my...

All I wanted was to be loved for myself.” (Erik)

Look!You want to see? See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik’s face! Now you know the face of the voice! You were not content to hear me, eh?...

For instance, a fireman is a brave fellow! He fears nothing, least ofall fire! Well, the fireman in question, who had gone to make a roundof inspection in the cellars and who, it seems, had...

He fills me with horror and I do not hate him. How can I hate him, Raoul? Think of Erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. He accuses himself, he curses...

He stared dully at the desolate, cold road and the pale, dead night. Nothing was colder or more dead than his heart. He had loved an angel and now he despised a woman.

An author really ought to have nothing but flowers in the room where he works.