the childhood episode in which he retrieves her scarf from the sea, and continues even in the dangerous present of the novel with the “game” of their one-month engagement—is set up to provide a stark contrast to Christine’s parallel dark and perilous relationship with Erik. Second, the textual presentation of Raoul as self-absorbed and thoroughly ineffectual is part of a larger strategy to make Erik more sympathetic, by comparison, to the reader. Indeed, Raoul’s very persistence in viewing first and foremost as his romantic rival the man that he initially knows as Christine’s mysterious dressing room visitor, and later as the dangerous villain that he is, highlights a stubborn narcissism that takes a firmer and firmer hold of him as the novel progresses. To confirm Raoul’s heroic incompetence as a hero, the reader need only call to mind the scene in which a bumbling Raoul, teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown, desperately fires his gun into the air of his bedroom in an effort to rid himself of his foe. Third, from a cultural and sociological perspective, Raoul’s behavior along with that of his older brother, Count Philippe de Chagny, are examples of the codified aristocratic behavior typical of the late nineteenth century. Philippe, as the head of what is described by the narrator as one of the most venerable families in all of Europe, assumes the role of both father and mentor in his relationship with his younger brother. He helps shape Raoul’s career decision—the narrator tells us that he foresees “a glorious career for his junior in the navy in which one of their ancestors, the famous Chagny de La Roche, had held the rank of admiral” (p. 23)—and serves, during the six-month furlough that brings Raoul to the capital just prior to the tragic events that befall the two brothers, as his guide and initiator into the social world of the Parisian upper classes.
Although it is certainly not his primary focus, Leroux, through his depictions of secondary characters, also takes the opportunity to paint in broad strokes interesting portraits of other social types and situations of nineteenth-century culture and to make an often ironic social commentary. We are exposed, for example, to the inflated egos of diva opera singers like Carlotta (who, as we observe during the performance of Faust in which she has been warned not to sing, has a loyal and protective following that is easily incited by rumor), ambitious dancers like La Sorelli (who is “frequented” by Philippe de Chagny), and the aspirations of rapid social ascent of the laughably unrealistic Madame Giry (whose primary reason for serving as the ghost’s personal assistant is his promise-like prediction that her daughter, Meg, will become an empress).
Members of the legal profession are also particular targets of Leroux’s critical wit. From Monsieur Faure, the dismissive magistrate charged with ruling on the original inquiry, to Mifroid, the commissary of police called in to handle the investigation after Christine’s disappearance—who first appears in one of Leroux’s earlier novels, La Double Vie de Théophraste Longuet (1904; The Double Life of Théophraste Longuet)— these characters exhibit a too-literal dependence on fact, appearance, and procedure. Unlike the (competent!) narrator, and unlike Leroux himself, whose legal background and experience in court reporting prompted him throughout his life to question everything and to accept little at face value, they uniformly fail to apply reason and logic to the evidence collected in the case, and wind up understanding nothing at all, hiding behind red tape and the certainty of the official pronouncements.
When Gaston Leroux died suddenly in April 1927, just two years after The Phantom of the Opera had been turned into a film of great success, he surely could not have predicted the amazing afterlife that the novel would have during the remainder of the twentieth and now the