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two-storied ruin; the silence of a convent prevailed, not a light was to
be seen at the windows; near a shed was seen a low entrance to a narrow,
dark, and winding staircase. "We have made some mistake," said
Charamaule; "it is impossible that it can be here."
Meanwhile the portress, hearing all these trampling steps beneath her
doorway, had become wide awake, had lighted her lamp, and we could see
her in her lodge, her face pressed against the window, gazing with alarm
at sixty dark phantoms, motionless, and standing in her courtyard.
Esquiros addressed her: "Is this really M. Cournet's house?" said he.
"M. Cornet, without doubt," answered the good woman.
All was explained. We had asked for Cournet, the grocer had understood
Cornet, the portress had understood Cornet. It chanced that M. Cornet
lived there.
We shall see by and by what an extraordinary service chance had rendered
us.
We went out, to the great relief of the poor portress, and we resumed
our search. Xavier Durrieu succeeded in ascertaining our whereabouts,
and extricated us from our difficulty.
A few moments afterwards we turned to the left, and we entered into a
blind alley of considerable length and dimly lighted by an old oil
lamp--one of those with which Paris was formerly lighted--then again to
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