CHAPTER VIII.
THE CATACOMBS OF THE BIÈVRE AND THEIR OCCUPANTS
There was much depravity and reckless disregard of every moral and social ordinance to be found moving upon the surface of the city of Paris at this epoch; but there was still more beneath it. The vast carrières that have undermined the city in so many directions, the chief of which are now known by the general name of ‘the catacombs,’ still existed; but they were not then, as now, appropriated to the storing of remnants of mortality collected from the over-charged cemetery of the Innocents and other places of interment. They had, however, living occupants—many, perchance, whose bones exhumed and transported in future times from these burial-grounds now assist in forming the ghastly decorations of these subterranean charnel-houses.
As early as the commencement of the fourteenth century it was the custom to dig the white freestone, of which the greater part of the edifices of ancient Paris were built, from carrières on either side of the Bièvre, and beneath the Faubourg St. Marcel, in which neighbourhood much of our scene has passed. These undertakings were continued for two or three centuries, without method or direction, unrestrained by any authority, and entirely according to the will of the excavators, until they had not only hollowed out the ground for an incredible distance under the faubourgs, but had even undermined the southern parts of the city, placing in great jeopardy the streets and buildings over them, as indeed they are said to be at present. The empty caverns, most of which opened to the air and light by unguarded pits and archways, at which accidents were constantly occurring, soon found inhabitants; and whenever the working of one of these carrières ceased, either from the fear of proceeding further or the stoppage of the outlet by a tumbling in of the freestone, it was immediately taken possession of by the graceless wanderers and outcasts who formed the refuse of every grade and circle of society in the dissolute city.
A carriage was waiting, as Lachaussée had stated, at the side of the Seine; and when he had entered with his unsuspecting companion it moved on towards the southern extremity of the city, in the direction Sainte-Croix had taken the preceding evening. Scarcely a word was spoken by either party, until the vehicle stopped beneath the sign of the ‘Lanterne,’ the low tavern in the Rue Mouffetard. The light revealed its blackened beams, and the rough, crumbling pillars that supported the upper floor.
‘This is the end of our journey, mademoiselle,’ said Lachaussée; ‘we must descend now.’
‘But this is not the residence of M. de Sainte-Croix,’ observed Louise, as she cast a misgiving glance at the worn and ancient tenement.
‘We shall meet him by appointment,’ replied the other, as he got down; ‘and he is certain not to be much after his time. If he has not arrived, do not be alarmed; I have received his orders to take the greatest care of you.’
The manner of Lachaussée towards Louise was so completely changed since they last met, his usual insolence had turned to so respectful a bearing, that her suspicions were for a time lulled. ‘He is evidently trying,’ she thought, ‘to efface my recollection of his importunities.’
They were admitted by the host, and Lachaussée inquired if Gaudin had arrived. The man answered in the affirmative, and moreover stated that he had gone to his laboratory, leaving word that, if any one inquired for him, especially two who answered to the description of the present visitors, they were to be admitted to him.
He threw back a heavy door in the corner of the room as he spoke, and placed himself at the entrance with a light. It opened apparently on the brink of a dark well; at all events there was no passage leading from it. In her anxiety to meet Sainte-Croix once more, Louise had stepped forward before her conductor; but as she saw the deep abyss that yawned immediately at her feet, she started with a cry of affright.