‘Do not alarm yourself, mademoiselle,’ said Lachaussée; ‘Monsieur is a subtle chemist, and pursues his studies below. Let me go first.’
Lachaussée took the light from the host, and grasping the hand of Louise, almost dragged her towards the door-way, for she hung back from terror. The light revealed a few rude wooden steps, down which they passed; and then she found herself, with her guide, in a narrow excavation, scarcely large enough to contain them both, and hewn in the solid limestone.
A straightened passage led from this hollow upon a rapid descent. The walls were roughly fashioned, as well as the roof, from which large blocks depended, which threatened every instant to tumble down and crush those below. At the sides the stone was dirty and smoothed, as if from the frequent contact of passers by; but above it was white, and scintillated in places from the reflection of the light which Lachaussée carried. They went rapidly on, still going down, down, until the arched-way became damp, and in some places small streams of water trickled through the walls, or mixed with the lime and depended in stalactites from the projecting pieces. Then other caverns branched out from the track they were following, and were soon lost in the obscurity. Shells and marine fossils, so bright that they almost appeared metallic, were everywhere visible, and occasionally the petrified traces of monsters of a former world started out from the rude boundaries of the passage. The air became chill and damp; the breath of the intruders steamed in the flaring light of the torch; and their footsteps fell without an echo, clogged by the deadened and imprisoned atmosphere. Louise spoke not a word; but even clung to Lachaussée in the fright of their dreary journey.
Before long the way became more lofty and spacious. Other tracks evidently branched into it from various points; and the paths were more beaten, but still always descending. Louise fancied she heard sounds too; now and then the echo of a laugh, as at a distance, or the roar of hasty altercation. She addressed several questions to Lachaussée, as to how much further they had to travel, but received no reply beyond a commonplace evasion. Then the sounds were louder and nearer; and at last the superintendent of the Gobelins pushed aside a curtain of coarse sackcloth that hung before a doorway, as if to deaden the noise within, and led Louise into an apartment about thirty feet square, roughly cut in the same manner as the archway, but in a soft, chalky stone—that kind which, burnt and pulverised, is known so well in the arts.
There were many people of both sexes in this vault, and a glance sufficed to show that they were collected from the lowest dregs of those who lived from day to day they cared not how—in Paris. When any one of their usual haunts—such as the Cours des Miracles, before alluded to—became too prominent in its iniquities for the police to suffer it to remain unvisited, they sought a refuge in the carrières at the southern part of the city, beyond the barriers, out of the jurisdiction of the Guet Royal. The Garde Bourgeois they set entirely at defiance. Having once taken possession of their subterranean domain, approach was at all times dangerous, except to the initiated. The fruits of all the robberies committed in the faubourgs were stored in the gypsum vaults of St. Marcel; and these caverns also served to secrete those hapless people who had been carried off by force, and were either sent from there to America—to be sold, as they affirmed, having been kept en charte privée—or else they were disposed of to the officers who were on the look-out for recruits. Lachaussée’s employments, whilst in the service of Sainte-Croix, were of this nature, and will in some measure account for his intimacy with the inhabitants of the carrières.
There was a rough table in this room, formed by planks laid upon blocks of gypsum. Seats of the same fashion were placed about, and settles were in some places cut from the limestone itself. Lamps were hung from the roof, burning dimly in the imprisoned air, and smoking the blackened pointed incrustation that depended around them in fanciful variety.
We have said that several persons, both male and female, were grouped about the room. Some were drinking; others quarrelling over and dividing their spoils; and many were sleeping off the fumes of intoxication. But there was one man striding about the room, to whom they all appeared to pay some deference—such respect, at least, as could be exacted from the party. He was of enormous stature, and clad in the rudest manner, in garments apparently chosen from half a dozen different wardrobes. His hair hung matted and dishevelled about his head, and his arms were bare, of immense power, and scarred in all directions. One eye was perfectly closed, the result of some violent attack, and the other glared unnaturally, from the absence of a portion of the upper eyelid. As Lachaussée lifted up the curtain he turned sharply round, but, recognising him, dropped immediately into his usual lounging position. This man was Bras d’Acier, the most celebrated brigand of the city.
‘M. Lachaussée,’ he said, ‘enter. I thought Colbert had dared some of his bloodhounds to follow us. Whom have you there?’
‘A friend of M. de Sainte-Croix,’ replied the intendant, with much significance. ‘He wishes her taken the greatest care of.’
‘She is welcome,’ replied Bras d’Acier. ‘His wishes shall be obeyed.’