Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, measuring it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite of her short stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed an activity and an energy that were truly extraordinary.
“Ah!” she repeated, “if I only had an instrument!”
And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into which she might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plans of assault, she thought of using force, and then she fell back on stratagem, on some piece of treachery which would open to her the doors, merely by breathing upon them.
Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means.
“Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is there not?”
“Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it is about the height of this molding.”
Félicité made a triumphant gesture.
“Have you a gimlet—a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!”
Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that had been asked.
“In that way, you see, we shall make no noise,” resumed the old woman, setting herself to her task.