"You say that we are there, but where the devil is the cabaret? I do not see any house here."
"Certainly not, if you look round about you."
"Where should I look, then?"
"At your feet."
"At my feet?"
"Yes."
"And whereabouts?"
"Here,—look; do you see the roof? Mind, and don't step upon it."
Rodolph had not remarked one of those subterraneans which used to be seen, some years since, in certain spots in the Champs Elysées, and particularly near the Cours la Reine.
A flight of steps, cut out of the damp and greasy ground, led to the bottom of this sort of deep ditch, against one end of which, cut perpendicularly, leaned a low, mean, dilapidated hovel; its roof, covered with moss-covered tiles, was scarcely so high as the ground on which Rodolph was standing; two or three out-buildings, constructed of worm-eaten planks, serving as cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, surrounded this wretched den.