Late as it was—nearly twelve—the door stood open; but even if the old woman’s catlike step and the slow painful shuffle of her son had been heard, they would have excited no attention, as stealthily she helped Jean along, until they stood at the head of the cellar-steps.
“Ah!” hissed ma mère as she kicked against something soft, “but it is that Bijou who has followed us.—Back, then!” she hissed, striking at the dumb brute, whose soft patter was now heard along the dark passage as the animal scuffled away. “Now, mind,” whispered ma mère as they descended slowly, while once Jean slipped and nearly dragged the old woman headlong to the bottom; but he saved himself by grasping the rough railing, and after recovering his panting breath another trial was made, and they stood at the bottom, when, feeling her way along, ma mère led him till, still in the dark, they stood in the front cellar, where the water dripped hollowly into the tub. But the woman well knew her way; and, with one arm round her son, she helped him along to the arch, warned him of the step down, and so drew him into the back-cellar and along to the end, where she left him leaning against one of the bins while she stole softly back to the cellar-steps to listen for awhile before returning to strike a match and light her piece of candle, which she screened by holding it far into the bin.
“No, Jean,” she muttered, “he dare not come back, for there is a police always on the watch for him, though I have not told. But, hush! don’t speak,” she whispered, as a heavy step was heard to pass along the court; and all the while the light shone strangely upon her sharp withered features and the sallow face and wild eyes of Jean. “Hold this now,” she said softly, and once more she went nimbly back to the cellar-door to listen, when, closing it gently, she hurried to the side of her trembling son. “You fool!” she muttered sneeringly, “you shake, and there is nothing to fear. Now hold the candle low, and shade it with your coat;” and then, going down upon hands and knees, she crawled into the bin before her—one that was deep and narrow; and, panting and sighing with the exertion, she scraped away a little of the blackened sawdust, and thrust her hands beneath what appeared to be the brick end of the bin, lifted it a little and then thrust sideways, when the whole back slowly slid along, disclosing an opening which the whitewashed stone had before covered.
A little more hard thrusting and Jean could see that there was apparently room to pass into what appeared to be another cellar, while a cold, damp, foul-smelling vapour rushed through, and nearly extinguished the candle.
“Come, quick, Jean,” panted ma mère, making her way through the opening, when Jean crawled into the bin and handed her the guttering candle before following her through the hole, against which he kneeled hesitating; but directly after he crept through and stood beside his mother in a little cellar surrounded by bins similar to those in the one they had left; then, having stuck the candle amongst the loose damp sawdust, ma mère drew the stone flag back into its place, for it ran in a rough brick groove at the bottom, while at the top it was kept from falling by a large iron bar roughly laid in a couple of staples.
“Now look, now look,” hissed ma mère, taking the candle in her hands and peering about; “wine, old wine in bottles, put here and forgotten; and what is this?—my faith, it is a melting-pot;” and she paused curiously by a large black-lead crucible, fitted upon a rough brick furnace, whose chimney was a piece of iron piping, carried up apparently into one of the house flues. By its side in an old box was a quantity of charcoal; and in another several pounds of saltpetre, evidently used to augment the fierceness of the fire, while by the side lay a pair of bellows—instruments which had before now caused angry words to issue from Mr Jarker’s lips. “Now look, Jean; but what ails you, fool? Look at the boxes; there, that is where the rich things are;” and her lean fingers clutched and clawed and opened and shut as she held a hand out towards a rough chest.
Jean was gazing with astonished eyes around him at the gloomy place; at the bins half full of empty bottles; at a couple of boxes that lay in one; but, as his mother spoke, he was leaning towards one corner of the cellar where there seemed to be an opening, which was lightly covered with an old box-lid.
“What is that?” he whispered.
“What? fool!” exclaimed ma mère, going to the lid and lifting it; when the foul wind rushed up, and once more nearly extinguished her candle. “Pah!” she ejaculated; “a way down into the drains, and O, my faith, Jean, but it is the rat’s hole; but,” she chuckled, “he dare not come, the ferrets and dogs are after him, and he will soon feel their teeth. So, my faith! he had two holes.”
As she spoke she hastily closed the place once more, listening the while to a musical trickling noise which came whispering up; but, led by some strange impulse, Jean went down upon his knees by the hole, and lifted the lid again, peering down into the black darkness, and listening to the hollow echoing noise, while from apparently a distance came a rushing sound as of a stream through a large sewer, and the young man shuddered as he listened to its strange wild cadence.