“Come here, fool!” hissed ma mère; “come, hold the candle;” and broken glass crackled beneath her feet as she crossed the cellar towards a box in one of the bins. “Come, Jean, here are the treasures, boy; but O, look here! It is what I thought: here is the painted woman’s veil;” and she picked up a small net fall, that had evidently from its torn appearance been snatched hastily from a bonnet. “He must have dragged her down here, Jean; and then—there is that hole!”
Mother and son stayed gazing at one another with dilated eyes and parted lips, till, dropping the lid, Jean crawled shuddering away, as an echoing sound came up caused by the falling cover. Mother and son seemed fascinated for a few moments, as they pictured in their own minds the scene that might have taken place in the damp cavernous place where they stood; and then, forgetful of her main object, ma mère crept closer to her son.
“But it is very horrible!” she murmured; and as she spoke she wiped her forehead with the scrap of lace in her hand, but only to throw it down with a shudder the next moment.
“Do you think he killed her, then?” whispered Jean in a harsh dry voice.
“Hush! don’t speak, don’t talk of it,” hissed the old woman, who seemed quite unnerved, and trembled violently.
“But where do the drains go to?” whispered Jean.
“Into the big river,” said ma mère; “but come quick, there are the boxes, Jean, and let us get away from here. I hardly breathe. But O, my faith, look there!”
Jean Marais gave a cry of horror as he clutched his mother’s gown; and then they remained silent for a few moments.
The candle had burned out!