“No,” said the cripple; “you had them, ma mère.”
“Ah, yes; and I left them in the other place; but I will fetch them. Where are you?”
“I am here,” whispered Jean, whom the darkness seemed to oppress, so that he could not speak above his breath.
“But where?” hissed his mother. “I cannot tell, not yet; where is the stone?”
“Don’t move,” whispered Jean hoarsely; “there is the hole, and you will fall down.”
“Then, come you,” hissed his mother; “we cannot stay here in the dark; and I am not come to go back with empty hand.”
“What can I do?” cried Jean angrily. “I am afraid to move. Why did you not let me have my crutch?” And now he began to feel slowly along the wall in search of the stone, but his hands only came in contact with the brick bins and empty bottles.
“Have you found the opening, Jean?” whispered his mother from the other side of the cellar; and then a cold shudder ran through the cripple as he stood with his hand upon the stone, for there was the sound of someone falling over a piece of board, and ma mère shrieked out, “O, mon Dieu, I am lost!” while standing there in the fearful darkness, and knowing his own helplessness, Jean almost swooned with horror.
“Here, quick, Jean, your hand!” cried his mother huskily; and on crawling towards the sound, Jean clutched his mother’s arms, and dragged at her, for she was lying with part of her body in the hole, but in no real danger, though unnerved and terrified, her fancy having magnified the peril a hundredfold before she lay panting on the damp sawdust beside her son.
“Not deep, not deep,” she muttered; “but, ah, Jean, it was very dreadful! I felt as if the painted woman was dragging me down.”