"And what followed?"
"At the end of the alcove I perceived a little door,—one would never have supposed there was a door there; but, though old, I have good eyes, and, while pushing the bed, which made the wainscot creak, I saw the door."
"To the point, I beg of you," resumed Chaudoreille, whose eyes betrayed the uneasiness he tried in vain to dissemble.
"Well, now, I confess to you, monsieur, that I didn't dare open that door. It was no doubt the door of a closet; but that alcove is so gloomy, so dark. Finally, I'll be very much obliged if you'll come up with me and go first into whatever place we find there. I daren't ask M. Touquet, for he'd scoff at me."
"And he would be right, by jingo! Why, Marguerite, at your age, not to have more courage than that!"
"What can you expect? I'm afraid there may be a goblin in that closet, who will jump in my face when I open the door, which has perhaps been closed for many years; for I've never seen M. Touquet enter the room."
"Don't goblins pass through keyholes? Come, Marguerite, I blush for your cowardice."
"No one can say that sorcerers are rare in Paris. Haven't they established a Chamber at the Arsenal expressly to judge them?"
"That's true, I confess; but I don't see what makes you imagine there are any in this house?"
"Ah, Monsieur Chaudoreille, if I was to tell you all I have seen and heard—and at night the noises which—"