x006c;,, that her guess was correct: the doctor approved.   He returned to Fantine's bed,, and she went on:--   "You see,, when she wakes up in the morning,, I shall be able to say good morning to her,, poor kitten,, and when I cannot sleep at night,, I can hear her asleep; her little gentle breathing will do me good."   "Give me your hand,," said the doctor.   She stretched out her arm,, and exclaimed with a laugh:--   "Ah,, hold! in truth,, you did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will arrive to-morrow."   The doctor was surprised; she was better; the pressure on her chest had decreased; her pulse had regained its strength; a sort of life had suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor,, worn-out creature.   "Doctor,," she went on,, "did the sister tell you that M. le Maire has gone to get that mite of a child?"   The doctor recommended silence,, and that all painful emotions should be avoided; he prescribed an infusion of pure chinchona,, and,, in case the fever should increase again during the night,, a calming potion. As he took his departure,, he said to the sister:--   "She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should actually arrive to-morrow with the child,, who knows? there are crises so astounding; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; I know well that this is an organic disease,, and in an advanced state,, but all those things are such mysteries:   we may be able to save her." BOOK SEVENTH.--THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR CHAPTER VII   THE TRAVELLER ON HIS ARRIVAL TAKES PRECAUTIONS FOR DEPARTURE   It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening when the cart,, which we left on the road,, entered the porte-cochere of the Hotel de la Poste in Arras; the man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted from it,, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the people of the inn,, sent back the extra horse,, and with his own hands led the little white horse to the stable; then he opened the door of a billiard-room which was situated on the ground floor,, sat down there,, and leaned his elbows on a table; he had taken fourteen hours for the journey which he had counted on making in six; he did himself the justice to acknowledge that it was not his fault,, but at bottom,, he was not sorry.   The landlady of the hotel entered.   "Does Monsieur wish a bed?   Does Monsieur require supper?"   He made a sign of the head in the negative.   "The stableman says that Monsieur's horse is extremely fatigued."   Here he broke his silence.   "Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow morning?"   "Oh,, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least."   He inquired:--   "Is not the posting-station located here?"   "Yes,, sir."   The hostess conducted him to the office; he showed his passport,, and inquired whether there was any way of returning that same night to M. sur M. by the mail-wagon; the seat beside the post-boy chanced to be vacant; he engaged it and paid for it.   "Monsieur,," said the clerk,, "do not fail to be here ready to start at precisely one o'clock in the morning."   This done,, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town.   He was not acquainted with Arras; the streets were dark,, and he walked on at random; but he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the passers-by. He crossed the little river Crinchon,, and found himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way. A citizen was passing along with a lantern.   After some hesitation,, he decided to apply to this man,, not without having first glanced behind and in front of him,, as though he feared lest some one should hear the question which he was about to put.   "Monsieur,," said he,, "where is the court-house,, if you please."   "You do not belong in town,, sir?" replied the bourgeois,, who was an oldish man; "well,, follow me.   I happen to be going in the direction of the court-house,, that is to say,, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture; for the court-house is undergoing repairs just at this moment,, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the prefecture."   "Is it there that the Assizes are held?" he asked.   "Certainly,, sir; you see,, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop's palace before the Revolution.   M. de Conzie,, who was bishop in '82,, built a grand hall there.   It is in this grand hall that the court is held."   On the way,, the bourgeois said to him:--   "If Monsieur desires to witness a case,, it is rather late. The sittings generally close at six o'clock."   When they arrived on the grand square,, however,, the man pointed out to him four long windows all lighted up,, in the front of a vast and gloomy building.   "Upon my word,, sir,, you are in luck; you have arrived in season. Do you see those four windows?   That is the Court of Assizes. There is light there,, so they are not through.   The matter must have been greatly protracted,, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair?   Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness?"   He replied:--   "I have not come on any business; I only wish to speak to one of the lawyers."   "That is different,," said the bourgeois.   "Stop,, sir; here is the door where the sentry stands.   You have only to ascend the grand staircase."   He conformed to the bourgeois's directions,, and a few minutes later he was in a hall containing many people,, and where groups,, intermingled with lawyers in their gowns,, were whispering together here and there.   It is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations of men robed in black,, murmuring together in low voices,, on the threshold of the halls of justice.   It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome of these words.   Condemnations pronounced in advance are more likely to be the result.   All these groups seem to the passing and thoughtful observer so many sombre hives where buzzing spirits construct in concert all sorts of dark edifices.   This spacious hall,, illuminated by a single lamp,, was the old hall of the episcopal palace,, and served as the large hall of the palace of justice.   A double-leaved door,, which was closed at that moment,, se
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    66;irst floor,, between street and gardens,, furnished to the very ceilings with great Gobelins and Beauvais tapestries representing pastoral scenes; the subjects of the ceilings and the panels were repeated in miniature on the arm-chairs. He enveloped his bed in a vast,, nine-leaved screen of Coromandel lacquer.   Long,, full curtains hung from the windows,, and formed great,, broken folds that were very magnificent. The garden situated immediately under his windows was attached to that one of them which formed the angle,, by means of a staircase twelve or fifteen steps long,, which the old gentleman ascended and descended with great agility.   In addition to a library adjoining his chamber,, he had a boudoir of which he thought a great deal,, a gallant and elegant retreat,, with magnificent hangings of straw,, with a pattern of flowers and fleurs-de-lys made on the galleys of Louis XIV.   and ordered of his convicts by M. de Vivonne for his mistress.   M. Gillenormand had inherited it from a grim maternal great-aunt,, who had died a centenarian.   He had had two wives. His manners were something between those of the courtier,, which he had never been,, and the lawyer,, which he might have been. He was gay,, and caressing when he had a mind.   In his youth he had been one of those men who are always deceived by their wives and never by their mistresses,, because they are,, at the same time,, the most sullen of husbands and the most charming of lovers in existence.   He was a connoisseur of painting.   He had in his chamber a marvellous portrait of no one knows whom,, painted by Jordaens,, executed with great dashes of the brush,, with millions of details,, in a confused and hap-hazard manner.   M. Gillenormand's attire was not the habit of Louis XIV.   nor yet that of Louis XVI.; it was that of the Incroyables of the Directory.   He had thought himself young up to that period and had followed the fashions. His coat was of light-weight cloth with voluminous revers,, a long swallow-tail and large steel buttons.   With this he wore knee-breeches and buckle shoes.   He always thrust his hands into his fobs. He said authoritatively:   "The French Revolution is a heap of blackguards." BOOK SECOND.--THE GREAT BOURGEOIS CHAPTER III   LUC-ESPRIT    At the age of sixteen,, one evening at the opera,, he had had the honor to be stared at through opera-glasses by two beauties at the same time--ripe and celebrated beauties then,, and sung by Voltaire,, the Camargo and the Salle.   Caught between two fires,, he had beaten a heroic retreat towards a little dancer,, a young girl named Nahenry,, who was sixteen like himself,, obscure as a cat,, and with whom he was in love.   He abounded in memories.   He was accustomed to exclaim: "How pretty she was--that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette,, the last time I saw her at Longchamps,, her hair curled in sustained sentiments,, with her come-and-see of turquoises,, her gown of the color of persons newly arrived,, and her little agitation muff!" He had worn in his young manhood a waistcoat of Nain-Londrin,, which he was fond of talking about effusively.   "I was dressed like a Turk of the Levant Levantin,," said he.   Madame de Boufflers,, having seen him by chance when he was twenty,, had described him as "a charming fool."   He was horrified by all the names which he saw in politics and in power,, regarding them as vulgar and bourgeois. He read the journals,, the newspapers,, the gazettes as he said,, stifling outbursts of laughter the while.   "Oh!" he said,, "what people these are!   Corbiere!   Humann!   Casimir Perier! There's a minister for you!   I can imagine this in a journal: `M. Gillenorman,, minister!' that would be a farce.   Well!   They are so stupid that it would pass"; he merrily called everything by its name,, whether decent or indecent,, and did not restrain himself in the least before ladies.   He uttered coarse speeches,, obscenities,, and filth with a certain tranquillity and lack of astonishment which was elegant. It was in keeping with the unceremoniousness of his century. It is to be noted that the age of periphrase in verse was the age of crudities in prose.   His god-father had predicted that he would turn out a man of genius,, and had bestowed on him these two significant names:   Luc-Esprit. BOOK SECOND.--THE GREAT BOURGEOIS CHAPTER IV   A CENTENARIAN ASPIRANT    He had taken prizes in his boyhood at the College of Moulins,, where he was born,, and he had been crowned by the hand of the Duc de Nivernais,, whom he called the Duc de Nevers.   Neither the Convention,, nor the death of Louis XVI.,, nor the Napoleon,, nor the return of the Bourbons,, nor anything else had been able to efface the memory of this crowning. The Duc de Nevers was,, in his eyes,, the great figure of the century. "What a charming grand seigneur,," he said,, "and what a fine air he had with his blue ribbon!"   In the eyes of M. Gillenormand,, Catherine the Second had made reparation for the crime of the partition of Poland by purchasing,, for three thousand roubles,, the secret of the elixir of gold,, from Bestucheff. He grew animated on this subject:   "The elixir of gold,," he exclaimed,, "the yellow dye of Bestucheff,, General Lamotte's drops,, in the eighteenth century,,--this was the great remedy for the catastrophes of love,, the panacea against Venus,, at one louis the half-ounce phial. Louis XV.   sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope."   He would have been greatly irritated and thrown off his balance,, had any one told him that the elixir of gold is nothing but the perchloride of iron. M. Gillenormand adored the Bourbons,, and had a horror of 1789; he was forever narrating in what manner he had saved himself during the Terror,, and how he had been obliged to display a vast deal of gayety and cleverness ins order to escape having his head cut off. If any young man ventured to pronounce an eulogium on the Republic in his presence,, he turned purple and grew so angry that he was on the point of swooning.   He sometimes alluded to his ninety years,, and said,, "I hope that I shall not see ninety-t&
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    #x0076;ed himself against it.   His face wore a sort of severe flush. He was timid even to rudeness.   During all these trials he had felt himself encouraged and even uplifted,, at times,, by a secret force that he possessed within himself. The soul aids the body,, and at certain moments,, raises it. It is the only bird which bears up its own cage.   Besides his father's name,, another name was graven in Marius' heart,, the name of Thenardier.   Marius,, with his grave and enthusiastic nature,, surrounded with a sort of aureole the man to whom,, in his thoughts,, he owed his father's life,,--that intrepid sergeant who had saved the colonel amid the bullets and the cannon-balls of Waterloo. He never separated the memory of this man from the memory of his father,, and he associated them in his veneration.   It was a sort of worship in two steps,, with the grand altar for the colonel and the lesser one for Thenardier.   What redoubled the tenderness of his gratitude towards Thenardier,, was the idea of the distress into which he knew that Thenardier had fallen,, and which had engulfed the latter. Marius had learned at Montfermeil of the ruin and bankruptcy of the unfortunate inn-keeper. Since that time,, he had made unheard-of efforts to find traces of him and to reach him in that dark abyss of misery in which Thenardier had disappeared.   Marius had beaten the whole country; he had gone to Chelles,, to Bondy,, to Gourney,, to Nogent,, to Lagny. He had persisted for three years,, expending in these explorations the little money which he had laid by.   No one had been able to give him any news of Thenardier:   he was supposed to have gone abroad. His creditors had also sought him,, with less love than Marius,, but with as much assiduity,, and had not been able to lay their hands on him.   Marius blamed himself,, and was almost angry with himself for his lack of success in his researches.   It was the only debt left him by the colonel,, and Marius made it a matter of honor to pay it. "What,," he thought,, "when my father lay dying on the field of battle,, did Thenardier contrive to find him amid the smoke and the grape-shot,, and bear him off on his shoulders,, and yet he owed him nothing,, and I,, who owe so much to Thenardier,, cannot join him in this shadow where he is lying in the pangs of death,, and in my turn bring him back from death to life!   Oh!   I will find him!" To find Thenardier,, in fact,, Marius would have given one of his arms,, to rescue him from his misery,, he would have sacrificed all his blood. To see Thenardier,, to render Thenardier some service,, to say to him: "You do not know me; well,, I do know you!   Here I am.   Dispose of me!" This was Marius' sweetest and most magnificent dream. BOOK FIFTH.--THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE CHAPTER III   MARIUS GROWN UP    At this epoch,, Marius was twenty years of age.   It was three years since he had left his grandfather.   Both parties had remained on the same terms,, without attempting to approach each other,, and without seeking to see each other.   Besides,, what was the use of seeing each other?   Marius was the brass vase,, while Father Gillenormand was the iron pot.   We admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's heart. He had imagined that M. Gillenormand had never loved him,, and that that crusty,, harsh,, and smiling old fellow who cursed,, shouted,, and stormed and brandished his cane,, cherished for him,, at the most,, only that affection,, which is at once slight and severe,, of the dotards of comedy.   Marius was in error. There are fathers who do not love their children; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson.   At bottom,, as we have said,, M. Gillenormand idolized Marius.   He idolized him after his own fashion,, with an accompaniment of snappishness and boxes on the ear; but,, this child once gone,, he felt a black void in his heart; he would allow no one to mention the child to him,, and all the while secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed. At first,, he hoped that this Buonapartist,, this Jacobin,, this terrorist,, this Septembrist,, would return.   But the weeks passed by,, years passed; to M. Gillenormand's great despair,, the "blood-drinker" did not make his appearance.   "I could not do otherwise than turn him out,," said the grandfather to himself,, and he asked himself: "If the thing were to do over again,, would I do it?"   His pride instantly answered "yes,," but his aged head,, which he shook in silence,, replied sadly "no."   He had his hours of depression. He missed Marius.   Old men need affection as they need the sun. It is warmth.   Strong as his nature was,, the absence of Marius had wrought some change in him.   Nothing in the world could have induced him to take a step towards "that rogue"; but he suffered. He never inquired about him,, but he thought of him incessantly. He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner; he was still merry and violent as of old,, but his merriment had a convulsive harshness,, and his violences always terminated in a sort of gentle and gloomy dejection.   He sometimes said: "Oh! if he only would return,, what a good box on the ear I would give him!"   As for his aunt,, she thought too little to love much; Marius was no longer for her much more than a vague black form; and she eventually came to occupy herself with him much less than with the cat or the paroquet which she probably had.   What augmented Father Gillenormand's secret suffering was,, that he locked it all up within his breast,, and did not allow its existence to be divined. His sorrow was like those recently invented furnaces which consume their own smoke.   It sometimes happened that officious busybodies spoke to him of Marius,, and asked him:   "What is your grandson doing?" "What has become of him?"   The old bourgeois replied with a sigh,, that he was a sad case,, and giving a fillip to his cuff,, if he wished to appear gay:   "Monsieur le Baron de Pontmercy is practising pettifogging in some corner or other."   While the old man regretted,, Marius applauded himself. As is&#x
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    5;an appeared to him hideous and repulsive.   He was a man reproved,, he was the convict. That word was for him like the sound of the trump on the Day of Judgment; and,, after having reflected upon Jean Valjean for a long time,, his final gesture had been to turn away his head. Vade retro.   Marius,, if we must recognize and even insist upon the fact,, while interrogating Jean Valjean to such a point that Jean Valjean had said:   "You are confessing me,," had not,, nevertheless,, put to him two or three decisive questions.   It was not that they had not presented themselves to his mind,, but that he had been afraid of them.   The Jondrette attic? The barricade?   Javert?   Who knows where these revelations would have stopped?   Jean Valjean did not seem like a man who would draw back,, and who knows whether Marius,, after having urged him on,, would not have himself desired to hold him back?   Has it not happened to all of us,, in certain supreme conjunctures,, to stop our ears in order that we may not hear the reply,, after we have asked a question?   It is especially when one loves that one gives way to these exhibitions of cowardice.   It is not wise to question sinister situations to the last point,, particularly when the indissoluble side of our life is fatally intermingled with them.   What a terrible light might have proceeded from the despairing explanations of Jean Valjean,, and who knows whether that hideous glare would not have darted forth as far as Cosette?   Who knows whether a sort of infernal glow would not have lingered behind it on the brow of that angel? The spattering of a lightning-flash is of the thunder also. Fatality has points of juncture where innocence itself is stamped with crime by the gloomy law of the reflections which give color. The purest figures may forever preserve the reflection of a horrible association.   Rightly or wrongly,, Marius had been afraid. He already knew too much.   He sought to dull his senses rather than to gain further light.   In dismay he bore off Cosette in his arms and shut his eyes to Jean Valjean.   That man was the night,, the living and horrible night. How should he dare to seek the bottom of it?   It is a terrible thing to interrogate the shadow.   Who knows what its reply will be? The dawn may be blackened forever by it.   In this state of mind the thought that that man would,, henceforth,, come into any contact whatever with Cosette was a heartrending perplexity to Marius.   He now almost reproached himself for not having put those formidable questions,, before which he had recoiled,, and from which an implacable and definitive decision might have sprung. He felt that he was too good,, too gentle,, too weak,, if we must say the word.   This weakness had led him to an imprudent concession. He had allowed himself to be touched.   He had been in the wrong. He ought to have simply and purely rejected Jean Valjean.   Jean Valjean played the part of fire,, and that is what he should have done,, and have freed his house from that man.   He was vexed with himself,, he was angry with that whirlwind of emotions which had deafened,, blinded,, and carried him away. He was displeased with himself.   What was he to do now?   Jean Valjean's visits were profoundly repugnant to him.   What was the use in having that man in his house?   What did the man want?   Here,, he became dismayed,, he did not wish to dig down,, he did not wish to penetrate deeply; he did not wish to sound himself. He had promised,, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a promise; Jean Valjean held his promise; one must keep one's word even to a convict,, above all to a convict.   Still,, his first duty was to Cosette. In short,, he was carried away by the repugnance which dominated him.   Marius turned over all this confusion of ideas in his mind,, passing from one to the other,, and moved by all of them. Hence arose a profound trouble.   It was not easy for him to hide this trouble from Cosette,, but love is a talent,, and Marius succeeded in doing it.   However,, without any apparent object,, he questioned Cosette,, who was as candid as a dove is white and who suspected nothing; he talked of her childhood and her youth,, and he became more and more convinced that that convict had been everything good,, paternal and respectable that a man can be towards Cosette. All that Marius had caught a glimpse of and had surmised was real. That sinister nettle had loved and protected that lily. BOOK EIGHTH.--FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT CHAPTER I   THE LOWER CHAMBER   On the following day,, at nightfall,, Jean Valjean knocked at the carriage gate of the Gillenormand house.   It was Basque who received him. Basque was in the courtyard at the appointed hour,, as though he had received his orders.   It sometimes happens that one says to a servant: "You will watch for Mr. So and So,, when he arrives."   Basque addressed Jean Valjean without waiting for the latter to approach him:   "Monsieur le Baron has charged me to inquire whether monsieur desires to go upstairs or to remain below?"   "I will remain below,," replied Jean Valjean.   Basque,, who was perfectly respectful,, opened the door of the waiting-room and said:   "I will go and inform Madame."   The room which Jean Valjean entered was a damp,, vaulted room on the ground floor,, which served as a cellar on occasion,, which opened on the street,, was paved with red squares and was badly lighted by a grated window.   This chamber was not one of those which are harassed by the feather-duster,, the pope's head brush,, and the broom. The dust rested tranquilly there.   Persecution of the spiders was not organized there.   A fine web,, which spread far and wide,, and was very black and ornamented with dead flies,, formed a wheel on one of the window-panes. The room,, which was small and low-ceiled,, was furnished with a heap of empty bottles piled up in one corner.   The wall,, which was daubed with an ochre yellow wash,, was scaling off in large flakes.   At one end there was a chimney-piece painted in black with a narrow shelf.   A fire was burning there; which indicated that Jean Valjean's reply:   "I will remain below,,"&#x
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    0020;by walls hung with vines,, and the face of a lounging porter.   Above the wall,, at the bottom of the court,, tall trees were visible.   When a ray of sunlight enlivened the courtyard,, when a glass of wine cheered up the porter,, it was difficult to pass Number 62 Little Picpus Street without carrying away a smiling impression of it.   Nevertheless,, it was a sombre place of which one had had a glimpse.   The threshold smiled; the house prayed and wept.   If one succeeded in passing the porter,, which was not easy,,-- which was even nearly impossible for every one,, for there was an open sesame! which it was necessary to know,,--if,, the porter once passed,, one entered a little vestibule on the right,, on which opened a staircase shut in between two walls and so narrow that only one person could ascend it at a time,, if one did not allow one's self to be alarmed by a daubing of canary yellow,, with a dado of chocolate which clothed this staircase,, if one ventured to ascend it,, one crossed a first landing,, then a second,, and arrived on the first story at a corridor where the yellow wash and the chocolate-hued plinth pursued one with a peaceable persistency. Staircase and corridor were lighted by two beautiful windows. The corridor took a turn and became dark.   If one doubled this cape,, one arrived a few paces further on,, in front of a door which was all the more mysterious because it was not fastened.   If one opened it,, one found one's self in a little chamber about six feet square,, tiled,, well-scrubbed,, clean,, cold,, and hung with nankin paper with green flowers,, at fifteen sous the roll.   A white,, dull light fell from a large window,, with tiny panes,, on the left,, which usurped the whole width of the room.   One gazed about,, but saw no one; one listened,, one heard neither a footstep nor a human murmur. The walls were bare,, the chamber was not furnished; there was not even a chair.   One looked again,, and beheld on the wall facing the door a quadrangular hole,, about a foot square,, with a grating of interlacing iron bars,, black,, knotted,, solid,, which formed squares-- I had almost said meshes--of less than an inch and a half in diagonal length.   The little green flowers of the nankin paper ran in a calm and orderly manner to those iron bars,, without being startled or thrown into confusion by their funereal contact. Supposing that a living being had been so wonderfully thin as to essay an entrance or an exit through the square hole,, this grating would have prevented it.   It did not allow the passage of the body,, but it did allow the passage of the eyes; that is to say,, of the mind. This seems to have occurred to them,, for it had been re-enforced by a sheet of tin inserted in the wall a little in the rear,, and pierced with a thousand holes more microscopic than the holes of a strainer.   At the bottom of this plate,, an aperture had been pierced exactly similar to the orifice of a letter box.   A bit of tape attached to a bell-wire hung at the right of the grated opening.   If the tape was pulled,, a bell rang,, and one heard a voice very near at hand,, which made one start.   "Who is there?" the voice demanded.   It was a woman's voice,, a gentle voice,, so gentle that it was mournful.   Here,, again,, there was a magical word which it was necessary to know. If one did not know it,, the voice ceased,, the wall became silent once more,, as though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre had been on the other side of it.   If one knew the password,, the voice resumed,, "Enter on the right."   One then perceived on the right,, facing the window,, a glass door surmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray.   On raising the latch and crossing the threshold,, one experienced precisely the same impression as when one enters at the theatre into a grated baignoire,, before the grating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted. One was,, in fact,, in a sort of theatre-box,, narrow,, furnished with two old chairs,, and a much-frayed straw matting,, sparely illuminated by the vague light from the glass door; a regular box,, with its front just of a height to lean upon,, bearing a tablet of black wood. This box was grated,, only the grating of it was not of gilded wood,, as at the opera; it was a monstrous lattice of iron bars,, hideously interlaced and riveted to the wall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists.   The first minutes passed; when one's eyes began to grow used to this cellar-like half-twilight,, one tried to pass the grating,, but got no further than six inches beyond it.   There he encountered a barrier of black shutters,, re-enforced and fortified with transverse beams of wood painted a gingerbread yellow.   These shutters were divided into long,, narrow slats,, and they masked the entire length of the grating. They were always closed.   At the expiration of a few moments one heard a voice proceeding from behind these shutters,, and saying:--   "I am here.   What do you wish with me?"   It was a beloved,, sometimes an adored,, voice.   No one was visible. Hardly the sound of a breath was audible.   It seemed as though it were a spirit which had been evoked,, that was speaking to you across the walls of the tomb.   If one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare conditions,, the slat of one of the shutters opened opposite you; the evoked spirit became an apparition.   Behind the grating,, behind the shutter,, one perceived so far as the grating permitted sight,, a head,, of which only the mouth and the chin were visible; the rest was covered with a black veil.   One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe,, and a form that was barely defined,, covered with a black shroud. That head spoke with you,, but did not look at you and never smiled at you.   The light which came from behind you was adjusted in such a manner that you saw her in the white,, and she saw you in the black. This light was symbolical.   Nevertheless,, your eyes plunged eagerly through that opening which was made in that place shut off from all glances.   A profound&
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