"The light of a lantern, which moves backwards and forwards."

"Who's carrying it?"

"I can only see the light. Ah, she comes nearer,--she is speaking!"

"Who?"

"Listen,--listen! It is Calabash."

"What does she say?"

"She says the ladder must be fixed securely."

"Oh, it was then in taking away the high ladder that was placed against
our shutter that they made that noise just now."

"I don't hear anything now."

"What have they done with the ladder?"

"I can't see it now."

"Can you hear anything?"

"No."

"Francois, perhaps they are going to use it to enter our Brother
Martial's room by the window!"

"Very likely."

"If you could open our window a little more you might see."

"I am afraid."

"Only a little bit."

"Oh, no, no! If mother saw us!"

"It is so dark, there is no danger."

Francois, much against his will, did as his sister requested, and
pushing the shutter back, looked out.

"Well, brother?" said Amandine, surmounting her fears, and approaching
Francois on tiptoe.

"By the gleam of the lantern," said he, "I see Calabash, who is holding
the foot of the ladder, which is resting against Martial's window."

"Well?"

"Nicholas is going up the ladder with his axe in his hand. I see it
glitter."

"Ah, you are not in bed, then, but watching us!" exclaimed the widow,
addressing Francois and his sister from outside. As she was returning to
the kitchen she saw the light, which escaped through the open window.

The unfortunate children had neglected putting out the lantern.

"I am coming," added the widow, in a terrible voice; "I am coming to
you, you little spies!"

Such were the events which passed in the Isle du Ravageur on the evening
of the day before that on which Madame Seraphin was to take
Fleur-de-Marie thither.

CHAPTER VII.

A LODGING-HOUSE.

The Passage de la Brasserie, a dark street, narrow, and but little
known, although situated in the centre of Paris, runs at one end into
the Rue Traversiere St. Honore, and at the other into the Cour St.
Guillaume.

Towards the middle of this damp thoroughfare, muddy, dark, and
unwholesome, and where the sun but rarely penetrates, there was a
furnished house (commonly called a _garni_, lodging-house, in
consequence of the low price of the apartments). On a miserable piece of
paper might be read, "Chambers and small rooms furnished." To the right
hand, in a dark alley, was the door of a store, not less obscure, in