Paris (France) -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Philadelphia (Pa.) -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction
"’And now where are we?’ said the Duke. ’Light us another candle.’
When this was done, we saw that the great chamber, quarried out in past
centuries, was too vast to give us sight of all of it, or to enable us
to get a notion of its height. Close by us a mighty pyramid of bones of
men stood in the mid space, as if these had been cast down through some
opening overhead, but long since closed. These were the dead of hundreds
of years. There was no odor of decay, but only a dull, musty smell,
like that of decayed cheese. Here and there on this great pile were
faint tufts of bluish light, seen only where the lantern-light did not
chance to fall. I was just getting a little used to this horrible sight
when, as our steps disturbed the base of the pyramid, a good fourth of
it came rattling down with crash and clatter, and dozens of tumbled
skulls rolled by us and were lost to view in the darkness. This noise
and movement alarmed not us alone; for scarce was it half over when
myriads of rats ran out from among the bones and fled away. This pretty
nearly made an end of my courage; and, indeed, these beasts were so big
and so many that had they been brave we should, I think, have fallen an
easy prey.
"My mother was trembling all over, as I could feel; but she laughed a
queer little laugh when François said it was a mercy they were not mice,
because ladies were afraid of these, but not, he had heard, of rats. As
we had been kept in motion, by this time we were across this woeful
space, and groping along the wall for a way out. Finding none, we went
back whence we came, and started afresh, taking the extreme righthand
passage, which seemed to lead, as we guessed, toward the Luxembourg.
Every few yards were ways to left or right, some hard to crawl through,
but most of such size that the Duke, a tall man, could walk in them
erect. We saw no more bones, but rats in legions. How they lived, who
can say? They may have come from the cellars of houses overhead. When
we crossed beneath streets, the immense noise of the vehicles told us
this much, but hours went by with no sound but the scamper of rats, or
the dull dripping of water from the roof. In some places it was a
foul-smelling rain, and in one place a small rill fell down the wall and
ran off along the passage we were in.
"I do not know, Monsieur,"—and here the old gentleman, being next to me,
leaned over and laid a hand on my knee,—"I do not know how I can ever
make you or any one feel the increasing horror of day after day of
darkness. When we walked, it was often with no light until the thief,
who kept touching the wall, would tell us there was a passage to the
right or left. Then we would light the candle and decide which way to
go.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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