She hesitated for a moment--but the temptation was too strong. And, after all, what harm in talking to a dead man? “You have perhaps noticed, Monsieur,” she said at last, “that I do not speak the argot of the sewers, and yet for ten years I was a part of them. After leaving Ribaut, I made a mistake, a false step--no matter what. It was necessary for me to remain concealed from the police. I was no longer Mme. Basarge. I became Mère Fouchon, a consort of thieves and drabs--a receiver of stolen goods--a thing of the night. Do you fancy I relished it, Monsieur? At the end of ten years, I thought it safe to emerge from the darkness. I became concierge of the house in the Rue du Chantre, and dreamed of a day when I might regain my old place in the world. I had been in hell, but I fancied I could drag myself out.” Again she paused, and I looked at her with something like pity in my heart. I could see what those ten years in the sewers of Paris had done for her. D’Argenson’s theory, then, had been correct. “It was at that time I thought of applying to M. Ribaut,” she continued. “I thought perhaps he might be willing to assist me. I did not then suspect what a dog he was. But he raved at me like a madman, and threatened to denounce me to the police should I ever again appear before him. I began to suspect something. I made inquiries, but I could find out nothing. His niece, they said, was at the Sacré Cœur getting her education. Had she been home? No, no one had ever seen her. But I saw her--the scrub-woman at the convent pointed her out to me. Indeed, I did not need to have her pointed out--she was so like her mother, I thought for a moment I was looking at a ghost, and grew quite faint. But it passed, and I looked at her well and saw she was not happy. What girl could be in that gray, cold, silent place? Ugh, it makes me shiver to think of it! Even the sewers were better, for, after all, there is life in the sewers, not always and always silence! But I did not rest there. I made a friend of a concierge just across from the Ribaut house, but she could tell me nothing. Was the girl coming home? She did not know. Had she been betrothed? Well, there was a rumor that she was destined for a certain M. Briquet, a great friend of her uncle’s. Then in a flash I understood, Monsieur, for I had known M. Briquet, having met him during those ten years spent in the darkness,” and she laughed harshly. “His is not a pleasant character, though he has raised himself out of the abyss.” I said nothing, fearing to interrupt this remarkable story.