And with a rapid movement she opened the door and stepped into the passage. Marius had not really the time to get off the drawers and hide under his bed. "Take the candle!" Jondrette shouted. "No," she said, "it would bother me, for I have two chairs to carry. Besides, the moon is shining." Marius heard the heavy hand of Mother Jondrette fumbling for his key in the darkness. The door opened, and he remained nailed to his post by alarm and stupor. The woman came in; the sky-light sent a moonbeam between two large patches of shade, and one of these patches entirely covered the wall against which Marius was standing, so that he disappeared. Mother Jondrette did not see Marius, took the two chairs,--the only two that Marius possessed,--and went off, noisily slamming the door after her. She re-entered the den. "Here are the two chairs." "And here is the lantern," the husband said; "make haste down." She hastily obeyed, and Jondrette remained alone. He placed the chairs on either side of the table, turned the chisel in the heating-dish, placed in front of the fire-place an old screen, which concealed the charcoal-pan, and then went to the corner where the heap of rope lay, and stooped down as if examining something. Marius then perceived that what he had taken for a shapeless heap was a rope-ladder, very well made with wooden rungs, and two hooks to hang it by. This ladder and a few large tools, perfect crowbars, which were mingled with the heap of old iron in the corner, had not been there in the morning, and had evidently been brought in the afternoon, during the absence of Marius. "They are edge-tool makers' implements", Marius thought.