Albert and I once more were out into the sunlight, when the thought of that mysterious door in that narrow street came back to me with sudden force. “Albert,” said I, “I have an irresistible desire to see the interior of that queer old house, the professor told us was the home of Maugis, the sorcerer.” “I wouldn’t do it,” replied he. “Why not?” “Because the professor told me, while we were visiting the organ, that the occupant of that house was a strange-acting old man, who becomes very violent when intruded upon. Some regard him as partly insane, and though he is said to be a very learned man, no one knows anything of his early history, except that he has occupied the house for many years. Tradition has it that the house was the home of Maugis, and it is believed to be haunted. It certainly is the most ancient house in Mouzon and has a remarkable fireplace, with a huge carved mantelpiece.” “Will you come with me, Albert?” I insisted. “Certainly,” replied he; “if you care to risk it.” We rapped a long time upon the heavy oak door with no result, and were about to give up in despair when we heard a creaking of bolts and chains, and it swung partly open on its rusty hinges. A shock head of iron-gray hair and two wild gray eyes appeared in the opening. “Monsieur!” said Albert, “this gentleman, who is my guest, is a foreigner and is much interested in antiquarian research. I have ventured to intrude upon you in the hopes that you would permit us to see the interior of this ancient house.” No answer. “Our object in coming here is not mere curiosity,” continued Albert; “we shall feel much concerned to know that we disturb you, or that you consider our visit an intrusion.” Albert was certainly a born diplomatist. “Did that sneaking schoolmaster send you here?” asked the old man. “On the contrary, we came here without his knowledge and I may say against his advice.” A bony, inkstained hand unfastened a chain; the door creaked open. “Come in,” he said. We were ushered into a small apartment, with a low, heavy-beamed ceiling, black with age. One side of the room was entirely taken up with an enormous fireplace of a size sufficient to roast an ox. Huge grotesque figures carved from stone, one on either side, supported a high mantel, and a great, cast-iron plate, bearing an almost obliterated coat-of-arms, formed its back. The uneven stone floor, worn into hollows by the feet of generations, was cluttered up by a bench and other _débris_, and a huge table, on which bundles of papers were piled in the utmost confusion; a small dust-begrimed window half-lighted the gloom. The old man said not a word, while Albert and I examined the fireplace; but he regarded us with a keenness that we could almost feel. “This small house,” said Albert to me, “was evidently the porter’s lodge or guard room of the great citadel, which centuries ago occupied this site. It has but two rooms, you will observe, this one and the one above.”