Rodolph was thus reflecting, when, looking mechanically at the door, he saw there a large bolt,--a bolt which would not have been out of place on the door of a prison. This bolt made him reflect. It might have two meanings, two very distinct uses: to close the door on the lover within; to close the door on the lover without. Rodolph was aroused from his reflections by Rigolette, who, turning her head, saw him, and, without changing her attitude, said to him: "What, neighbour, are you there?" Then the well-formed ankle instantly disappeared beneath the ample skirt of the plum-coloured gown, and Rigolette added, "Ah, Mr. Cunning!" "I was here admiring in silence." "Admiring what, neighbour?" "This pretty little room; for, neighbour, you are lodged like a queen." "Why, you must know that is my enjoyment. I never go out, and so I can do no less than make my home comfortable." "But really I never saw anything half so nice. What pretty curtains! and the drawers as handsome as mahogany! You must have spent a great deal of money here." "Oh, don't mention it! I had, of my own, four hundred and twenty-five francs when I left the prison, and almost all has been spent." "When you left the prison!--you?" "Yes, but it is a very long story. Of course, you do not suppose that I was in prison for anything wrong?" "Of course not; but how was it?" "After the cholera, I was quite alone in the world. I was then, I think, ten years of age." "But who had taken care of you till then?" "Ah, some excellent people! But they died of the cholera;" here Rigolette's large eyes became moistened. "They had sold the little they possessed to pay their small debts, and I remained without having any one who would take care of me. Not knowing what to do, I went to the guard-house, opposite to our house, and said to the sentinel: 'Sir, my relations are dead, and I do not know where to go to; what must I do?' Then the officer came, and he took me to the commissary, who put me in prison as a vagabond, and I did not go out until I was sixteen years old." "But your relations?" "I do not know who my father was, and I was six years old when I lost my mother, who had recovered me from the Enfants Trouvés (Foundling Hospital), where she had been compelled at first to place me. The kind people of whom I spoke to you lived in our house; they had no children, and, seeing me an orphan, they took care of me." "And what were they? What was their business or pursuit?" "Papa Crétu, so I always called him, was a house-painter, and his wife worked at her needle." "Then they were pretty well off?"