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NUMBER 62 RUE PETIT-PICPUS
Nothing, half a century ago, more resembled every other carriage
gate than the carriage gate of Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. This
entrance, which usually stood ajar in the most inviting fashion,
permitted a view of two things, neither of which have anything
very funereal about them,--a courtyard surrounded by walls hung
with vines, and the face of a lounging porter.
Above the wall, at the bottom of the court, tall trees were
visible.
When a ray of sunlight enlivened the courtyard, when a glass
of wine cheered up the porter, it was difficult to pass Number
62 Little Picpus Street without carrying away a smiling impression
of it.
Nevertheless, it was a sombre place of which one had had a
glimpse.
The threshold smiled; the house prayed and wept.
If one succeeded in passing the porter, which was not easy,--
which was even nearly impossible for every one, for there was
an open sesame! which it was necessary to know,--if, the porter
once passed, one entered a little vestibule on the right, on which
opened a staircase shut in between two walls and so narrow that
only one person could ascend it at a time, if one did not allow
one's self to be alarmed by a daubing of canary yellow, with a
dado of chocolate which clothed this staircase, if one ventured
to ascend it, one crossed a first landing, then a second, and
arrived on the first story at a corridor where the yellow wash
and the chocolate-hued plinth pursued one with a peaceable persistency.
Staircase and corridor were lighted by two beautiful windows.
The corridor took a turn and became dark.
If one doubled this cape, one arrived a few paces further
on, in front of a door which was all the more mysterious because
it was not fastened.
If one opened it, one found one's self in a little chamber
about six feet square, tiled, well-scrubbed, clean, cold, and
hung with nankin paper with green flowers, at fifteen sous the
roll.
A white, dull light fell from a large window, with tiny panes,
on the left, which usurped the whole width of the room.
One gazed about, but saw no one; one listened, one heard neither
a footstep nor a human murmur. The walls were bare, the chamber
was not furnished; there was not even a chair.
One looked again, and beheld on the wall facing the door a
quadrangular hole, about a foot square, with a grating of interlacing
iron bars, black, knotted, solid, which formed squares-- I had
almost said meshes--of less than an inch and a half in diagonal
length.
The little green flowers of the nankin paper ran in a calm
and orderly manner to those iron bars, without being startled
or thrown into confusion by their funereal contact. Supposing
that a living being had been so wonderfully thin as to essay an
entrance or an exit through the square hole, this grating would
have prevented it.
It did not allow the passage of the body, but it did allow
the passage of the eyes; that is to say, of the mind. This seems
to have occurred to them, for it had been re-enforced by a sheet
of tin inserted in the wall a little in the rear, and pierced
with a thousand holes more microscopic than the holes of a strainer.
At the bottom of this plate, an aperture had been pierced
exactly similar to the orifice of a letter box.
A bit of tape attached to a bell-wire hung at the right of
the grated opening.
If the tape was pulled, a bell rang, and one heard a voice
very near at hand, which made one start.
"Who is there?" the voice demanded.
It was a woman's voice, a gentle voice, so gentle that it
was mournful.
Here, again, there was a magical word which it was necessary
to know. If one did not know it, the voice ceased, the wall became
silent once more, as though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre
had been on the other side of it.
If one knew the password, the voice resumed, "Enter on
the right."
One then perceived on the right, facing the window, a glass
door surmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray.
On raising the latch and crossing the threshold, one experienced
precisely the same impression as when one enters at the theatre
into a grated baignoire, before the grating is lowered and the
chandelier is lighted. One was, in fact, in a sort of theatre-box,
narrow, furnished with two old chairs, and a much-frayed straw
matting, sparely illuminated by the vague light from the glass
door; a regular box, with its front just of a height to lean upon,
bearing a tablet of black wood. This box was grated, only the
grating of it was not of gilded wood, as at the opera; it was
a monstrous lattice of iron bars, hideously interlaced and riveted
to the wall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists.
The first minutes passed; when one's eyes began to grow used
to this cellar-like half-twilight, one tried to pass the grating,
but got no further than six inches beyond it.
There he encountered a barrier of black shutters, re-enforced
and fortified with transverse beams of wood painted a gingerbread
yellow.
These shutters were divided into long, narrow slats, and they
masked the entire length of the grating. They were always closed.
At the expiration of a few moments one heard a voice proceeding
from behind these shutters, and saying:--
"I am here.
What do you wish with me?"
It was a beloved, sometimes an adored, voice.
No one was visible. Hardly the sound of a breath was audible.
It seemed as though it were a spirit which had been evoked,
that was speaking to you across the walls of the tomb.
If one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare
conditions, the slat of one of the shutters opened opposite you;
the evoked spirit became an apparition.
Behind the grating, behind the shutter, one perceived so far
as the grating permitted sight, a head, of which only the mouth
and the chin were visible; the rest was covered with a black veil.
One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe, and a form that was
barely defined, covered with a black shroud. That head spoke with
you, but did not look at you and never smiled at you.
The light which came from behind you was adjusted in such
a manner that you saw her in the white, and she saw you in the
black. This light was symbolical.
Nevertheless, your eyes plunged eagerly through that opening
which was made in that place shut off from all glances.
A profound vagueness enveloped that form clad in mourning.
Your eyes searched that vagueness, and sought to make out
the surroundings of the apparition. At the expiration of a very
short time you discovered that you could see nothing.
What you beheld was night, emptiness, shadows, a wintry mist
mingled with a vapor from the tomb, a sort of terrible peace,
a silence from which you could gather nothing, not even sighs,
a gloom in which you could distinguish nothing, not even phantoms.
What you beheld was the interior of a cloister.
It was the interior of that severe and gloomy edifice which
was called the Convent of the Bernardines of the Perpetual Adoration.
The box in which you stood was the parlor.
The first voice which had addressed you was that of the portress
who always sat motionless and silent, on the other side of the
wall, near the square opening, screened by the iron grating and
the plate with its thousand holes, as by a double visor.
The obscurity which bathed the grated box arose from the fact
that the parlor, which had a window on the side of the world,
had none on the side of the convent.
Profane eyes must see nothing of that sacred place.
Nevertheless, there was something beyond that shadow; there
was a light; there was life in the midst of that death.
Although this was the most strictly walled of all convents,
we shall endeavor to make our way into it, and to take the reader
in, and to say, without transgressing the proper bounds, things
which story-tellers have never seen, and have, therefore, never
described.
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