, to
their dwellings. The porter, who was neither obliging nor
intelligent, carelessly said that "_Madame de Genlis logeait au
seconde a gauche, qu'il faudrait tirer sa sonnette_"--he believed
she was at home if she was not gone out. Up we went by ourselves,
for this porter, though we were strangers and pleaded that we were
so, never offered to stir a step to guide or to light us. When we
got to the second stage, we finally saw, by the light from the one
candle at the first landing-place, two dirty, large folding doors,
one set on the right and one on the left, and having on each a bell
no larger than what you see in the small parlor of a small English
inn. My father pulled one bell and waited some minutes--no answer;
pulled the other bell and waited--no answer; thumped at the left
door--no answer; pushed and pulled at it--could not open it; pushed
open one of the right-hand folding doors--utter darkness; went in
as well as we could feel--there was no furniture. After we had been
there a few seconds we could discern the bare walls and some
strange lumber in one corner. The room was a prodigious height,
like an old play-house, and we went down again to the stupid or
surly porter. He came up stairs very unwillingly, and pointed to a
deep recess between the stairs and the folding doors: "_Allez!
voila la porte; tirez la sonnette._" He and his candle went down,
and my father had just time to seize the handle of the bell, when
we were again in darkness. After ringing this feeble bell, we
presently heard doors open and little footsteps approaching nigh.
The door was opened by a girl of about Honora's size, holding an
ill-set-up, wavering candle in her hand, the light of which fell
full upon her face and figure. Her face was remarkably
intelligent, dark, sparkling eyes, dark hair, curled in the most
fashionable long corkscrew ringlets over her eyes and cheeks. She
parted the ringlets to take a full view of us, and we were equally
impatient to take a full view of her. The dress of her figure by no
means suited the head and the elegance of her attitude. What her
"nether weeds" might be we could not distinctly see, but they
seemed to be a coarse, short petticoat, like what Molly Bristow's
children would wear, not on Sundays; a woolen gray spencer above,