The remainder of the lane depended for its illumination on the windows of two small shops retailing firewood and pickled gherkins and balls of string grey with age, as do all the shops in the narrow streets on the wrong side of the Seine.
Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side of the gutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the street toward the river.

He stopped in front of the great gateway and looked up at the arch of it, where the stone carving had been carefully obliterated by some enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet.
"Ichabod," he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid hold of the dangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to a Queen in those gay days when Marie Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a falling monarchy down the incline.
The great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door, deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall.

On either jamb of the door was affixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the number eight.

Number Eight Ruelle St.Jacob had once been known to kings as the Hotel Gemosac.
The man who opened carried a lantern and held the door ajar with a grudging hand while he peered out.

One could almost imagine that he had survived the downfall and the Restoration, and a couple of republics, behind the high walls.
The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger than an apple, and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it was perceptible that no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones or in the seams of the wide, low steps that led to an open door.
The house appeared to be dark and deserted.
"Yes, Monsieur le Marquis--Monsieur le Marquis is at home," muttered the man with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the yard.