could protest, down the stairs to the ground floor. The women from the atelier had left, but Sam could hear Chip’s heavy feet behind them. When they reached the floor below, Alain des Baux searched through the ring of keys Sophie had given him.
“Look,” Sam said, quickly, “if it’s the Paris sewers, I saw them once in an old movie on television. It was called The Phantom of the Opera. ”
“Would I show you a sewer?” He pretended to look pained. “There are better things in Paris to see. Besides, the entrance to the Paris sewers is in the Place de la Resistance, miles from here.” He unlocked a door to one side of the elevator and motioned her to step in. “No, this is a real feature of the house. And very interesting.”
They were in what appeared to be a janitor’s closet with a rust-stained sink flanked by mops and brooms. There was another door at the far end secured with a padlock.
Alain des Baux was searching for another key on the ring. “In the last century, when many of Paris’s streets were widened under Louis Napoleon, this building was supposed to have been torn down, but it was spared because the city inspectors found the remains of a Benedictine chapter house under here. From which, of course, the street gets its name. You have heard,” he said looking up at her, “of the Benedictines, the religious order?”
“Monks?”
He had found the key and was unlocking the padlock. “Yes, monks. They were all over Paris, the Benedictines. There was a very large monastery on the top of the hill of Montmartre, the name means the ‘mount of the martyrs,’ from the early Christians. Across the Seine there was an even more famous Benedictine abbey at Saint Germain des Prés. Unfortunately, it was destroyed during the French Revolution.”
He pulled the padlock chain away and opened the metal door. There was only pitch blackness beyond. “What was here was a small chapter house facing the other monastery of the Capuchins across a stream. The stream is gone, too, but I believe it joins that famous American movie location”—he made a wry, teasing face—”the well-known Paris metropolitan sewer systems. What’s left here is the Benedictines’ crypt.”
“Why isn’t it safe?”
“Because it’s not a good idea to go down here alone. But if you wish to make a study of crypts, there are many of them in the big churches of Paris. Notre Dame has a beautiful crypt, but unfortunately it is not open to the public right now.” He swung the metal door back and groped along the wall just inside with one hand. “I will go ahead of you, as soon as I can find the light switch. Watch the steps,” he cautioned as a string of electric lights that descended into darkness glimmered on.
Sam peered down at the darkness. “Are you sure you ought to be doing this?” she asked doubtfully.
“Of course. I came here as a child many times. There was an old porter, René, who used to show it to me when my mother was being fitted for her clothes.”
He took Sam’s hand. The steps descended one turn and continued down in a continual, narrow, stonewalled spiral, vanishing into thick blackness just beyond the glow of the electric light bulbs. Chip’s booted feet sounded like drumbeats coming down behind them.
“The crypt is the area below the sanctuary.” Alain des Baux’s voice echoed hollowly. “They are usually built in the shape of a cross. Watch your head,” he warned as they reached the bottom of the steps.
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they were in a vaulted stone chamber like a cave, with a ceiling so low they had to stoop slightly, the rough stone arches right over their heads. The air inside the crypt was cold and dank as a refrigerator, smelling of dust and stone and mildew.
It took Sam’s eyes a moment to adjust. “Good God,” she almost shrieked, “what are those?”
The tall figure in the elegant gray suit beside her hunched
“Look,” Sam said, quickly, “if it’s the Paris sewers, I saw them once in an old movie on television. It was called The Phantom of the Opera. ”
“Would I show you a sewer?” He pretended to look pained. “There are better things in Paris to see. Besides, the entrance to the Paris sewers is in the Place de la Resistance, miles from here.” He unlocked a door to one side of the elevator and motioned her to step in. “No, this is a real feature of the house. And very interesting.”
They were in what appeared to be a janitor’s closet with a rust-stained sink flanked by mops and brooms. There was another door at the far end secured with a padlock.
Alain des Baux was searching for another key on the ring. “In the last century, when many of Paris’s streets were widened under Louis Napoleon, this building was supposed to have been torn down, but it was spared because the city inspectors found the remains of a Benedictine chapter house under here. From which, of course, the street gets its name. You have heard,” he said looking up at her, “of the Benedictines, the religious order?”
“Monks?”
He had found the key and was unlocking the padlock. “Yes, monks. They were all over Paris, the Benedictines. There was a very large monastery on the top of the hill of Montmartre, the name means the ‘mount of the martyrs,’ from the early Christians. Across the Seine there was an even more famous Benedictine abbey at Saint Germain des Prés. Unfortunately, it was destroyed during the French Revolution.”
He pulled the padlock chain away and opened the metal door. There was only pitch blackness beyond. “What was here was a small chapter house facing the other monastery of the Capuchins across a stream. The stream is gone, too, but I believe it joins that famous American movie location”—he made a wry, teasing face—”the well-known Paris metropolitan sewer systems. What’s left here is the Benedictines’ crypt.”
“Why isn’t it safe?”
“Because it’s not a good idea to go down here alone. But if you wish to make a study of crypts, there are many of them in the big churches of Paris. Notre Dame has a beautiful crypt, but unfortunately it is not open to the public right now.” He swung the metal door back and groped along the wall just inside with one hand. “I will go ahead of you, as soon as I can find the light switch. Watch the steps,” he cautioned as a string of electric lights that descended into darkness glimmered on.
Sam peered down at the darkness. “Are you sure you ought to be doing this?” she asked doubtfully.
“Of course. I came here as a child many times. There was an old porter, René, who used to show it to me when my mother was being fitted for her clothes.”
He took Sam’s hand. The steps descended one turn and continued down in a continual, narrow, stonewalled spiral, vanishing into thick blackness just beyond the glow of the electric light bulbs. Chip’s booted feet sounded like drumbeats coming down behind them.
“The crypt is the area below the sanctuary.” Alain des Baux’s voice echoed hollowly. “They are usually built in the shape of a cross. Watch your head,” he warned as they reached the bottom of the steps.
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they were in a vaulted stone chamber like a cave, with a ceiling so low they had to stoop slightly, the rough stone arches right over their heads. The air inside the crypt was cold and dank as a refrigerator, smelling of dust and stone and mildew.
It took Sam’s eyes a moment to adjust. “Good God,” she almost shrieked, “what are those?”
The tall figure in the elegant gray suit beside her hunched
Similar Books
