"You hear, M. Piston?" said the notary to his clerk. "You can get the
stamps at the tobacconist's, No. 17, Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Be quick! for
this deed must be executed immediately before the opening of the will.
Time presses."

"Very well, sir; I will make haste," answered the clerk, discontentedly,
as he followed his master, who hurried back into the room where he had
left Rodin, Gabriel, and Father d'Aigrigny.

During this time, Samuel, ascending the steps, had reached the door, now
disencumbered of the stone, iron, and lead with which it had been blocked
up. It was with deep emotion that the old man having selected from his
bunch of keys the one he wanted, inserted it in the keyhole, and made the
door turn upon its hinges. Immediately he felt on his face a current of
damp, cold air, like that which exhales from a cellar suddenly opened.
Having carefully re-closed and double-locked the door, the Jew advanced
along the hall, lighted by a glass trefoil over the arch of the door. The
panes had lost their transparency by the effect of time, and now had the
appearance of ground-glass. This hall, paved with alternate squares of
black and white marble, was vast, sonorous, and contained a broad
staircase leading to the first story. The walls of smooth stone offered
not the least appearance of decay or dampness; the stair-rail of wrought
iron presented no traces of rust; it was inserted, just above the bottom
step, into a column of gray granite, which sustained a statue of black
marble, representing a negro bearing a flambeau. This statue had a
strange countenance, the pupils of the eyes being made of white marble.

The Jew's heavy tread echoed beneath the lofty dome of the hall. The
grandson of Isaac Samuel experienced a melancholy feeling, as he