For this reason it was absolutely imperative to get there, in spite of
the insurmountable difficulties of the enterprise, and the terrible
punishments the discovery of our secret would provoke.

Entering these subterranean domains was one of those unhoped-for strokes
of good luck that occurred once, or at most twice, in the life of a
"devil," after years of perseverance and mental effort. It was of no use
thinking of getting in by the main door. That door was at the bottom of
a wide staircase next to the kitchens, which were cellars too; and here
the lay sisters [Footnote: Lay sisters: the nuns who are not in holy
orders.] congregated.

But we were sure that the vaults could be reached by a thousand other
ways, even by the roof. According to us, every nailed-up door, every
dark corner under a staircase, every hollow-sounding wall, might
communicate mysteriously with the subterranean region; and we looked for
that communication most earnestly up to the very attic.

I had read Mrs. Radcliffe's "Castle of the Pyrenees" [Footnote: Castle
of the Pyrenees. Mrs. Radcliffe's novels were the first "mystery and
horror" tales to become popular.] at Nohant, with terror and delight. My
companions had many another Scotch and Irish legend in their heads, all
fit to set one's hair on end. The convent too had innumerable stories of
its own lamentable events,--about ghosts, dungeons, inexplicable
apparitions, and mysterious noises. All this, and the thought of finally
discovering the tremendous secret of the victim, so kindled our
imaginations that we were sure we heard sighs and groans start from
under the stones, or breathe through the cracks of doors and walls.

We started off, my companions for the hundredth, I for the first time,