’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. From then on he was Ruth's dog. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. Here are all our harlequins and columbines of the spoken and written drama. As it is not, however, our intention to furnish a complete catalogue of these curiosities, we shall merely mention that in front of them lay a large and sharp knife, once the property of the public executioner, and used by him to dissever the limbs of those condemned to death for high-treason; together with an immense two-pronged flesh-fork, likewise employed by the same terrible functionary to plunge the quarters of his victims in the caldrons of boiling tar and oil.
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