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Updated: May 20, 2025
The false Goulenoire was being watched by the old sister, seated on the corkscrew staircase oblivious of the cold, and knitting socks for Cornelius. The young man continued to dream of the secret delights of that charming night, ignorant of the danger that was galloping towards him.
The sister understood the meaning hidden beneath these words and left the room. Looking at this singular creature as she walked towards the door, Philippe Goulenoire was able to hide from Cornelius the glance which he hastily cast about the room.
A faint light crept beneath the threshold, and an eye appeared at a small and very strong iron grating. "Who is there?" "A friend, sent by Oosterlinck, of Brussels." "What do you want?" "To enter." "Your name?" "Philippe Goulenoire." "Have you brought credentials?" "Here they are." "Pass them through the box." "Where is it?" "To your left."
At that sight, and observing the diabolical faces expressing either hatred or curiosity of persons whose business it was to hang others, the so-called Philippe Goulenoire sat up on his pallet and rubbed his eyes. "Mort-Dieu!" he cried, seizing his dagger, which was under the pillow. "Now is the time to play our knives." "Ho, ho!" cried Tristan, "that's the speech of a noble.
Philippe Goulenoire put the letter through the slit of an iron box above which was a loophole. "The devil!" thought he, "plainly the king comes here, as they say he does; he couldn't take more precautions at Plessis." He waited for more than a quarter of an hour in the street. After that lapse of time, he heard Cornelius saying to his sister, "Close the traps of the door."
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