A bit of tape attached to a bell-wire hung at the right of the grated opening.
If the tape was pulled，a bell rang，and one heard a voice very near at hand，which made one start.
'Who is there？'the voice demanded.
It was a woman's voice，a gentle voice，so gentle that it was mournful.
Here，again，there was a magical word which it was necessary to know.If one did not know it，the voice ceased，the wall became silent once more，as though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre had been on the other side of it.
If one knew the password，the voice resumed，'Enter on the right.'
One then perceived on the right，facing the window，a glass door surmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray.
On raising the latch and crossing the threshold，one experienced precisely the same impression as when one enters at the theatre into a grated baignoire，before the grating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted.One was，in fact，in a sort of theatre-box，narrow，furnished with two old chairs，and a much-frayed straw matting，sparely illuminated by the vague light from the glass door；a regular box，with its front just of a height to lean upon，bearing a tablet of black wood.This box was grated，only the grating of it was not of gilded wood，as at the opera；it was a monstrous lattice of iron bars，hideously interlaced and riveted to the wall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists.
The first minutes passed；when one's eyes began to grow used to this cellar-like half-twilight，one tried to pass the grating，but got no further than six inches beyond it.
There he encountered a barrier of black shutters，re-enforced and fortified with transverse beams of wood painted a gingerbread yellow.
These shutters were divided into long，narrow slats，and they masked the entire length of the grating.They were always closed.
At the expiration of a few moments one heard a voice proceeding from behind these shutters，and saying：——
'I am here.
What do you wish with me？'
It was a beloved，sometimes an adored，voice.
No one was visible.Hardly the sound of a breath was audible.
It seemed as though it were a spirit which had been evoked，that was speaking to you across the walls of the tomb.
If one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare conditions，the slat of one of the shutters opened opposite you；the evoked spirit became an apparition.
Behind the grating，behind the shutter，one perceived so far as the grating permitted sight，a head，of which only the mouth and the chin were visible；the rest was covered with a black veil.
One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe，and a form that was barely defined，covered with a black shroud.That head spoke with you，but did not look at you and never smiled at you.
The light which came from behind you was adjusted in such a manner that you saw her in the white，and she saw you in the black.This light was symbolical.
Nevertheless，your eyes plunged eagerly through that opening which was made in that place shut off from all glances.
A profound vagueness enveloped that form clad in mourning.
Your eyes searched that vagueness，and sought to make out the surroundings of the apparition.At the expiration of a very short time you discovered that you could see nothing.
What you beheld was night，emptiness，shadows，a wintry mist mingled with a vapor from the tomb，a sort of terrible peace，a silence from which you could gather nothing，not even sighs，a gloom in which you could distinguish nothing，not even phantoms.
What you beheld was the interior of a cloister.
It was the interior of that severe and gloomy edifice which was called the Convent of the Bernardines of the Perpetual Adoration.The box in which you stood was the parlor.
The first voice which had addressed you was that of the portress who always sat motionless and silent，on the other side of the wall，near the square opening，screened by the iron grating and the plate with its thousand holes，as by a double visor.
The obscurity which bathed the grated box arose from the fact that the parlor，which had a window on the side of the world，had none on the side of the convent.
Profane eyes must see nothing of that sacred place.
Nevertheless，there was something beyond that shadow；there was a light；there was life in the midst of that death.
Although this was the most strictly walled of all convents，we shall endeavor to make our way into it，and to take the reader in，and to say，without transgressing the proper bounds，things which story-tellers have never seen，and have，therefore，never described.
BOOK SIXTH.——LE PETIT-PICPUS
Ⅱ THE OBEDIENCE OF MARTIN VERGA
This convent，which in 1824 had already existed for many a long year in the Rue Petit-Picpus，was a community of Bernardines of the obedience of Martin Verga.
These Bernardines were attached，in consequence，not to Clairvaux，like the Bernardine monks，but to Citeaux，like the Benedictine monks.In other words，they were the subjects，not of Saint Bernard，but of Saint Benoit.
Any one who has turned over old folios to any extent knows that Martin Verga founded in 1425 a congregation of Bernardines-Benedictines，with Salamanca for the head of the order，and Alcala as the branch establishment.
This congregation had sent out branches throughout all the Catholic countries of Europe.
There is nothing unusual in the Latin Church in these grafts of one order on another.
To mention only a single order of Saint-Benoit，which is here in question：
there are attached to this order，without counting the obedience of Martin Verga，four congregations，——two in Italy，Mont-Cassin and Sainte-Justine of Padua；two in France，Cluny and Saint-Maur；and nine orders，——Vallombrosa，Granmont，the Celestins，the Camaldules，the Carthusians，the Humilies，the Olivateurs，the Silvestrins，and lastly，Citeaux；for Citeaux itself，a trunk for other orders，is only an offshoot of Saint-Benoit.Citeaux dates from Saint Robert，Abbe de Molesme，in the diocese of Langres，in 1098.
