Outside, in the street, he passed his trembling hands over the huge stones, felt for outlets⁠ ⁠… met with iron bars⁠ ⁠… were those they?⁠ ⁠… Or these?⁠ ⁠… Or could it be that air-hole?⁠ ⁠… He plunged his useless eyes through the bars.⁠ ⁠… How dark it was in there!⁠ ⁠… He listened.⁠ ⁠… All was silence!⁠ ⁠… He went round the building⁠ ⁠… and came to bigger bars, immense gates!⁠ ⁠… It was the entrance to the Cour de l’Administration.

Raoul rushed into the doorkeeper’s lodge.

“I beg your pardon, madame, could you tell me where to find a gate or door, made of bars, iron bars, opening into the Rue Scribe⁠ ⁠… and leading to the lake?⁠ ⁠… You know the lake I mean?⁠ ⁠… Yes, the underground lake⁠ ⁠… under the Opera.”

“Yes, sir, I know there is a lake under the Opera, but I don’t know which door leads to it. I have never been there!”

“And the Rue Scribe, madame, the Rue Scribe? Have you never been to the Rue Scribe?”