The car slowly wound its way among the twists and turns of the labyrinth. Sometimes in presence of a cluster of roads the postman himself hesitated for a moment.

“Since when have these zigzags taken the place of the straight avenue?” I asked.

“Four years ago, Sir—about a year after the settling in of Mr. Learne in the chÂteau.”

“Do you know the meaning of them? You may speak freely. I am the professor’s nephew.”

“Oh, well, he’s ... he’s, well an eccentric man.”

“What sort of unusual things does he do?”

“Oh, well, nothing. One hardly ever sees him. That’s just the funny part of it. Before he took this higgledy-piggledy into his head, one met him often. He used to walk about in the country, but ever since then ... well, he does take the train to Grey once a month.”

So all my uncle’s eccentricities came to a head at the same epoch; the maze and the different style of his letters coincided as to date. Something at that time had profoundly influenced his mind.

“And what about his companions?” I went on, “the Germans?”

“Oh, as for them, Sir, they are invisible. Moreover, although I go to Fonval six times a week I do not remember when I last clapped eyes on the park. It’s Mr. Lerne himself who comes to the gate for his letters. Oh, what a change! Did you know old John? Well, he’s gone, and his wife too. It’s as true as I’m talking to you, Sir. No more coachman, no more housekeeper ... no more horses.”

“That’s been so for four years, you say?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me, postman, there’s game about here, is there not?”

“Faith, no. A few rabbits, two or three hares—but there are too many foxes.”

“What, no roe-deer? no stags?”

“Never.”

And now I felt a strange thrill of joy.

“Here we are, Sir!”

After a final bend, the road did open out on the old avenue of which Lerne had kept this little bit. It was fringed by two rows of limes, and from the end of the two rows they formed, the door of Fonval seemed to be coming towards us.In front of it, a carriage-sweep in the shape of a half moon widened the avenue, and beyond that one saw the outline of the blue roof of the chÂteau against the green of the trees, and the trees themselves standing out on the somber flanks of the gully.

In the midst of the wall which joined the cliffs on either hand stood the door with its tiled porch. It had aged, and the stone of the lintel was worn away; the wood of its panels was worm-eaten and crumbling into powder here and there; but the bell had not changed. Its sound came from my distant boyhood, so bright and clear that I could have wept at it.

We waited for a few moments.

At last some wooden shoes clattered.

“Is that you, Guilloteau?” said a voice with a trans-Rhenish accent.

“Yes, Mr. Lerne.”

Mr. Lerne! I looked at my guide with eyes wide with wonder—What! Was that my uncle speaking like that?

“You are early,” went on the voice. There was the metallic sound of moving bolts; then the door was opened ajar, and a hand was passed through it.

“Give me them.”

“Here they are, Mr. Lerne. But there is some one with me,” said the postman in an insinuating and timid way.

“Who is it?” cried the other—and in the fissure formed by the hardly opened door, he appeared.

It was my uncle Lerne. But life had laid hand on him, had made him much older, and turned him into this wild unkempt individual whose straggling gray hair covered his shabby clothes with dirty grease. He seemed smitten with premature old age, and there was an unfriendly gleam in the evil eyes which he fixed on me, from under their knitted eyebrows.

“What do you want?” he asked me rudely.

He pronounced the words like a German.

I had a moment of hesitation. The fact was that his face could no longer be compared to that of a kind old woman; it was a Sioux visage, hairless and cruel, and at the sight of it I experienced the contradictory sensations of recognizing it and not recognizing it.

“But, Uncle,” I stuttered finally, “it’s I.... I have come to see you—according to leave given by you. I wrote to you; but my letter ... here it is! my letter and I arrive together. Excuse my carelessness.”

“Ah, you should have told me. It is I that ask pardon of you, my dear nephew.”

A sudden change this! Lerne showed eagerness to welcome me! he blushed and seemed confused and almost servile. This embarrassment, misplaced with regard to me, shocked me.

“Ha ha! you’ve come with a mechanical carriage,” he added. “Hum, there’s a place to put it in, isn’t there?”

He opened both folding-doors.

“Here one has often to be one’s own servant,” he said, while the old hinges creaked.

Thereupon he burst into an awkward sort of laugh. I could have wagered, looking at his perplexed expression, that he had no desire to do so, and that his thoughts were far away from joking.

The postman had taken his leave.

“Is the coach-house still there?” I said, pointing to the right at a brick building.

“Yes, yes. I did not recognize you because of your mustache—hum! Yes, your mustache. You hadn’t one long ago ... had you? Well, and how old are you?”

“Thirty-one, uncle.”

At the sight of the coach-house my heart stopped.

The dog-cart was moldering there, half buried under logs, and there, as in the neighboring stable which was full of odds and ends, the spider webs were hanging whole or in shreds.

“Thirty-one, already,” went on Lerne in a vague and obviously distracted manner.“But, Uncle, say tu and toi to me, as long ago.”

“Ah, yes, dear ... Nicolas, eh?”

I was very ill at ease, but he did not seem more at his ease than I was. My presence clearly annoyed him.

It is always an interesting thing for an intruder to learn why he is so,—I seized my valise. Lerne observed my gesture and seemed to form a sudden resolve.

“Let it be—let it be, Nicholas,” he said in a tone of command. “I’ll send to fetch your luggage shortly. But first we must have a talk. Come for a walk.”

He took my arm and drew me towards the park. He was still reflecting, however.

We passed near the chÂteau. With few exceptions the shutters were closed. The roof in many places was sinking in, sometimes even broken, and the moldy walls from which the whitewash had disappeared in large flakes here and there showed their masonry. The plants in boxes still surrounded the house, but, to tell the truth, for several winters no one had thought of putting the verbenas and orange-trees and laurels under cover. Standing in their battered and rotten tubs they were all dead. The sandy carriage-drive, of yore so carefully raked, might have imagined itself a second-rate meadow, there was so much grass growing there mingled with nettles and hemlock. It was like the castle of “Sleeping Beauty” on the Prince’s arrival. Lerne, clinging to my arm, walked without further talk.

We got to the other side of the dreary pile, and the park lay before our eyes. A jumble. No more baskets of flowers, no more wide, sandy paths like winding ribbons. Except just in front of the chÂteau, the lawn—which had been metamorphosed into a paddock fenced with wire and given up to some cattle to feed in—had been encroached on by the valley which had relapsed into its wild state. The garden was no more than a great wood with open spaces and green paths in it. The Ardennes had reassumed their usurped domain.

Lerne thoughtfully filled an immense pipe with feverish fingers, lit it, and then we went under the trees into one of the alleys that were like long caves.

Once more I saw the statues and with a disillusioned eye, the statues which a former master of Fonval had erected in profusion. Those magnificent dumb personages of my dramas were as a matter of fact wretched modern figures, suggested to some commercially-minded magnate of industry of the Second Empire by Rome or Greece. The tunics of concrete swelled out into crinolines, the drapery of the cloaks was like that of a shawl, and the divinities of the woods—Echo, Syrinx, Arethusa—wore low chignons which filled their bag-like nets—in the Benoiton manner. Those hideous representations of exquisite fantasies, of forest charms transmuted into Dryads, were to-day more passable in their mantles of virgin-vine and clematis, although certain heroes were no more than ivy-clad figures of fun, and although a mere moss-clad attitude represented Diana.

After walking for some time, my uncle made me sit down on a bench of stone covered with a coat of lichen, under the shade of flourishing hazels.

A little crackling sound made itself heard in the bower right over our heads.

Lerne jumped convulsively and raised his head.

It was merely a squirrel watching us from the top of a branch.

My uncle darted a ferocious glance at it, fixing it as if he were taking aim at it; then he began to laugh in a reassured sort of way.

“Ha, ha, ha! it’s only a little ... thing,” said he, unable to find the word.

“Really,” thought I within myself, “how queer one may become as one gets old. Environment, I know, is the cause of many evolutions; one adopts the ways and manner of speech of one’s familiars in spite of oneself; the surroundings of Lerne might suffice to explain why my uncle is dirty, expresses himself ill, speaks with a German accent and smokes that huge pipe.... But he has ceased caring for flowers, he no longer looks after his property, and at this moment looks extraordinarily nervous and preoccupied. If one adds to that the happenings of last night, it all seems something less than natural.”

Meanwhile the Professor looked at me in a disconcerting way, and eyed me up and down as if here were sizing me up and had never seen me before. I began to lose countenance. A fierce debate was going on within him which was reflected on his face. Every moment our looks crossed, but at last they met, and joined, and my uncle, not being able to hold his peace any longer appeared for the second time to make up his mind.

“Nicolas,” he said, patting me on the thigh, “I am a ruined man, you know.”

I understood his plan, and was revolted.

“Uncle, be frank with me; you want me to go!”

“I want you to go! What an idea!”

“I am quite sure of it. Your invitation was rather discouraging, and your welcome hardly hospitable. But, uncle, you must have a very short memory if you think me avaricious enough to have come here merely for your money. I see you are no longer the same—your letters indeed made me fear that—and yet it utterly bewilders me that you should have thought of this clumsy subterfuge intended to drive me away. For during these fifteen years I have not changed. I have never ceased venerating you with my whole heart, and have deserved better at your hands than those icy epistles and, above all, better than this insult.”

“There, there! Gently!” said Lerne, much annoyed.

“Moreover, if you want me to go, just say the word and I’m off. You are no uncle of mine now.”

“Don’t talk such blasphemous nonsense, Nicolas.” He said that in a tone of such alarm that I tried intimidation.

“And I shall inform against you, uncle, you and your acolytes and your mysteries.”

“You are mad, you are mad. Hold your tongue. There’s an idea for you!”

Lerne began to laugh loudly, but I don’t know why, his eyes frightened me, and I regretted my phrase.

He went on.

“Look here, Nicolas, don’t get excited! You are a good fellow. Give me your hand. You shall always find in me your old uncle who loves you. Listen, it’s not true; no, I am not ruined, and my heir will certainly get something—if he acts as I desire. But, as a matter of fact, I think he would do better not to stay here.... There’s nothing here to amuse a man of your age, Nicolas; personally I am busy all day long.”

The Professor might talk as he liked now. Hypocrisy showed itself in every word; he was nothing but a contemptible Tartuffe; he was fair game. I determined not to leave till I had completely satisfied my curiosity. So, interrupting him, I said in a tone of deep dejection:

“There you are making use of the inheritance business again to make me decide to leave Fonval. You have clearly no trust in me.”

With a gesture he deprecated the idea. I went on:

“No, allow me to remain in order that we may renew our acquaintance. We both need to do so.”

Lerne knitted his eyebrows, then he said in a mocking tone:

“You insist on renouncing me?”

“No; keep me beside you, otherwise you will hurt my feelings deeply; frankly,” this in a bantering tone, “I should not know what to think.”

“Stop,” rejoined my uncle with energy, “there is nothing wrong to suspect here—far from it.”

“No doubt. All the same, you have secrets—as you have every right to have. If I speak to you of them, it is because I must resign myself to assure you that I shall respect them.”

“There is only one! A single secret. And its aim is noble and salutary,” said my uncle sententiously and with animation: “One only, I tell you—that concerning our work; a blessing to humanity—glory too and gold! But we must have silence assured us. Secrets! Everybody knows we are here, that we are working. The newspapers have said so—there is no secret in that.”

“Keep calm, uncle, and tell me how I am to behave in your house. I am entirely at your disposal.”

Lerne resumed his inward debate:

“Well,” said he, raising his brow, “it is agreed. Such an uncle as I have always shown myself towards you cannot possibly drive you away. That would be belying all my past. Remain then, but on the following conditions:

“We are pursuing researches here that are about to come to their fulfillment. When our discovery is a fait accompli the public will hear of it in its entirety. Till then, I do not wish it to be informed of uncertain attempts whose revelation might raise up rivals capable of anticipating us. I do not doubt your discretion, but I prefer not to put it to the test, and I entreat you in your own interests not to try to surprise any secrets, rather than to be obliged to hide them. I say, ‘in your own interests’; not merely because it is easier not to pry than to hold one’s tongue, but also for the following reasons: Our business is a commercial one at bottom. A man of business like you will be very useful to me. We shall become rich, nephew—millionaires! But you must let me forget the instrument of your fortune in peace, you must show yourself a man of tact and respectful of my orders—in a word, the man I want as an associate. You must know, I am not alone in this enterprise. They might make you repent of your acts, if you transgressed the rule I am laying down for you—cruelly repent—more cruelly than you imagine. So practice indifference, my dear nephew. See nothing, hear nothing, understand nothing, in order that you may become very, very rich—and remain alive!”

“Oh, indifference is not so easy a virtue at Fonval. There have been things going about here since last night which should not be here and only find themselves here through some bit of carelessness.”

At those words an unexpected rage seized Lerne. He flung out his fists and growled: “Wilhelm! Fool! Ass!” What I now felt sure of was that the secrets were considerable and would give me fine surprises were they discovered. As for the doctor’s promises, and his threats, I did not believe in either, and his speech had neither aroused covetousness nor fear in me—the two passions that my uncle wished to make my counselors to obedience. I rejoined coldly:

“Is that all you ask of me?”

“No. But the next prohibition is of another kind, Nicolas. You will be presented to somebody in the chÂteau; it is a young girl I rescued....”

I made a movement of surprise, and Lerne guessed my imputation.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “she is like a daughter—nothing more. But her friendship is precious to me, and it would be painful to me to see it lessened by a sentiment which I can no longer inspire. In short, Nicolas,” he said quickly and with a certain shamefacedness, “I ask you to swear not to pay court to my protÉgÉe.”

Astounded at such a degraded view, and still more so at such a want of delicate feeling, I told myself, however, that there is no jealousy without love any more than there is smoke without fire.

“What do you take me for, uncle? It is sufficient that I am your guest.”

“All right—I know my physiology and how to use it. May I trust you? You swear it? Very well.”

“As for her,” he added with a crafty smile, “I am easy for the time being. She has lately seen my way of treating suitors. I advise you not to make trial of it.”Having got up, with his hands in his pockets, and his pipe between his teeth, Lerne looked me up and down in a jocular and provocative manner. This physiologist inspired me with an unconquerable aversion.

We continued our walk round the park.

“Ah, by the way, do you know German?” said the Professor.

“No, uncle; I only understand French and Spanish.”

“No English either? That’s not much for a future merchant prince. You have not been taught much, I fear.”

“Tell that to the Marines, uncle,” said I to myself. “I had begun to keep wide open those eyes you commanded me to keep shut, and I saw just then that your satisfied expression gave your words the lie.”

We reached the end of the park by way of the foot of the cliffs and came in front of the chÂteau which seemed stretching its two wings towards us and dominating the underwood with its ruinous faÇade.

And it was at this exact moment that my eye was caught by an abnormal bird, a pigeon, which was wheeling in the air, and flew upwards with ever-narrowing and giddy circles.

“Just look at those roses on that long branch of briar; they are pretty and interesting,” said my uncle. “Left to grow wild, they have become dog-roses again.”

“What a curious pigeon!” I said.

“Just look at those flowers,” insisted Lerne.

“One would think there was a drop of lead in its head. That happens sometimes when one is out shooting. It will tower and tower, and then fall from as high as possible.”

“If you don’t watch your feet, you will fall head over heels into the thorn-bushes. It’s a breakneck place, this, nephew.”

This useful bit of counsel was growled out in a menacing tone that sounded strangely out of place.

Then the bird attained the center of its spiral and began not to mount, but to come down with wild tumblings, and whirling over and over. It hit a rock not far from us and fell, an inert thing, into the thick herbage.

Why did the Professor suddenly become more restless? Why did he hasten his steps? That is what I was asking myself, when the big pipe fell from his mouth. Having dashed forward to pick it up I could not restrain a look of stupefaction; he had snapped it off sharp with a furious bite.

The scene ended with a German word—doubtless an oath.

As we returned in the direction of the chÂteau we saw running towards us a fat woman who seemed bursting out of her blue apron.

She was evidently unused to such athletic exercise and it went against the grain, for it shook her dangerously, and as she trotted along, she kept herself together by means of her arms and hands as if she were pressing some precious, huge and unwieldy burden against her person. At the sight of us, she stopped all of a piece—a thing that seemed almost an impossibility—then she seemed to want to retrace her steps. However, she came on with a guilty look on her kindly face, a look as of a school-girl caught in a fault. She awaited her fate.

Lerne scolded her:

“Barbe! What are you doing here? You have forgotten. I forbade you to go beyond the paddock. I’ll end by sending you packing, Barbe, after punishing you—you know.”

The fat woman was very much afraid. She tried to bridle, made a mouth as if she were going to lay an egg with it and excused herself—she had, from her kitchen, seen the pigeon fall and thought she might brighten up the bill of fare with it. “You always have the same dishes to eat.”

“And then,” she added stupidly, “I did not think you were in the garden, I thought you were in the lab....”

A brutal slap in the face interrupted her on that syllable—the first syllable of “labyrinth,” as I imagined.

“Oh, uncle!” I cried indignantly.

“Look here, you! Hold your tongue, or off with you! That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

Barbe was terrified and no longer wept. Her suppressed sobs made her hiccup. She was very pale, and on her cheek the bony hand of Lerne remained printed in red.

“Go and take this gentleman’s luggage from the coach-house and put it in the lion-room.”

(This room was on the first story of the western wing.)

“Won’t you give me my old room, uncle?”

“Which was that?”

“Which? Why, the one on the ground floor, the yellow room, in the East wing, you know.”

“No. I use that one,” he said sharply. “Off with you, Barbe.”

The cook decamped as fast as she could.

On our right the pond was lying there stagnant. Our silent passage flung its shadow into it, and it looked there like a dream in a lethargy.

My astonishment was growing every moment. However, I kept myself from seeming too much surprised at the sight of a new and spacious building of gray stone built against the cliff. It consisted of two blocks separated by a courtyard. A high wall pierced with a carriage-gate, at the moment shut, hid it from one’s eyes, but the clucking of fowls escaped from it, and a dog, having scented us, raised his voice.

I flung out a plummet at a venture:

“You’ll take me over your farm, won’t you?”

Lerne shrugged his shoulders:

“Perhaps,” he said. Then turning towards the house, he shouted:

“Wilhelm, Wilhelm!”

The German with the face like a sundial opened a little window and the Professor apostrophized him in his mother-tongue, so violently that the poor fellow trembled all over.

“By Jove!” I said to myself. “It’s owing to him and his inadvertence that there are going about outside since last night, things that should not be there—that’s certain.”

When the execution was over, we went round the paddock. It contained a black bull and four cows of various kinds, the whole lot of whom, for no particular reason, followed after us. My dreadful relative began to joke:

“Nicolas, let me introduce you to Jupiter; and here is the white Europa, the dun-colored Io, the fair-skinned Athor, and PasiphaË clad in her robe of milk stained with ink, or ink stained with milk—whichever way you prefer.”

This reference to libertine mythology made me smile. To tell the truth, I should have seized the first pretext to have a laugh; I had physical need of it. I also felt a hunger so intense that to satisfy it seemed the only question of any interest. The chÂteau was the one and only attraction. It was there I should eat! And the attraction it exercised on me almost made me fail to examine the hothouse, its neighbor.

That would have been a pity. They had added two halls of glass to it which flanked the original rotunda with their domed naves. Under its lowered outer blinds the building seemed to me to form a whole that was “perfect of its kind.” It suggested something between a Crystal Palace and a glass melon-bell; it had quite a grand and out-of-the-way appearance, if I may so say.

A hothouse of this kind in this thicket! I should have been less astonished to find a love-philter in a monastery!

In the days of my late lamented aunt, the lion-room was reserved for guests. It had—it still has—three windows, with deep recesses as deep as alcoves. One of them looks out in the direction of the conservatory and has a balcony attached; the second opens on the park; I saw the paddock from it and further away the pond, and between the two that summerhouse which once was Briareus. The third window faces the eastern wing; from there I saw the window of my old room—shut—and the whole faÇade of the chÂteau blocking the view on the left.

I felt as if I were in an hotel. Nothing there recalled anything to me. A Jouy wall-paper stained with damp from the wall and hanging loose in one corner, covered the walls with a host of red lions each with a cannon ball fixed under its paw. The bed curtains and window curtains showed, in distortion, the same subject. Two pictures balanced one another: The Education of Achilles and The Rape of Deianeira, in which the damp spotted the faces of the four subjects with red and dappled the cruppers of the Centaurs, Chiron and Nessus; there was also rather a fine Norman clock which looked like a coffin set on end, the emblem and at the same time the measures of Time—and the whole furnishing of the room was commonplace and out-of-date.

I splashed my face with cold water and put on clean linen with pleasure. Barbe brought me, without knocking at the door, a plate of coarse broth, and made no reply to my condolences on her inflamed cheek; then she waddled out of the room like a gigantic sylph.

There was no one in the drawing-room—unless shades are people. O little black velvet armchair with your two yellow tassels, hideous piece of squat puffiness, so well termed a crapaud, could I behold you again as of yore without imagining seated on your toad-like form the shade of my anecdotal aunt? And you, my mother’s chair—an austerer one, and one I cannot jest about—will she not always be in my memory leaning over your back as long as you shall be an armchair, if indeed you ever really were one?

Not a detail was altered. From the unspeakable white paper on the walls down which hung garlands of flowers trussed like sausages, to the hangings of sulphur-colored damask draping their fringed basques in a row, the work of the former owner—a contemporary of the crinoline—had admirably stood the effect of time. A swollen stuffing puffed out the sofas single and double, and nothing had succeeded in deflating the inflamed chairs or the blistered settees.

From the wainscot smiled down on one all my dead and gone ancestors: my great-great-grandfathers in chalk, my grandfathers in miniatures, my father a schoolboy in daguerrotype; and on the mantelpiece (duly petticoated with puffed-out fringed flounces) a few photographs were sticking to the mirror. A large-sized group claimed my attention. I took it up to look at it more carefully. It represented my uncle surrounded by five gentlemen and a big St. Bernard dog. The group had been taken at Fonval; the wall of the chÂteau made the background, and a rose-laurel in a tub figured in the picture. An amateur’s work and unsigned. Lerne beamed with kindness and mental energy, resembling, in a word, the savant I had expected to find. Of the five men, three were known to me, the Germans; I had never seen the two others.

Then suddenly the door opened without my having the time to replace the photograph. Lerne was ushering in a young woman.

“My nephew, Nicolas Vermont—Mademoiselle Emma Bourdichet.”

Mlle. Emma had apparently been undergoing one of those sharp lectures that Lerne distributed so prodigally. Her frightened expression showed that. She had not even the courage to make the conventional grimace usual in cases of constrained amiability, and merely made an awkward sort of bow.

As for me, after bowing, I dared not raise my eyes for fear my uncle should read my soul in them.

My soul? If by soul one means (as is generally meant) that ensemble of faculties which result in man’s being a little above the other animals, I think I had better not compromise my soul in this matter.

Oh, I’m not unaware that, if all loves, even the purest, are originally animal desires, esteem and friendship sometimes add themselves thereto to ennoble the relations of man and woman.Alas! If some Fragonard wished to commemorate our first interview and, in the 18th century manner, depict Love as presiding over it, I should advise him to study a certain little Eros with goat’s feet and thighs, a faun-like Cupid unsmiling and wingless; his arrows should be wooden and in a quiver made of bark, and should be dripping with blood; he might indeed pass under the name of Pan. He is Love universal, Pleasure that is unintentionally fecund, the Master of Life who takes equal heed of lairs and eyries, beasts’ dens and bridal beds.

Are there degrees of femininity? In that case, I never saw a woman who was more a woman than Emma. I shall not describe her, having scarcely noted more in her than an abstraction and not an object. Was she beautiful? No doubt; most assuredly desirable.

Yet, I do remember her hair. It had the color of fire, a dull red—possibly dyed—and the image of her body passes even now through my dead passion. It would have put all flat-figured ladies to shame.

Well, this adorable creature was at the height of her charm.

The blood beat against my brain pan, and suddenly a fierce jealousy possessed me. In truth I should willingly have given up this girl, provided no one else should touch her ever. From unpleasing, Lerne now became odious to me. I should remain now—at any price.

Meanwhile we did not know what to say. Thrown off my balance by the suddenness of the incident, and wishing to hide my confusion, I stuttered out anyhow:

“You see, uncle, I was just looking at that photograph.”

“Ah, yes! Me and my assistants, Wilhelm, Karl, and Johann. And this is Macbeth, my pupil. It’s very like him. What do you think of it, Emma?”

He had put the photograph under his ward’s eyes and pointed out to her a man close-shaven in the American way, slim, short and young, with a distinguished bearing, who had his hand on the back of the St. Bernard dog.

“A handsome, intelligent fellow, eh?” said the Professor in a mocking voice. “The ace of Scots!”

Emma never changed her look of terror. She articulated with difficulty:

“His Nelly was very amusing with her performing-dog tricks.”

“And Macbeth,” said my uncle in a jesting voice. “Was he amusing?”

There were symptoms of tears coming, and I saw Emma’s chin quiver. She murmured:

“Poor Macbeth!”“Yes,” said Lerne to me by way of answer to my puzzled looks, “Mr. Donovan Macbeth had to give up his duties as a result of some unfortunate occurrences. May Fate spare you such unhappiness, Nicolas!”

“And the other?” I asked, in order to turn the conversation. “The other one, he with the brown mustache and whiskers, who is he?”

“He’s gone, too.”

“Dr. Klotz,” said Emma, who had drawn near us and was regaining her calm. “Otto Klotz; oh, as for him....”

Lerne silenced her with a terrible look. I do not know what punishment she foresaw, but a spasm rendered the poor girl rigid.

Hereupon Barbe introduced slantwise half of her opulent form and murmured that lunch was on the table.

She had only set three places in the dining room; the Germans, I fancied, must live in the gray buildings.

The lunch was gloomy. Mlle. Bourdichet never ventured a word, ate nothing, and so I could not make out what was the matter, terror making all creatures alike.

Besides, sleepiness was overwhelming me. Immediately after dessert I asked leave to go to bed, begging to be allowed to sleep till the next morning.Once in my room, I immediately began to undress. To tell the truth my journey, the night and the morning had worn me out. All those riddles, too, worried me, first because they were riddles and then because they presented themselves so confusedly. I felt as if I were enveloped in smoke wherein riddling sphinxes kept turning their vague faces towards me.

My braces were just going to be flung off—and were not flung off.

In the garden Lerne was making his way towards the gray buildings accompanied by his three assistants.

“They are going to work in there,” said I to myself. “That’s clear. I am not being watched; they have not had time to take many precautions; uncle is persuaded I am asleep. Nicolas, this is the time for action, now or never. But what to start with? Emma, or the secret? Hum ... the little girl is utterly gorgonized to-day.... As for the secret....”

Having put on my coat again, I went mechanically from window to window.

There between the wrought-iron stanchions of the balcony the Conservatory showed its mysterious additions. It was shut, forbidden, attractive.

I went out stealthily and noiselessly, like a wolf.