“Oh, uncle, I have always loved Fonval, not for the scenery, but as a venerable friend, an ancestor, if you like. It is one of the family. I have often played, you know, on its lawns and among the branches of its trees; it’s a godfather that has dandled me on its knee--like--like you, uncle.” “Yes, yes,” said Lerne evasively. “All the same you will soon have had enough of it.” “Not at all. The park of Fonval is my earthly paradise.” “There you are right. It’s just that,” he said laughingly, “the forbidden tree grows in its inclosure. Every hour you will come up against the Tree of Life, and the Tree of Knowledge which you must not touch. It’s dangerous. In your position I should go out for a run in your mechanical carriage. Oh, if Adam had only had a mechanical carriage!” “But, uncle, there is the labyrinth!” “Oh,” cried the Professor gayly, “I’ll accompany you and guide you. Besides I am anxious to see one of those what d’-you-call-ems working.” “Automobile, uncle.” “Ah, yes, automobile,” and his Teutonic accent gave the word, which is a slow-moving one as it is, an amplitude, a weight, a monumental immobility. We were going side by side towards the coach-house. There was no denying that my uncle had made up his mind to endure my intrusion with courage. Nevertheless his persistent good temper only vexed me. My projects of indiscretion seemed less legitimate to me. Perhaps I should have abandoned them altogether at that moment, had not my desire for Emma driven me to wish ill to her despotic jailor. Besides, was he sincere? And was it not merely to incite me to keep my plighted word that he said to me on arriving at the improvised garage: “Nicolas, I have reflected a great deal. I really do think you might be very useful to us in the future, and I desire your further acquaintance. Since you want to remain here for some days, we shall often have talks. In the mornings I do not work much; we shall employ them in going about either on foot, or in your car, and in conversation. But don’t forget your promises.” I nodded assent. “After all,” thought I, “it really seems as if he wanted one day to publish the solution to the problem. Why should it not be legitimate enough, though the operations that are to procure it are not so? It’s them he wishes to hide until the result comes; he expects the _éclat_ of the latter to excuse the barbarity of the former and to obtain his pardon--if only the end does not betray the means, and the means can remain forever unknown. On the other hand, might Lerne not be afraid of competition? Why not?” I was ruminating on all this as I emptied a little tin of petrol into the tank of my excellent car, a tin which propitious Chance had allowed me to find in the boot.