His first care was to assume a monastic frock, certain with this attire to penetrate everywhere, through half-opened doors as well as through the fissures of conscience, and Dom Ricard helped him to the best of his power. For a while his researches were without result; but aided by the incognito of his costume and his apparent calling, his inquiries were patient and diverse. He hovered about the d'Heurteleure house, scrutinized the people and the habits, studied the life. He listened to and weighed all the still vivacious rumors. In vain. He wished to see Madame d'Heurteleure. He was told that she was ill. Every day he passed the house; following the street which rises around the sub-basement, he reached the front, pausing sometimes to slake his thirst at the fountain. Returning, as he descended the steps, he examined the enormous foundations of stone and solid rock, longing to apply his ear and listen to their mystery, for it seemed to him that the flanks of the old castle contained the fantom of the secret, which he had come to evoke from silence before it passed into oblivion. At last, discouraged, he was on the point of giving up. He would have taken leave of Dom Ricard but for the old monk's urgent advice to remain. The venerable prior enjoyed the society of this sheep, so dissimilar to the members of the flock which his wooden cross conducted in the monotonous paths of the Order. One day toward five o'clock in the afternoon, Monsieur d'Amercœur went out by the old portal and strolled amid the tall grasses of the avenue. The moment was melancholy and grandiose; the trees threw their shadows across the funereal path, the lizards ran over the warm stones of the antique tombs and in and out of their fissures. With one hand Monsieur d'Amercœur held up the long monk's frock, with the other he held the key to open the heart-shaped lock of the medicinal garden, where he loved to wander. He wished to visit it once more before he went away, to hear once more the soles of his sandals scraping over the gravel, while his frock brushed the borders of boxwood. The symmetry of the plots pleased him; their squares contained delicate plants and curious flowers; little pools nourished aquatic specimens which plunged their roots into the water, flowered and mirrored their bloom. At the intersection of the paths stood porcelain urns painted with emblems and pharmaceutical designs, with serpents twisted about the handles, and these urns contained varieties rare and precious. Above the walls waved the tops of the poplars; from the kitchen gardens off to one side, separated by high green trellises, came the sound of a rake, the striking of a spade against a watering can, the little sound of shears clipping the young shoots; in here all was silence; a flower bent, flexible, under the weight of an insect, swallows darted about; dragon flies flitted across the greenish water; heavy plants and delicate vines twined and intertwined.