They had made a détour and entered the park by a gate at a considerable distance from that at which Michel had encountered Monsignore Hieronymo; the gate was open and the numerous marks on the gravel indicated that many men, horses, and wagons habitually passed in and out. "You will see here a great hurly-burly, most contrary to the ordinary habits of the household," said the old painter to his son. "I will explain it to you. But let us say nothing yet, that is the safest way. Do not look about you too much, nor have the surprised air of a new-comer. And, first of all, hide that travelling-bag among the rocks near the waterfall; I shall remember the place. Rub your shoes in the grass, so that you won't look like a traveller. Why, I believe you are limping, are you hurt?" "Nothing, nothing, a little fatigue." "I am going to take you to a place where you can rest without being disturbed by anyone." Pier-Angelo made several détours in the park, leading his son through shady paths, and thus they reached the palace without meeting anyone, although they heard a great deal of noise, which increased as they drew near. They entered a corridor on the lower floor and walked rapidly by an enormous room, filled with workmen and materials of all sorts, assembled there for some incomprehensible purpose. The men were so busy and making so great an uproar that they did not notice Michel and his father. Michel had no time to understand what he saw. His father had instructed him to follow him step by step, and he walked so fast that the young traveller, utterly exhausted as he was, found it difficult to keep pace with him in the narrow halls and steep stairways. Their journey through that labyrinth of secret passages seemed very long to Michel. At last Pier-Angelo took a key from his pocket and opened a small door on a dark corridor. Thereupon they found themselves in a long gallery, adorned with statues and pictures. But the blinds were drawn everywhere, and it was so dark that Michel could distinguish nothing. "You can take a nap here," said his father, after he had carefully locked the little door and removed the key; "I am going to leave you here; I will return as soon as possible, and then I will tell you what we are to do." He walked the whole length of the gallery, and, raising a portière embroidered with armorial bearings, pulled a bell-cord. In a few seconds a voice answered inside, and a dialogue followed, in so low a tone, that Michel could not hear a word. At last, a mysterious door was partly opened, and Pier-Angelo disappeared, leaving his son in the darkness, chill, and silence of that great empty room.