When I laid her on the bench, her arm held me more tightly, so that I had to bend my head with my face almost touching hers. I meant to draw back. But the temptation was too much for me and I kissed her on the lips, gently at first and then with a brutal violence which brought her to her senses. She repelled me with an indignant movement and stammered, in a despairing, rebellious tone: "Oh, it's abominable of you! . . . It's shameful!" In spite of the suffering caused by her sprain, she had managed to stand up, while I, stupefied by my thoughtless conduct, stood bowed before her, without daring to raise my head. We remained for some seconds in this attitude, in an embarrassed silence through which I could catch the hurried rhythm of her breathing. I tried gently to take her hands. But she released them at once and said: "Let me be. I shall never forgive you, never." "Come, Bérangère, you will forget that." "Leave me alone. I want to go indoors." "But you can't, Bérangère." "Here's god-father. He'll take me back." * * * * * My reasons for relating this incident will appear in the sequel. For the moment, notwithstanding the profound commotion produced by the kiss which I had stolen from Bérangère, my thoughts were so to speak absorbed by the mysterious drama in which I was about to play a part with my uncle Dorgeroux. I heard my uncle asking Bérangère if she was not hurt. I saw her leaning on his arm and, with him, making for the door of the garden. But, while I remained bewildered, trembling, dazed by the adorable image of the girl whom I loved, it was my uncle whom I awaited and whom I was impatient to see returning. The great riddle already held me captive. "Let's make haste," cried Noël Dorgeroux, when he came back. "Else it will be too late and we shall have to wait until to-morrow." He led the way to the high wall where he had caught Bérangère in the act of yielding to her curiosity. This wall, which divided the Yard from the garden and which I had not remarked particularly on my rare visits to the Yard, was now daubed with a motley mixture of colours, like a painter's palette. Red ochre, indigo, purple and saffron were spread over it in thick and uneven layers, which whirled around a more thickly-coated centre. But, at the far end, a wide curtain of black serge, like a photographer's cloth, running on an iron rod supported by brackets, hid a rectangular space some three or four yards in width. "What's that?" I asked my uncle. "Is this the place?" "Yes," he answered, in a husky voice, "it's behind there." "There's still time to change your mind," I suggested. "What makes you say that?" "I feel that you are afraid of letting me know. You are so upset." "I am upset for a very different reason." "Why?" "_Because I too am going to see._" "But you have done so already." "One always sees new things, Victorien; that's the terrifying part of it." I took hold of the curtain.