Bérangère next day resumed her place at meals, looking a little pale and wearing a more serious face than usual. My uncle, who had not troubled about her during the last two days, kissed her absent-mindedly. We lunched without a word. Not until we had nearly ended did Noël Dorgeroux speak to his god-child:
"Well, dear, are you none the worse for your fall?"
"Not a bit, god-father; and I'm only sorry that I didn't see . . . what you saw up there, yesterday and the day before. Are you going there presently, god-father?"
"Yes, but I'm going alone."
This was said in a peremptory tone which allowed of no reply. My uncle was looking at me. I did not stir a muscle.
Lunch finished in an awkward silence. As he was about to leave the room, Noël Dorgeroux turned back to me and asked:
"Do you happen to have lost anything in the Yard?"
"Because," he answered, with a slight hesitation, "because I found this on the ground, just in front of the wall."
He showed me a lens from an eye-glass.