amore walk, the shore formed a bluff like the
one upon which the chateau was built, but much more abrupt, and partly
wooded. In order to avoid this stretch, which was not passable for
carriages, the road leading into the principal part of the valley turned
to the right, and reached by an easier ascent a more level plateau. There
was only one narrow path by the river, which was shaded by branches of
beeches and willows that hung over this bank into the river. After
walking a short distance through this shady path, one found himself
before a huge triangular rock covered with moss, which nature had rolled
from the top of the mountain as if to close up the passage.

This obstacle was not insurmountable; but in order to cross it, one must
have a sure foot and steady head, for the least false step would
precipitate the unlucky one into the river, which was rapid as well as
deep. From the rock, one could reach the top of the cliff by means of
some natural stone steps, and then, descending on the other side, could
resume the path by the river, which had been momentarily interrupted. In
this case, one would reach, in about sixty steps, a place where the river
grew broader and the banks projected, forming here and there little
islands of sand covered with bushes. Here was a ford well known to
shepherds and to all persons who wished to avoid going as far as the
castle bridge.

Near the mossy rock of which we have spoken as being close to the
sycamore walk, at the foot of a wall against which it flowed, forming a
rather deep excavation, the current had found a vein of soft, brittle
stone which, by its incessant force, it had ended in wearing away. It was
a natural grotto formed by water, but which earth, in its turn, had
undertaken to embellish. An enormous willow had taken root in a few
inches of soil in a fissure of the rock, and its drooping branches fell
into the stream, which drifted them along without being able to detach
them.

Madame de Bergenheim was seated at the front of this grotto, upon a seat
formed by the base of the rock. She was tracing in the sand, with a stick
which she had picked up on the way, strange figures which she carefully
erased with her foot. Doubtless these hieroglyphics had some meaning to
her, and perhaps she feared lest the slightest marks might be carelessly
forgotten, as they would betray the secret they concealed. Clemence was
plunged into one of those ecstatic reveries which abolish time and