No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine⁠—the key of the mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled⁠—no matter that I quickly recognised the material of these solemn fragments⁠—the timber, the paint, and the pasteboard⁠—these inevitable discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matter that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête⁠—a fête of which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.