“That!” She pointed below.
“A white stone.”
“Is it really a stone? I thought it moved.”
“Foolish child! You are in a state in which you fancy anything. You would shock my mother.”
She did not even hear him. She moved forward step by step, her questioning eyes still trying to pierce the secrets of the river. Suddenly she stopped again, lifted her head, and stood motionless, her whole face transformed by a radiant smile.
On the opposite side of the stream the path rose very slightly, and passed before a large walnut-tree until an angle hid it from view. Round this corner trooped a joyous procession of some eight or ten children of all sizes, singing and shouting, headed by a little boy of perhaps five years old, who marched in front, blowing a shrill trumpet with much fire and precision. When he spied Mme. Léon he blew yet louder, and marched more triumphantly, but before he reached her forgot his dignity, and began to run, crying out, “Mamma, mamma!” She opened her arms, and he rushed into them.
For a moment she could not speak. The dim, shadowy terrors which the clasp of his little hands had driven out had been fuller of anguish than she knew. They were gone, but they left her, strong and healthy woman as she was, shaken and trembling. Raoul, recovering from his attack of sentiment, struggled to get free. The children hung shyly back, and Jean, who had been commanded to defend the rear, pushed forward to speak.
“Madame, he was outside Père Robert’s, beating the rappel.”
Then all the other boys and girls began to laugh and whisper.
“Tiens! he said we were his soldiers.”