From the past that buttressed him he made out the future in security.
Absorbed in these reflections, he did not see the woman’s form that had left the house and was now coming toward him. It was a woman already aged, with a dark shawl thrown over her shoulders, and using a cane as she walked, with an air of great lassitude and exhaustion. Her face, as you saw it in the evening light, must once have been beautiful. The years had chastened it without taking from it a certain expression of purity, which surprised one at first and then attracted. It was the visible imprint of an upright soul, purged of all evil, even a little mystical.
“Are they not coming yet?” asked Mrs. Roquevillard of her husband.
“Yes, Valentine; there they are.”
Both understood that they were speaking of their children. He pointed but for her at the foot of the declivity, on the upward path, a numerous group. At the head of it came two babies, whom their grandmother recognised at once:
“Peter and Adrienne. They are taking the short cut. I don’t see little Julian.”
“He has probably good hold of his Aunt Margaret’s hand. He never leaves her.”
“Of course. I can see him between Margaret and her fiancé. He’s keeping them apart, the naughty boy. And his mother, where is she?”
“She’s coming behind them, quietly as usual, with her brother Hubert.”
“Our oldest son. Can you make out his decoration?”