The father and son would walk straight ahead until it was dark under the trees; then they would retrace their steps, the sharp air stinging their faces.

Those ancient hanging street-lamps, the tragic lanterns of the time of the Terror, were suspended at long intervals in the avenue, mingling their dismal twinkle with the pale gleams of the green twilight sky.
These sorrowful promenades with his melancholy companion would commonly end a tiresome day at Batifol's school.

Amedee was now in the "seventh," and knew already that the phrase, "the will of God," could not be turned into Latin by 'bonitas divina', and that the word 'cornu' was not declinable.

These long, silent hours spent at his school-desk, or beside a person absorbed in grief, might have become fatal to the child's disposition, had it not been for his good friends, the Gerards.

He went to see them as often as he was able, a spare hour now and then, and most of the day on Thursdays.