Still talking, they enter the garden, which is as carefully kept as a public park, with round-topped acacias almost as old as the buildings, and magnificent ivies that hide the high, black walls.
Beside Fromont jeune, Risler Aine has the appearance of a clerk making his report to his employer.

At every step he stops to speak, for his gait is heavy, his mind works slowly, and words have much difficulty in finding their way to his lips.

Oh, if he could see the little flushed face up yonder, behind the window on the second floor, watching everything so attentively! Madame Risler is waiting for her husband to come to breakfast, and waxes impatient over the good man's moderation.

She motions to him with her hand: "Come, come!" but Risler does not notice it.

His attention is engrossed by the little Fromont, daughter of Claire and Georges, who is taking a sun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her lace in her nurse's arms.