It was situated on the bank of one of those southern rivers that rush noisily over their shallow beds of white pebbles.

The place still retained its ancient arched gateway and high, pierced ramparts; the prevailing color of the gothic houses lining its streets was bright red.
A little perplexed and agitated our eyes sought for the cousins whose faces were not even known to us through photographs; but since they had been apprised of our coming they would, no doubt, be at the station to meet us.

Suddenly we saw approaching us a tall young man, and he had upon his arm a young lady dressed in white muslin.

Without the least hesitation we exchanged glances of recognition: we had found each other.
At their house, on the ground floor, our uncle and aunt welcomed us; both of them in their old age preserved traces of a once-remarkable beauty.

They lived in an ancient house of the time of Louis XIII; it was built in an angle, and was surrounded by those porches that are so frequently seen in small, southern mountain towns.
When we entered we found ourselves in a vestibule flagged with pinkish stones and ornamented with a large fountain of burnished copper.