I

Little George was making hills of sand in one of the walks; he took it
up with both his hands, made it into a pyramid, and then put a chestnut
leaf on the top, and his father, sitting on an iron chair was looking at
him with concentrated and affectionate attention, and saw nobody but him
in that small public garden which was full of people. All along the
circular road other children were occupied in the same manner, or else
were indulging in childish games, while nursemaids were walking two and
two, with their bright cap ribbons floating behind them, and carrying
something wrapped up in lace, on their arms, and little girls in short
petticoats and bare legs were talking seriously together, during the
intervals of trundling their hoops.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the _Rue
Saint-Lazare_, but still shed its rays obliquely on that little
over-dressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up with its yellow
rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church, had
the appearance of liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent looked at his son sitting in the dusk, he followed his
slightest movements with affection, but accidentally looking up at the
church clock, he saw that he was five minutes late, so he got up, took
the child by the arm and shook his dress which was covered with sand,
wiped his hands and led him in the direction of the _Rue Blanche_, and
he walked quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, but as the child
could not keep up with him, he took him up and carried him, though it
made him pant when he had to walk up the steep street. He was a man of
forty, turning gray already, rather stout, and had married, a few years
previously, a young woman whom he dearly loved, but who now treated him