"Oh yes, perfectly."

"And your mother?"

"Quite well too. She is behind, in as great a hurry to meet you as I am.
But she can't run as I do, and you must go half-way."

"Whom have you brought with you?"

"A gentleman from Paris."

"From Paris?"

"Yes, a Monsieur Derues. But mamma will tell you all about that. Here
she is."

The cure and the monk arrived just as Monsieur de Lamotte folded his wife
in his arms. Although she had passed her fortieth year, she was still
beautiful enough to justify her husband's eulogism. A moderate plumpness
had preserved the freshness and softness of her skin; her smile was
charming, and her large blue eyes expressed both gentleness and goodness.
Seen beside this smiling and serene countenance, the appearance of the
stranger was downright repulsive, and Monsieur de Lamotte could hardly
repress a start of disagreeable surprise at the pitiful and sordid aspect
of this diminutive person, who stood apart, looking overwhelmed by
conscious inferiority. He was still more astonished when he saw his son
take him by the hand with friendly kindness, and heard him say--

"Will you come with me, my friend? We will follow my father and mother."