César’s once-black hair and beard had turned slate gray and, though not receding, it had thinned. They both looked too old to be the parents of three such lively youngsters, Hélène, Bernard, and Delfine, the youngest, who was just toddling. Cries of “Attention, Delfine!” punctuated Abigail’s and Victor’s entire visit. They had a house on the southwestern outskirts of the city, on the fringe of the Parc de Saint Cloud, quite near César’s parents’ place. On the side that faced the road this house had the aspect of a prison, with high stone walls pierced by the narrowest windows, rising directly from the edge of the foot pavement. This wall continued, almost at the full height of the house, all along the roadside edge of the property. Massive oak gates, panelled solid, gave coach access to a minute drive, really no more than the length of the house. The contrast between the public and private sides could not have been greater.
