Children are sitting on the ground.
Monsieur Joseph Boneas, in black, with his supremely distinguished air, goes by holding his mother's arm.

I bow deeply to them.

He points at the unfolding spectacle as he passes and says, "It is our race's festival." The words made me look more seriously at the scene before my eyes--all this tranquil and contemplative stir in the heart of festive nature.
Reflection and the vexations of my life have mellowed my mind.

The idea at last becomes clear in my brain of an entirety, an immense multitude in space, and infinite in time, a multitude of which I am an integral part, which has shaped me in its image, which continues to keep me like it, and carries me along its control; my own people.
Baroness Grille, in the riding habit that she almost always wears when mixing with the people, is standing near the imposing entry to the cemetery.

Monsieur the Marquis of Monthyon is holding aloft his stately presence, his handsome and energetic face.